Disintegration: Ch. 12 Draft
The Addiction of Duplicities
Albus is hopelessly addicted.
Addicted to the sensation of lightness and warmth as his brain is bathed in sweet serotonin. Addicted to the rush of hot adrenaline flooding his veins. Addicted to the sweeping elation of love and the electric thrill of danger. Addicted to secret pleasure, to heaven contained in a single explosive moment, to a sudden and complete dissolution of himself.
He had his first taste of it upon the tongue of a beautiful boy with platinum blond hair at the age of fifteen. It created a terrible need inside of him that would never truly be satiated. Every moment spent separated from his angel of white light was tense and anxious. The interim was occupied by obsession and longing. And once he got that fix, delivered from lips that whispered pure love, he could ride that high for hours, or at least until the next kiss. But the more he took, the more he needed, and the more painful it was in the moments before that next blissful hit. And soon, stolen kisses in the broom closet weren’t enough.
He was in a constant state of need, even when the boy was near. He had to touch, to taste, to feel at every given opportunity. But the boy was naïve and innocent, and in no hurry to progress further than feverish snogging. Albus loved him too much to push and resigned to suffer silently, feeding his cravings as best he could with a hand under his bedcovers at night.
The first time that the boy’s mouth took the place of Albus’ hand, it should have been enough of a thrill to keep him high for months. But it wasn’t enough. And Albus wanted so much more from the boy – more than the boy could give. Albus felt his need eating him up from the inside. He had no right to want him this much – to expect so much from somebody that had already given him everything. Albus was afraid of the desires that lurked darkly within. So he suppressed them, and suppression lead to shame. Shame lead to guilt. Guilt lead to self loathing.
It was a sweltering summer night at Malfoy Manor when that beautiful boy first buried himself inside of Albus, deep enough that he felt it for days. They were sixteen, precocious by most standards. It should have been more than enough. Hell, it would’ve been too much, had Albus been a normal teenage boy.
But Albus was not normal. And so it was still not enough.
Albus is almost certain that he and Scorpius have fucked in every conceivable place in Hogwarts. When they wistfully recount every hidden nook and not-so-hidden corner in which they’d shagged, they grin smugly. Really, who but Albus and Scorpius would even consider having sex in the elves’ pantry in the Hogwarts kitchens? Albus will never forget getting dusted in white when the sheer force of Scorpius pounding into him had broken open a sack of flour – they had laughed about it for years after, and when Scorpius would bake, Albus would get hard just from the association in his mind, which would usually lead to fucking on their kitchen floor before anything could reach the oven.
Albus thought that he would never get enough of Scorpius – that his love would always consume him and forever be all-encompassing. So he married his childhood best friend and teenage lover at the age of eighteen. They’d gotten hitched on a whim in a little chapel in Las Vegas while Albus was on his first tour through the United States with The White Lies. It was a spur-of-the moment decision, but he knew it was right. He had already felt eternally bonded to Scorpius, even without the exchanged vows and certificate. And when they made it official at home, with a wizard-officiated ceremony and a huge party, it was really just for show – Albus belonged to Scorpius long before they were bonded by magic. Being married should have been enough to satisfy Albus’ constant need for Scorpius.
But it was still not enough.
It wasn’t fair to keep dragging Scorpius around the world. He was meant to be so much more than Albus’ arm candy. He deserved to blossom into the incredible man that Albus always knew Scorpius would be. So even though it hurt Albus more than Scorpius would ever know, he let go.
Modeling took Scorpius to amazing heights and inevitably in directions that Albus could not follow. And though Scorpius could not be with Albus on tour anymore, Albus’ insatiable need for him was still along for the ride.
Out of the misery of being separated from Scorpius, grew a hungry demon that would not relent in its destruction until it was appeased. For a time, Albus could feed the demon with the adulation of a screaming audience. The thrill of the stage was fulfilling enough to make Albus momentarily forget the pain of being deprived of Scorpius. On the road between gigs, a few stiff drinks and sleeping pills kept the despair at bay. As was expected, it was not enough.
