ᯤ charlieee

(just kidding💀)

Just for a second, a brief passing thought while the blunt is still between his lips. He’s high, yes, and it is helping—but not enough. Not anymore.

That thought scares him so much that he goes sober for a week afterwards, cold turkey, and just deals with the misery it induces.

Trauma and withdrawal is God awful and he considers lighting up again every waking second of it, but then the thought of ‘stronger’ passes him again and he shoves his trembling hands in his pockets before they can even get his lighter.

He’s not doing hard drugs. He’s barely doing drugs at all, weed doesn’t even count! He hates needles, anything in his nose freaks him out, and if he even tried then Gwen would automatically be on his ass about it. He’d be in rehab before he could blink.

But it terrifies him. He’s becoming his father. He needs more, he needs stronger, he needs something that numbs it all better because he can still think and he overall wishes to just stop doing that entirely. Finn doesn’t want that, he wants none of that: he just wants to not be fucked.

He finally breaks and smokes again after a week. Part of him is pissed about it, if he’d just kept going then he might’ve been able to get over weed entirely. The other part—the part that had his hands trembling the whole week and that fucking mask in his nightmares—is so grateful to feel his lungs burn again. It helps. It does.

He still wants stronger.

Finn cries, one arm on his knees with his head down. The blunt still burns between his fingers and the snow sizzles lightly as ash falls down into it.

The small bag rustles when he pulls it out of his pocket after deciding that he is alone and safe to stop hiding it. Inside is but a handful of small pills, either white or some off-white colour, that Finn has no honest to God clue what they are or do. That thought makes him a bit anxious, and then the fact he finds himself not really caring what they are as long as they work makes him more anxious.

It’s not anything hardcore, obviously. Finn doesn’t even know where the hell he’d find anything like that. He’s traumatized and looking for relief, not an addict. He’s not an addict.

What he does know is that he got this bag of pills from some guy that was not his usual dealer who said “this’ll numb your mind a lot better than weed does”—which didn’t actually explain anything but Finn still didn’t ask any questions.

If they’re sugar pills or something, he’s gonna be pissed.

Finn opens the bag with the distinct zwooip a sandwich bag makes when you pull the zip apart, taking a few out into his palm and rolling them around under his thumb. They’re deceptively small and he can feel himself almost starting to doubt.

Part of him can hear Robin screaming even after death. He’s halfway expecting a nearby phone to ring and for Robin to start cursing him out in rapid Spanish the second he answers it. And when that doesn’t happen, and the night stays silent, he’s almost disappointed. Finn needs to get his shit together.

He finally gets over his buzzing nerves and the nagging thought in the back of his head about how bad this was and the idea of Robin and everything all at once and shoves 3 of the pills into his mouth.

They’re tasteless and they don’t immediately melt on his tongue. Not the way sugar pills would.

He barely gets to swallow them before he hears the back door swing open and slam the wall. He flinches like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, which he has.

“Finn, are you fucking serious?!”

Made for @cheap-lemons-and-theatrics because they wanted more where Finn went through with it or something. :)