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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
- 10
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- 12
Saturday October 14^th 1989 (6.46 p.m.)
Tom remained hunched in the corner and as the hours slowly passed, the symptoms of his withdrawal intensified. Perspiration dripped from his body and sweat stains quickly dampened his clothing, creating a stale aroma in the small room. Mucus dripped from his nose and his eyes became watery, giving him the appearance of someone suffering from a cold. He also found himself unable to stop scratching at his arms as unseen bugs crawled continuously under his skin, the weird sensation slowly driving him crazy. But worst of all were the debilitating stomach cramps that had him doubled over in pain, crying uncontrollably as snot streamed from his nose. It felt like death and he longed for it to be over so he could finally find peace.
When Booker returned with a bag of takeaway food, he found Tom curled in a ball next to a pool of his own vomit. He had his arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen as full body tremors racked his thin frame and Booker immediately began to have second thoughts about making him go cold turkey. For a split second, he considered going out and scoring something to help alleviate his friend’s pain but he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. If Tom were to turn his life around, the first thing he needed to do was get clean.
Putting down the brown paper bag, he walked into the bathroom and dampened two towels. The first he threw over the foul smelling liquid on the floor and sitting down on the brightly patterned carpet, he used the second to dab gently at the sweat coating Tom’s face.
“Leave… me… alone,” Tom muttered through chattering teeth. “I don’t want… your… fucking… sympathy.”
Booker sighed and putting down the towel, he gave Tom an exasperated look. “Trust me, it’s not sympathy. You need help and I’m all you’ve got, so you’d better get used to it.”
“Fuck… you,” Tom spat in a shaky voice. “If you really… meant that… you’d get me… something… to help me… through this.”
Climbing slowly to his feet, Booker spoke in a gentle but firm voice. “You know I can’t do that.”
“BULLSHIT!” Tom screamed, his eyes flashing with red-hot hatred. “You’re enjoying this! You think… I deserve to be—” but his words turned into a guttural heave, and dropping his head, he vomited onto the floor. “Oh God,” he groaned softly, “why… won’t you… help me?”
Determined not be swayed by the pain in Tom’s voice, Booker squatted down and tenderly brushed his friend’s sweaty hair from his face. “I am helping you,” he murmured, “and one day, you’ll thank me for being such a bastard.”
Tom pushed himself up to a sitting position and swiping his sleeve across his mouth, he staggered to his feet. “Keep your… fucking… hands… off me,” he snarled.
It took all of Booker’s willpower not to unleash on Tom all the pent up anger and frustration he was feeling but he remained calm and instead, he watched in stony silence as the once proud police officer lurched unsteadily across the room. When the bathroom door slammed shut with a forceful bang, he stood up and stared at the vomit on the floor. He knew he should clean it up but a part of him rebelled against it. “It’s Tom’s fucking mess, he should deal with it,” he thought to himself and even in his mind, his voice sounded petulant. But he was tired of all the crap and he wondered what had ever possessed him to try to save Tom’s ass for a second time when the first had caused him nothing but pain and heartache.
However, it was no mystery, he knew the answer all too well. He was in love and love made you do the wacky.
****
Saturday October 14^th 1989 (8.15 p.m.)
The sound of traffic filtered in through the open window, pulling Booker from a light doze. Sitting up in bed, it took him several moments to orientate himself in the darkened room but once he realized where he was, his eyes quickly searched for Tom. He felt a moment of panic when he saw the room was empty but as his other senses kicked in, he heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom and he let out a sigh of relief.
Getting to his feet, he switched on the overhead light and immediately spotted the vomit on the floor. He had been so pissed off after his altercation with Tom, he had not bothered to clean it up, preferring instead to lie on the bed and silently berate himself for being such a chump. The words “keep your fucking hands off me,” had echoed constantly in his mind, taunting him to the point where salty tears trickled down his face, soaking into the pillow beneath his head and it was only when his brain screamed enough! that he finally found the peace he craved by falling asleep.
With a resigned sigh, he dropped to his knees and mopped up the two puddles of vomit with the discarded towels. Not wanting to deal with anymore questions from the motel’s manager, he decided to rinse them out in the shower and it was then that his ears tuned back into the sound of running water. Leaving the soiled bath sheets on the floor, he stood up and walking over to the bathroom, he rapped his knuckles on the door. “Tommy, is everything okay in there?”
His question was met with silence and turning away, his eyes settled on the brown bag of takeaway sitting on the small table and as though on cue, his stomach growled with hunger. Sitting down, he devoured one of the cold burgers and a bag of fries in record time and leaning contentedly back in his chair, he let out a loud burp. But his relaxed mood lasted only moments when the hum of water once again sounded in his ears. Tom had now been in the shower for over thirty minutes and that could only mean one of two things; he was taking a really long time getting clean, or something had happened.
A cold fear gripped at Booker’s heart and jumping to his feet, he ran across the room and banged his fist against the bathroom door. “Tommy! If you don’t answer me right now, I’m coming in!”
Receiving no answer, he tried the handle and when it turned freely in his hand, he burst through the door.
Tom sat crouched on the shower floor, his naked body trembling beneath a cascade of steaming water. It was a shock for Booker to see just how much weight Tom had lost but what was most disturbing were the deep gouges that streaked his forearms where he had ripped his nails down the flesh in an attempt to rid himself of the unseen insects that he was convinced had burrowed under his skin. Blood mixed with the warm water, sending pink rivulets running down his arms before they flowed into the drain and the sight was so gut wrenching, Booker stood staring with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Oh Tommy,” he whispered. “What have you done?”
Lifting his head, Tom gazed up at Booker with panicked eyes as he continued to rake his nails down his torn skin. “The-there’s s-something inside m-me. I c-can’t get it out.”