Rock stars like Albus are plied with all manner of poisons and distractions to feed their demons without ever having to ask. Backstage, there were always hollow supplements to maintain his sunny exterior as readily available as multivitamins - whiskey to keep him smiling stupidly while the emptiness inside consumed him, Vicodin to quiet the ever-present anxiousness he felt in the absence of Scorpius, a pretty boy to shallowly flirt with when the loneliness became unbearable, an entourage to kiss his arse and make him feel worth something when the demon made him hate himself. For a couple of years, Albus could sustain himself on a steady diet of screaming fans, prescription pills, and plastic people.
But it was still not enough.
Albus came home at the end of tour one day, twenty-two with the exhaustion of a middle-aged man, and more alone than he’d ever been in his whole life. The flat he shared with Scorpius had been uninhabited for so long, so deeply devoid of human presence, that the dust had taken the place of the residents. He wanted nothing more than to sink into Scorpius’ arms and reacquaint himself with his other half. But Scorpius was doing runway shows an ocean away.
The Interim - This is where Albus’ head and heart were when he began to write songs for his latest album, aptly titled. At the bottom of that insurmountable chasm between unfathomable heights. In that state of constant need that makes him feel like a horny, hormonal, angst-ridden fifteen-year-old all over again. The in between days of anxiousness and impatience and desperation, before seeing Scorpius again.
Nothing can truly sate Albus’ addiction to the heaven that Scorpius makes him feel – not even Scorpius can anymore. Once he had let the demon in, it had taken control of every aspect of Albus’ life. The demon has become all-encompassing in the same way that Albus’ love for Scorpius had once been.
And the demon must be fed. It must be appeased with the darkness from which it was born.
~//~
“Are you hungry?” Huldi asks, lazily tracing Albus’ bare arm with a fingertip.
Albus instinctively flinches from the unexpected touch that startles him out of his sleepy daze.
Huldi notices the adverse reaction to his touch and he seems offended. “You’re on edge,” he assesses.
Albus throws off the blankets and sits up in Huldi’s bed, facing away from the other man. “I should go. I don’t feel right sleeping here tonight.”
Huldi moves from his reclining position and folds himself around Albus from behind. He mumbles into the back of Albus’ neck between kisses, “Then don’t sleep. Let’s stay up all night and fuck until dawn.” His teeth gently nip at Albus’ nape.
Albus can feel his skin crawl with iniquity and shrinks away. He groans wearily, “I don’t want to play anymore, Huldi. I’m really sore, yeah?” He can still feel the dull ache in his muscles and the lingering burn of the lashes he took upon his shoulders.
“I wasn’t suggesting that I spank you until dawn,” Huldi replies wryly, nipping harder as if to reprimand Albus.
Albus flinches slightly. Huldi soothes the bite with a wet, open-mouthed kiss upon the back of Albus’ neck. Huldi’s voice pours behind Albus’ ear, over his shoulder, like tendrils of smoke searing his skin and enchanting his body to react against better judgment. “You were such a good boy tonight, Albie. I just want to make you feel nice.”
Huldi could almost be mistaken for a powerful sorcerer, ensnaring Albus in his dark magic. He’s that fucking good and it gets Albus every time – he’s so coercive that even though guilt and obligation pull Albus towards home, he ends up staying more often than not. It doesn’t help Albus’ nearly non-existent sense of responsibility that Huldi is always so generous with his drugs. It’s easy for Albus to shove his commitments to the very back of his mind with a sharp inhale of white powder.
But Albus is sober enough right now to know better. He’s been leaving Scorpius alone at night far too often for it not to raise suspicions. And though Scorpius has yet to confront him with these suspicions, Albus knows that his husband isn’t stupid. And Albus still loves Scorpius enough to not wish more mental anguish upon him.
Albus fights the magnetic pull of Huldi’s seduction and gently removes himself from Huldi’s arms as he stands from the bed. “I need to go now if I’m going to be back by the time Scor gets home from work.”
Huldi drawls sarcastically, sneering, “Run home to your cold, little wifey, then. To your cold bed and your cold, miserable existence.”
“You assume too much,” Albus snaps, regaining his old sense of self – the one he loses when he’s under Huldi’s control, under his sensual enchantment, beneath domineering hands.
“Do I?” Huldi knowingly smirks up at him from the bed, moving toward him, predatory and slow, “If it weren’t true, you wouldn’t have come to me.”
