when my time comes / forget the wrong that i've done / help me leave behind some reasons to be missed
TW: DEATH, BLOOD, KNIFE, INJURY, MENTIONS OF DRUG ADDICTION, PAST OVERDOSE
Josiah had gone back inside, feeling a little more level headed. In all, he'd say tonight was a success. The anxiety felt more like it came from the throng of people, not that small part of him that he knew would never quite rewire the same way again. That was something they'd talked about a lot back in rehab. This wasn't a choice he made, it was how his brain worked now. Recovery meant working every day to be the person he wanted to be. The son whose parents didn't worry about leaving alone, the brother that could be there, the uncle that could love that little girl like she was his own. Maybe...maybe the partner someone would want. Someday. That thought was more complicated. Him and Jamie were complicated. Always had been. Jamie was all in, from day one. Threw himself wholeheartedly at a boy who wasn't in the shape to treat anyone gently. And he'd come back to a man still trying to atone. He knew what Jamie wanted. He just...wasn't sure it was what the two of them needed.
That's the thought he's mulling over, absently stirring a Diet Coke, when the lights cut out. The reaction is instant. Total panic. He has to admit, he's spooked too. It's essentially pitch black in here, and with everyone running around, he can't just stay here unless he wants to get trampled. Can't stay. He needs to find...Jamie, Nell, Jesse, Danny, someone. He had to make sure they're okay. The foreboding sense he'd had all night, which up til now he'd chalked up to an unease at the way Jamie was acting, had reared up, and the longer he couldn't find anyone, the worse it got. "Jamie? Jamie!" He's trying to push past people, trying to see if he can make out the taller man in the crowd. "Jesse? Danny? Nell?" He's looking around, trying to find someone. He doesn't know what's happening, and he can't just worry about himself. It's not how he is.
Someone grabs him, and for a second, he thinks it might be one of them, and he doesn't even really care which one it is. Before he can fully turn to try to see them, there's a searing pain in his side. He screams, in surprise, in pain, in shock. He feels like he's moving in slow motion, but whoever's on him now decidedly isn't, and more pain shoots through him as they keep stabbing. He doesn't know how many. Could have been four, could have been forty. He doesn't know. Adrenaline's the only thing keeping him upright, and he tries to run once his head stops swimming, finding his limbs almost too heavy to move. The fabric of his shirt feels hot, sticky, and a feeling of revulsion washes over him when he tastes copper. He doesn't need the lights on to know it's blood. He can feel it seeping through his shirt, running down to his jeans, dripping onto the floor.
He's not actually aware of how far he's managed to get, the pain and the blood loss making him collapse. He just...lays there. He needs to get up. He needs to keep going. He can't lay here and die. He can't.
The house party had been his wake up call. It was some out of town thing, with people he barely knew. But their stuff was always good, so when they'd asked of course he'd said yes. He lost track of how much he was taking, downing a drink when it was handed to him and definitely not turning down the guy who'd been eye fucking him all night when he handed him a couple pills. He's not a lightweight. He'd be fine.
He woke up connected to machines, his mom and dad not even looking at him. When he tried to talk, his throat felt dry, pained. They had looked at him in something between alarm and relief, their eyes red. He didn't know what had happened. The last he remembered, a guy in bright blue eyeliner had flopped onto the couch he was on, putting his head in Josiah's lap. How--
He'd overdosed. On what they couldn't tell him until he remembered what he took or toxicology came back. His heart had stopped. He'd been dead. He felt like a cliche, coming home and realizing only now that this had gone too far, gotten too bad for him to just fix it himself. He had to...He didn't know yet, but he had to do something.
He has a similar thought now, even as his vision goes spotty. He has to do something. He's so close to one year. Three weeks. Twenty-four days, really, but close enough. Twenty-four days, and he's hit his goal. He's so close. Three hundred forty-one days down. Twenty-four to go. Twenty-four. He's so tired. He's cold. Someone's in front of him, and he flinches. Tries to tell them to leave him alone, don't hurt him. Help him. He needs help. He needs his mom.
They're trying to talk to him, trying to press against the wounds. He's vaguely aware of being lifted. His vision is swimming, fading in and out. He doesn't remember dying the first time. If this is what it is, it's...it's warm.