Booker quickly stepped forward and reaching inside the cubicle, he turned off the faucets. Squatting down, he gently took hold of Tom’s hand to stop him from hurting himself further. “There’s nothing there,” he reassured gently, “it’s the withdrawal from the drugs. You’re hallucinating.”
“A-Are you sure?” Tom asked in a frightened voice that sounded childlike in his desperation to believe. “Are you really sure?”
Smiling tenderly, Booker nodded his head. “I’m sure. Now, let’s get you dry.”
Tom allowed his friend to help him up from the tiled floor and standing naked in the middle of the bathroom, he wrapped his arms around his quivering body. Booker searched for a towel before remembering he had used them both to clean up the vomit. Placing an arm around Tom’s waist, he helped him into the bedroom and pulling a sheet from the bed, he placed it around his shoulders.
Clutching the thin cotton sheet around him, Tom continued to shake violently. Concerned that he was going into shock, Booker sat him on the bed and squatting down, he placed a warm hand on his knee. “I think we need to get you to a doctor.”
Tom violently shook his head back and forth, sending tiny droplets of water out into the atmosphere. “N-No,” he replied through chattering teeth. “I’m just c-cold. I’ll b-be okay in a m-minute.”
Booker was convinced that Tom was anything but okay and so he tried again to reason with him. “Tommy, I really think it would be—”
“I can’t go to prison!” Tom cried out and clutching at Booker’s arm, his dark, desperate eyes pleaded with his friend to understand. “P-Please Dennis, if I go to h-hospital they’ll arrest me!”
Realizing that what Tom was saying was true, Booker reluctantly backed down. “Okay,” he murmured softly, “but if you get any worse—”
“I won’t,” Tom replied quickly. “I just n-need to get some s-sleep.”
Reaching out, Booker lovingly pushed Tom’s dripping hair away from his eyes. “First things first. Let’s get you dried off.”
The physical drain on Tom’s body from the drug withdrawal had him feeling too weak to stand and so he remained seated as Booker gently patted him down with the bed sheet. He was past feeling any shame or embarrassment; he had buried those emotions deep within his psyche when the first man had pushed his erect cock deep inside him. It was a coping mechanism, a way to deal with the humiliation of selling his body to horny, middle-aged men just so he could support his habit and he was so used to being devoid of such feelings, he lived on autopilot most of the time. But now that the drugs were leaving his body, he was terrified of what he would once again feel and that was just as difficult to deal with as the physical symptoms themselves.
When a gentle hand ruffled his hair, his thoughts came back to the present and looking up, he gazed down at the man kneeling in front of him. “What would I do without you?” he murmured softly.
Booker’s heart pitter-pattered at the tenderness in Tom’s voice and sitting down on the bed, he put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him close. But the intimacy of strong arms cradling him protectively opened the floodgates of Tom’s mind and thoughts of Amy and Doug came pouring in, swamping him with painful, unwanted memories.
“I can’t do this!” he cried out and pulling away, he staggered to his feet, his eyes wide with emotion.
“Tom, what is it? What’s wrong?” Booker asked worriedly and standing up, he tried to pull Tom back into his arms.
Tom’s hands flew to his head and stumbling backwards, the sheet slipped from his shoulders, leaving him naked. “DON’T!” he screamed hysterically as his fingers ripped at his hair. “I DON’T DESERVE LOVE, I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T I DON’T…”
The high-pitched mantra cut through the air like a knife and frightened for Tom’s sanity, Booker held up his hands and backed away. “Okay, okay,” he reassured in a soothing voice, “I won’t touch you, you’re okay… you’re okay.”
Eventually, Dennis’ pacifying tone calmed Tom down and he stood in the middle of the room with his fingers entangled in his damp hair, a look of pure misery of his beautiful face. “I don’t deserve love,” he whimpered.
Unsure of what to say, Booker stepped away from the bed. “Lie down and get some sleep,” he muttered wearily.
Tom stood silently for several long moments before moving over to the bed and after pulling on a t-shirt and boxers, he curled himself into a ball on top of the mattress. Booker switched off the light, leaving only the quarter moon to shine a faint glow through the open window. As he pulled out a chair, he suddenly realized how bone-achingly exhausted he was and after removing his boots and jeans, he sat down, stuck his legs out in front of him and folding his arms across his chest, he closed his eyes.
The constant hum of traffic lulled his fatigued mind and just as the veil of unconsciousness began to shroud his mind, a small voice spoke from across the room. “Dennis?”
Jarred back to wakefulness, Booker jumped with a start. “What is it Tom?” he asked a little too tersely.
When Tom did not reply, he let out a sigh and standing up, he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Sorry,” he muttered, “tell me what’s wrong.”
Tom’s watery eyes glistened in the pale moonlight. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Confused by the statement, Booker shook his head slightly. “I don’t understand, I’m right here—”
“I want you to hold me,” Tom whispered, “I need to feel… connected.”
Booker’s heart hammered in his chest. It was the last thing he had expected Tom to say but now that the words were out in the open, he was terrified. Tom was obviously going through extreme mental and physical pain with his withdrawal and his emotions were unpredictable. He did not fancy waking in the middle of the night with his friend attacking him because he suddenly decided he did not want love or sympathy or whatever it was he thought was on offer. But as Booker stared into the shiny dark eyes gazing up at him, he knew he would do whatever Tom wanted because that was his curse… he loved him too damn much to refuse.
“Scoot over,” he murmured softly and lying down, he wrapped his arms around Tom and held him close. Within minutes, the sound of deep breathing softly echoed throughout the room as both men dreamed impossible dreams of happiness and love.
- 10
- 11
- 12
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Chasing a Butterfly