At once, Albus feels small again, without Huldi having to raise a hand to him. Huldi holds Albus in his stare, somehow able to assert his dominance with just his eyes, even from his seated position. His arms snake around Albus’ waist. He never breaks his stare as he parts his lips and presses them to Albus’ chest. His tongue sweeps Albus’ nipple and the warm metal of his lingual piercing works like a trigger – that metal ball has become so synonymous with pleasure that feeling it makes Albus’ cock twitch. And because he’s still naked, Huldi is very aware of the effect he has.
Huldi flashes his deliciously malicious grin and Albus could almost be convinced that he wants another spanking. “You come to me because he doesn’t understand you like I do. He doesn’t know who you really are inside – all he knows is the child you once were and not the man you’ve become. He doesn’t want you – the real you.” He’s hitting home so fucking hard that his truth hurts more than his leather whips. “And even if he did see you for what you really are, he wouldn’t know what to do with you.”
“Oh, and you do?” Albus asks challengingly, because he’s not so ensnared that he will easily concede.
Huldi’s hands come away from Albus’ waist to grab him firmly by his cock and balls. Albus bites his lip to stifle a whimper when Huldi pulls in painfully opposed directions. “Do you doubt me, boy?”
Albus has played with Huldi enough to know that Huldi has just broken one of their previously established terms. He has engaged Albus in a role-play scene without his consent. He’d been so good about clearly delineating when he’s playing that this violent, physical expression of his dominance comes as a shock.
“We’re not playing,” Albus manages in a pained, strangled, growl. He clenches a hand around Huldi’s shoulder, as much as an act of retaliation as a necessity to keep from buckling from the pain.
Huldi doesn’t relent. Albus tries his safe words weakly. “Red,” he whimpers.
“It ceased to be role-play the moment you let me fuck you.” Huldi wrenches harder, twisting as viciously as his venomous words.
The pain he inflicts causes Albus’ vision to become blurred with tears and speckled with bright spots of light. Albus can no longer remain stoic. He cries out and Huldi grins smugly. For a moment, Albus thinks he’s going to pass out or vomit, but then Huldi releases him. He drops to his knees and clutches his tortured genitals gingerly, still reeling from the lingering pain.
As if Huldi hadn’t been the culprit, he soothes Albus with calming tones as he guides him back onto the bed. “Lie down. You’ll recover quicker – return blood flow to your brain.”
It takes a good, long minute or more, curled in a fetal position on the bed, before the pain begins to subside - before the capacity to speak returns to him. And in that time, Huldi whispers words of reassurance. “You’re okay, Albie… You’re alright…”
But Albus is far from okay. He wants to tell Huldi to go fuck himself – to get the Hell off of him and to stop petting him as if he’s simply a child with a scraped knee. His stomach is still too cramped and his breathing is still too erratic to form words. He feels helpless in his inability to calm down enough to talk, which just makes him cry harder, and exacerbates his frustration.
“You’re a good boy. That’s it. Breathe slow,” Huldi encourages him. He sounds so decidedly not patronizing that it is eerie and disturbing. “I forgive you. No need to cry.”
Albus is terrified. Because he realizes that Huldi isn’t just a nice boy with a kinky side. Huldi Reinhart is completely unapologetic and quite possibly psychotic. And Albus needs to get as far away from him as quickly as he can. When he finds his voice, as mangled as it may sound, he pleads raggedly. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of you,” Huldi whispers, nuzzling his face into the back of Albus’ neck.
Albus feels paralyzed by the persistent ache and by his fear, but he manages to insist. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“That’s a lie,” Huldi says calmly, but with a tinge of hurt raising the octave of his voice.
“You hurt me,” Albus growls indignantly.
Huldi sighs softly and plies the back of Albus neck with little kisses again as he explains, “I was scared. I reacted out of fear. It was a moment of weakness. But I’m stronger than that. I can be stronger for you.”
Albus could almost be fooled by Huldi’s gentleness – by the sweetness of his kisses and the vulnerability of his words. But, even as the pain dissipates, Albus suspects that every tender kiss is dipped in poison and manipulation.
“Well, I’m not stronger than that. I can’t be what you want me to be,” Albus insists, “I won’t be.”
