#hi ps i know very little about heroin or tattoos and i'm p sure track-marks fade and maybe pax's dialogue is a bit stupid

[much-ado-about-whumping]

Green Shoots

Previous installments for Callistos: [Bite the Hand that Feeds] [Canvas] [Paying Dearly] [Taste of Ashes] [Callistos Masterpost]. I'm gonna go ahead and give this whole series a blanket warning of Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

And yet! Check out the CWs on this baby:

CW: actually not that many? recovery from a suicide attempt in an in-patient facility that for ~reasons~ I have decided is like...not controlling, very optional, more group home than institution; drug use/addiction mention; combatting sexual abuse and other kinds of objectification with body mods; past non-con

This bit is the opening of some hurt/comfort in a recovery arc.

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"Those would look fucking sick with some ink around 'em," a voice says.

Callistos looks up. He's been getting himself coffee at the little bar in the corridor, like those things he's seen in some hotel lobbies.

The boy next to him is someone he recognizes. He lives on his floor, he thinks - they might have been in a group together sometime. He's definitely seen that bright blue hair before.

He wants to ask for clarification, to elicit more information - what does he mean? - but what he says is, "Huh?"

The guy chuckles a little, awkwardly.

"Those scars on your forearm. They look like...I dunno, man, like lightning or tree limbs or something. You ever think about getting some tatts?"

He gestures toward Callistos, like a shrug that continues down to his elbows, turning himself inside-out. He's exposing the insides of his forearms, where brown, twiggy branches extend down to his wrists, bursting with cherry blossoms in full bloom. Callistos is so disarmed by the art that it takes him a moment to place how vulnerable the gesture feels.

"'S what I did with my track marks the second time I got clean," he says, smiling a little sheepishly. "Now if I ever wanna use again, I think about whether I really wanna fuck up my ink, and it stops me."

He laughs again, soft, jagged, warm.

"Well, that and a fuckload of therapy."

He reaches out a hand.

"I'm Pax," he says. "What's your name?"

Callistos feels like he's just been awoken from a deep sleep by a bucket of water turned over his head. The gears in his brain creak.

"Uh- I- Callistos," he says, extending his hand. He feels limp, awkward.

Pax's touch is electric as he grasps Callistos' hand and pumps it in a friendly shake.

"Good to meet you, man. I'm in 407 - see you around, yeah?"

Callistos nods dumbly.

"Uh- yeah."

Pax laughs again and bounces off down the hall. Callistos gazes after him, still trying to catch up.

His hand is almost tingling. It's been a long time since he's let anybody touch him.

He takes his coffee back to his room and glances - just for a moment - at the room two doors down. 407. Pax. Callistos' lip quirks up in a glimmer of a smile.

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End Notes: I hesitate to call Pax a caretaker exactly, because he's also taking care of himself, but if nothing else Callistos is getting himself a fellow-traveler of sorts (...and maybe a lil' crush). Pax is transmasc and probably non-binary - so far he strikes me as a he/they/not-opposed-to-neopronouns-if-the-mood-is-right sort.