“Albie, look at me. Please,” Huldi pleads quietly, but Albus refuses to turn around to face him. “I don’t expect you to be anything you’re not. Nobody else can say the same. Not Scor, not your fans. When you’re with me, you can be everything, or you can be nothing. You can just be.”
This strikes a cord deep inside Albus. He’s reminded of why he had been so drawn to Huldi. Huldi had provided him with, not just an easy escape, but a complete departure from the expectations that had weighed down so heavily on his shoulders. He turns and finds himself lying in Huldi’s arms.
Huldi’s eyes are sincere and Albus begins to doubt that he’s being manipulated, now that his judgment is not being skewed by pain. But he still has to question Huldi. “You say you don’t expect me to be anything. But that’s not entirely true. There are very clear expectations for somebody serving as your boy, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“Albie, I told you this isn’t a game anymore. It’s real for us now.” If Huldi did not appear to be on the verge of tears, Albus would be more alarmed by this declaration.
Still, he furrows his brow, wary. “What does that even mean?”
Huldi cups Albus’ cheek in his hand and chuckles despite the tears that begin to pool at the corner of his eyes, “You’re a bit daft.”
Albus shies away from Huldi’s caress, affronted and confused. “Well, fuck you too,” he huffs.
Huldi explains with a soft, placating grin, “My cock, my trust, and my love are not so easily earned. And you, Albus, have the distinction of being the only one to have earned all three.”
Albus somehow doesn’t feel flattered and just feels uneasy. “I doubt that,” he mutters.
“Why? Do you fancy yourself so unredeemable that you are un-deserving of love?” Huldi reasons with him, “So deceitful, that you’re un-deserving of trust? So fucked up that you don’t deserve a good fuck?”
Albus is beginning to see how Huldi has the tendency to turn things around so that the focus of blame or suspicion is averted to Albus. And he’s too bloody tired to put up with Huldi’s veiled manipulation. He rolls his eyes as he rolls off the bed once more, moving as quickly as his aching body will allow.
“I’m a horrible person. I admit. But that doesn’t give me license to keep blowing off Scor.” He asserts definitively, “I’m going home.”
Huldi remains lounging on the bed and says flippantly, “Fine. Go home. But remember this: I’m the only one that wants you. The real you.”
He continues to speak calmly and casually as he pulls a tiny vial from a drawer and empties its white contents onto the bedside table. “I’m the only one who will ever accept every part of you – all the dark parts and secret parts and parts you can’t show anyone else, not even your husband.”
He cuts the powder into thin lines with a razor blade as Albus watches with growing interest. “If you go home to your Ice Queen, you’ll have to lie and pretend and suppress your true self. You will never truly be happy with him. You will never be fulfilled. You will never be satisfied.”
And with those last words, he snorts a line of cocaine with banal ease. Albus tenses with need. Huldi gestures at him with the tube he’d just used to take that hit. Albus doesn’t realize he’d been aching for it until he finds himself twitching, almost imperceptibly.
But Huldi misses nothing. “You have to take the edge off somehow or you’ll be a wreck the whole way back to London. And then you’ll be cranky when you see Scor. If that isn’t a set up for a domestic dispute, I don’t know what is.” Huldi is so right that it’s infuriating.
Albus sighs heavily, defeated. “Just one.” He doesn’t know who he hates more right now – Huldi, or himself.
One hit becomes two, because Huldi has cut four lines and he can’t finish them all nor put it back in the vial, and it would be a waste. Taking the edge off becomes a full on high. And when Albus is high, he can’t say no. So he doesn’t shirk away when Huldi kisses him. And he doesn’t protest when Huldi puts his pretty mouth on his cock - because it’s the least Huldi can do after hurting him, right? And a blow job becomes a cocaine-fueled marathon fuck until the sun comes up, exactly the way that Huldi wants it – trapped in a dawn-out, endless loop of tension and release, of drug-addled restless sex to frustrated ejaculation that ceases to satisfy. Now Huldi will never be content to have one dark facet of Albus – Huldi must own them all – every shard of Albus’ obsidian black heart.
And when Albus comes crashing down from his high, it’s the next day, and he falls into a fitful, nightmare-wrought sleep to the sound of Huldi whispering over and over like the sinister words of a spell, “You’re mine, Albus… I love you so much… You’re mine… ”
~//~
A knock at the door of Albus’ flat startles him out of his hung-over stupor. He’s content, or more likely resigned, to not answer it. Nobody he wants to see would be knocking. This is not to say that somebody using the floo, or somebody who is able to apparate through the wards, is anybody Albus wants to see either. Really, Albus just wants to be alone. He wants his head to stop pounding, and the rapping at the door isn’t helping.
“Al, it’s dad.” Of course. Bloody Harry Potter has come to put his nose where it isn’t welcome – to save the day – to be the hero – to make the world a better place. Maybe this is just Albus’ withdrawal talking, making him more bitter than is warranted.
Albus flicks his wand in the direction of the noise from his sprawled position on the sofa and the door unlocks with a loud click, ushering in his father. He comes in without a word, but the sound of a plastic bag rustling hints that he’s bearing gifts. Albus doesn’t move, doesn’t even greet his father. A large jar of soup is placed on the coffee table in front of him with a heavy clunk, and a nudge at his feet makes him pull his legs up with an annoyed, pained whine.
“Gods, you must really be on death’s door. Glad I came equipped with Gran’s chicken soup,” his dad says, subtle and quiet in his fatherly humor.
“Huh?” Albus simply replies, staring at the jar, feeling uncharacteristically nauseated by its contents, which had once been so comforting. Nothing was better for a hangover than Molly Weasley’s home made chicken soup. But Al’s sickened feeling is unlike any post-bender headache and can’t simply be quelled with Gran’s comfort food.
“You made such a production out of promising you’d be home for your mum’s birthday dinner, that I figured you must have been awfully ill to have missed it.”
Albus makes a breathy sound between a horrified gasp and a pitying moan, admonishing himself. He turns to bury his head in the sofa cushion and mutters, “Fuck… That was last night…”
“Yeah,” his dad drawls, with a thin twinge of reproach, but still with his usual forgiving undertone.
He’d forgotten completely and utterly. “Shit,” Albus huffs quietly.
“Exactly. Deep in it, in fact. With mum, at least,” says his dad.
Albus gingerly pulls himself up into an upright position, seated on the couch near his dad. He’s feeling so guilty that he still can’t look at his father. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come, honestly. I must’ve --”
“Save it, Al. It’s okay.” He puts up a hand to quiet his son, and Albus is saved from coming up with a lame excuse.
Albus is ashamed of forgetting his priorities – of detaching from reality so utterly that he’d entirely missed an important family gathering. It was unlike him to do so without prior apology. When Albus had left school to pursue his career, he’d missed out on a lot, and he had always been apologetic of the fact. He’d missed Lily’s graduation from Hogwarts, missed James’ first match with Puddlemere, missed Granddad’s retirement party. He never missed his parents’ birthdays, even if all he could do was firecall to acknowledge it.
“I’m not here to make you feel like rubbish for missing mum’s birthday. But we really need to talk.” His dad says softly, yet still conveying his deep concern – a concern that also shows itself on his furrowed brow.
This concern makes Albus’ back go rigid in his seat. No matter the gentle tone of his father’s voice, a conversation that began with we need to talk had never historically resulted in anything pleasant. Albus gets a momentary reprieve when there is another knock at the door. This time, Albus’ dad answers it and returns with a large bouquet of flowers.
“I’m guessing it’s from a fan?” he says, handing it to Albus with a small smile. “The presents you must get on a regular basis – I can’t even imagine,” he muses.
Albus cracks a humble little grin, though it hides his alarm. The truth is, nobody sends gifts to his flat. The exact address of the apartment he shares with Scorpius is a well-kept secret. He takes the flowers and pulls a tiny card from the arrangement. It is simply signed in heavy, black ink, H.R., with an adjacent black heart.
Albus feels a shock of burning panic shooting up his spine, making his throat tighten and his brow sweat. He has never given his address to Huldi. And now Huldi somehow knows where he lives. This is not a token of Huldi’s affection. It is a reminder – a reminder of just how much he’s owned – of the inescapable grip Huldi has on him.
He swallows hard and does his best to let his expression do most of the lying for him. “I’ve got such sweet fans… But why don’t you give these to mum? Let her know I’m sorry?”
“Not a bad idea, but you should really drop by the house, yeah?” his dad suggests, and then adds, because he knows his son all too well, “When you’re feeling up to it?”
Albus nods gently. “Should I, erm, get dressed so we can go somewhere to talk?”
“No, I think here and now is fine.” He takes a deep cleansing breath and sits on the heavy, stone coffee table so that he’s directly in front of his son – so that Albus cannot ignore the lines of anguish and anxiety carving themselves into Harry Potter’s face. And that’s the last thing that Albus wants to see in his father’s expression – the man that already carries the weight of the wizarding world, fraught with sadness over his youngest son.
Albus swallows the guilt to go along with the fear that’s roiling in his already sour stomach as he realizes, oh gods, dad knows. Of course, he knows. Not only is he the head of the DMLE with all the surveillance resources that come with the title, he’s Dad. Albus’ father has always had the uncanny ability to read him like a book, and maybe it’s because Harry sees so much of himself in Albus.
“Remember, I love you. I always will, no matter what.” His father puts a hand on Albus’ shoulder, and the gesture is warm – not unwelcome, given the heightened tension in the moment. “Albie, you have a problem…” The words are firm, but somehow also compassionate.
It’s all that Albus needs to break down. And it says a lot about the fragile nature of his emotions lately that it had taken so little. His eyes well-up with tears. His gaze lifts to the ceiling, unwilling to let his tears fall, unable to look his father in the eyes – eyes that are equally green, equally deep, yet reflect none of the evil that resides in Albus’ own.
“How did you know?” Albus simply says, at a loss for anything else to say. What else can one say when one’s father calls him out on his adultery?
“I’m no expert on addiction, but I’ve seen enough addicts in my line of work to recognize the signs,” his father says, sympathetic and devoid of judgment.
Albus blinks quickly, narrowing his eyes at his father, able to look at him now – now that he’s quite sure his dad is mistaken. “What are you talking about?”
“Al, you don’t have to tell me specifics. But I want to get help for you. I mean, I’m not naïve – I know that part of the rock star lifestyle is to indulge in substances a bit enthusiastically, but… It’s gone beyond that. It’s affecting your relationships with everybody around you. You’re blowing off birthdays. You’re hardly home, and it’s affecting your marriage, from what I gather from Scor. And, no offense, you look physically unwell.”
Merlin’s fucking balls… This is an Intervention, Albus thinks to himself.
Deeply offended that his father would think so lowly of him, Albus shoots up from his seat and snaps, “I’m not a bloody drug addict, dad. Honestly, I know you think I’m a fuck up, but I didn’t realize you thought I was that much of a fuck up.”
“Sit down, Albus,” his father says sternly, raising his voice only slightly, “I never said you were a fuck up. I have never said that to you.”
Albus plops down on a nearby armchair. “But you’ve thought it. I mean, how could you not? I’m the only one who didn’t get sorted into Gryffindor. The only one who wasn’t good enough to make the quidditch team. The only one who didn’t finish school,” he compares himself to his siblings, dredging up old bitterness he’d thought he’d left behind when he dropped out of Hogwarts.
“So you’re not just like your brother and sister or even like mum and me. I didn’t have kids so that they could be replicas of myself. You have always reveled in your uniqueness – always embraced the differences that set you apart from Lily and Jamie.
And don’t you ever tell me that I haven’t done the same, because, god damn it, I’ve done it to a fault. You’ve gotten away with so much nonsense because you’re different – because I accepted this about you and loved you for it. I mean, come on, Al! You bloody left home at sixteen. You eloped at eighteen. And your mum and I just let you, because we didn’t want to stifle who you are, even if it meant letting you do things that seem less than wise.
And then you show up to Sunday dinner one night, high as a kite, and I’m inclined to chalk it all up to – Oh, that’s just Albie being Albie – he’s always going to do whatever he wants. I can’t do that anymore. I’m not going to make excuses for you in my head anymore. I can’t idly watch you making bad choices anymore because your bad choices are having adverse effects. You’re destroying yourself. You will destroy the people around you as well, if you continue down this path.”
All the tears that Albus had been holding back come flooding down his face. He huffs angrily, unable to form words. He can’t believe that this is what his father sees – not a man caught up in a dangerous affair, but a drug addict. He feels betrayed somehow. He thought his father knew him so well, but, just like everyone else, they don’t know him at all. And this fact makes Albus feel so very alone.
As if things could not get worse, Scorpius suddenly appears, having apparated home. He’s startled when he finds Harry and Albus in the living room, looking the way they are. “Erm, what the Hell is going on?” Scorpius mutters, glancing between Albus’ tear-stained, distraught face and Harry’s flustered expression.
“Good, you’re home, Scorpius. You should be here for this,” says Harry, “Have a seat.”
Scorpius tentatively sits on the sofa, looking worried. Harry remains standing, and Albus can’t help feeling like they’re little boys once more being scolded.
“Al, your mum and I have found you a drug rehab program at Saint Mungo’s. You can get clean--”
Albus interrupts his father and throws his arms in the air, protesting, “I don’t need to go to fucking rehab, dad. Yeah, I admit, I’ve done stuff on occasion, but…”
Scorpius snorts derisively at this and crosses his arms. Albus shoots him an affronted glare.
“An addict will always downplay how much they use,” his dad says, “And like I said before, you don’t have to tell me specifics. I just want to get you the help you need.”
“I hate to sound like an arsehole, but I don’t need your help, dad,” Albus asserts, offended, “Honestly. I don’t have a bloody drug problem.”
Scorpius snorts again and rolls his eyes. This time, Albus snaps at his husband. “Oh, fucking spit it out, Scor. What is it?”
“He’s right,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief, “For once, your dad is fucking spot on. And I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I should have figured out that this is what’s been going on. And frankly,” he turns to glare pointedly at his father-in-law, “Harry, I’m miffed that you didn’t talk to me about this sooner.”
Scorpius returns his attention to Albus and says, devoid of the same sympathy that Harry had shown, “You have a problem, Al. You can’t even get through a bloody interview without snorting coke. You come home, more often than not, high or hung over – that is, if you come home, which you do so rarely these days. You’re sneaky and secretive and hiding shit from me. You’ve not been yourself. I see it all now in hindsight. It makes perfect sense.”
“So, you agree with me that Al has a drug problem?” Harry asks, and Albus feels increasingly like he’s being ganged up on.
Scorpius nods, continuing to stare accusingly at Albus. “Yeah. And if you love me, you’ll get help.”
Astonished and betrayed, Albus can do nothing but gape at the two people he thought knew him best. “Is that an ultimatum, Scor?”
Scorpius pauses and seems to think about it, perhaps second-guessing himself in his hesitation. But then he says firmly, “Yes. I’m tired of your shit.”
“Fuck you,” Albus breathes out incredulously. He is still in shock that the conversation had escalated so quickly to this. He storms off, locks himself in the bathroom and is only slightly disappointed that neither his husband nor his father have bothered to coax him out.
But when he does come out, after a hot bath and what seems like an hour of feeling wretched and crying in the tub, he finds Scorpius warming Gran’s soup in the kitchen. “You should eat something,” Scorpius mutters, staring down at the broth simmering in the pot.
For some reason, this picture of domesticity breaks Albus’ heart. He doesn’t deserve Gran’s soup. He doesn’t deserve Scorpius’ love. He doesn’t deserve dad’s help. He doesn’t deserve to be taken care of. Surely, Scorpius knows this, and is sticking by him anyway.
Albus steps behind Scorpius and tentatively snakes an arm around his waist. He holds him close to his chest and breathes in his familiar scent along with the comforting aroma of chicken soup. He feels Scorpius become tense in his arms.
“I do love you. And you don’t deserve my shit,” Albus mumbles somberly.
“And?” Scorpius prods stiffly as he stirs the soup.
“And, erm… I’m sorry,” Albus offers weakly.
Scorpius remains frozen as ice, silent. It is not until Albus moves away that Scorpius seems to relax with a long, slow exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time Albus had been close. Albus wonders what would cause Scorpius to be so cold beneath his touch. Had the growing rift between them become such a gaping divide? Could Scorpius know more than he’s letting on?
“Anything else?” Scorpius asks, unsatisfied with Albus’ lame apology, and rightly so.
But Albus can’t offer him anything else. He’s not going to promise that he’ll put himself in rehab. His family thinks he’s got a drug problem, but the truth is that he’s got a problematic lover. He’s not ready to admit it. He will likely never be ready.
“And…,” Albus struggles for something to say that will placate his husband. He realizes that it’s pointless to try so hard to find words to reassure Scorpius that they’re going to be okay. Because it isn’t going to be okay. Scorpius doesn’t even know the extent of how irreparably Albus has fucked things up. “And… I should probably give you some space,” he sighs sadly.
Scorpius whips around, furious, making Albus flinch from just the fury in his silver blue eyes. “That’s your answer to everything, hm? Running away.” He doesn’t give Albus a chance to defend himself, not that he can find any words with which to do so. Scorpius shoves his shoulder and spits bitterly, “Well, go on then. Deal with your problems the only way you know how.”
Albus just stands there, lip trembling, on the verge of tears again, unable to say anything meaningful, afraid he’ll keep saying the wrong thing and continue to make things worse.
Scorpius pushes him again, harder this time, provoking him as much as accusing him. “Go on, leave me. I know you want to.”
“What do you want me to do?” Albus’ question is more confrontational than it needs to be.
“What does it matter what I want?” Scorpius huffs, pointing emphatically at his chest, “You haven’t cared about what I want in a long time, Al. So don’t even pretend to care about what I want right now because I know you’re just going to do whatever the fuck you want anyway.”
Albus is silent for a long time. He’s already exhausted his tears, though he still can’t help feeling like he needs to cry. “I don’t want to leave you, Scor. But at the same time, I don’t want to stay here and fight with you like this.”
“Let me make this easier for you, then.” Scorpius turns away briefly to shut off the stove. He takes off the apron he’d been wearing over his clothes and throws it to the floor. “I’m leaving. When you’re ready to deal with this, owl me.”
In a final, desperate gesture, Albus grabs Scorpius’ arm. “Where are you going? Please don’t. You don’t understand.”
And now it’s Scorpius’ turn to cry. He stares at Albus, looking frustrated and hopeless. “I’m so bloody tired of this, Albie. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know where you are half the time. I can’t fix you, and I can’t fix us. Not on my own. Not until you admit that there’s a problem and commit to doing something about it. And I’m not going to stay here and wait for you to come around. I don’t want to be alone here. Because even when you’re here, you’re not really present. And I need you to be fully present… Does that make sense?”
Albus nods weakly and mumbles, “It does, I guess… But are you leaving me, leaving me?”
Scorpius looks uncertain, as though he hadn’t fully thought it through, which is vaguely reassuring. “I… No… I just… I don’t know.” He heaves a defeated sigh.
Albus puts his arms around Scorpius and pleads quietly, murmuring like a sad child, “I love you. I’m here. I’m here, okay? We’re going to deal with this. Together. Don’t go.”
It takes an alarmingly long time for Scorpius to reciprocate Albus’ embrace. But when he does, Scorpius’ arms seem to melt around him, and the tension that Albus had felt in his husband’s body begins to loosen. “I love you too, Albie. I’m not going anywhere.”
When they kiss, Albus tastes Scorpius’ tears on his lips, and they are bitter sweet. Their kiss deepens and grows feverish. It had been a while since they’ve kissed like this, and Scorpius’ tongue in his mouth somehow feels foreign, Scorpius’ hands on his bare skin somehow feel like that of a stranger’s. And when Scorpius hoists Albus onto the kitchen table, Albus does not feel that sense of playfulness he should feel.
Albus isn’t wearing much, having just come out of the shower, so it takes little effort on Scorpius’ part to divest him of his boxer briefs. And when Scorpius pushes into him and fucks him on the table, it feels more like scrambling for purchase than reaching for heaven, as what they had slips away from beneath them.
Later, when they stumble into their bed, Albus’ mobile glows with a text message on the bedside table. He quickly sweeps it up and he shoves it into the drawer without even checking it. When he does check it, hours later, after Scorpius has fallen asleep, he finds an alarming number of messages from Huldi. He feels too sick with guilt to read them all. He quickly sends out a reply.
Sorry, spent the day with my dad. Ring you tomorrow.
And Albus wonders how long he can keep lying – lying to his husband, lying to Huldi, lying to himself that he can give these men what they want. Because Albus has nothing left to give.