Work Text:
Steve has fucked up. He generally doesn't smoke unless he's at home. He likes the security, the familiarity, it cushions him while his mind floats freely. And honestly, he doesn't want to have to think while high, to have to figure out the journey home.
But Cib offered him a joint, and he thought, Ah, what could it hurt, because it'd been a while since he had one, and his dealer hadn't been answering his messages, and he thought it probably wouldn't even hit until he got home.
A couple of blocks from his apartment complex, his mind had started getting fuzzy. He'd gotten lost, the area looking so different to him in his altered state. He followed a cat down a street and suddenly he didn't know where he was, and he was terrified. It only lasted about 5 minutes because he did eventually remember that he had the power of god and google maps on his side, but those 5 minutes left him shaken.
He arrived at the door of his complex bone-tired. He fumbled the key into the lock, admiring its smooth slide, then just stood for a moment with his head against the cool glass. He eventually remembered to turn it and push to open.
Doors were pretty weird, he mused, this line between in and out.
He stepped through and waited for the door to fall into place behind him, the click echoing in his mind.
He knew his apartment was in this building, but it felt lightyears away. He also felt a deep sense of security that he would find it, if only he always kept on his voyage.
He glanced along the hallway, then screamed and stumbled and fell backwards into a pile of limbs. He was unsure which parts of himself to control to untangle himself, and mostly preoccupied with fear of the figure that he'd seen, thin and tall and possibly slenderman. "I don't wanna die," he whispered to himself woefully, and scrunched his eyes shut tight, because he was pretty sure his stats were worse than slenderman's and word on the streets was that Steve was a coward and the streets were right, Steve did not want to face death head on. He didn't want to face anything head on, it was just that life kept fucking making him.
He heard footsteps approach him and he curled up tighter. "Just get it over with, man," he pleaded, but he was not brutally slashed in two or stabbed or touched at all. He peered through his fingers cautiously.
"You good, man?" the voice is smooth like caramel and Steve wants to lick it.
"You have a nicer voice than I thought you would," he muses out loud.
"Um, thanks, I think? Than you thought I would? I don't think I know you?" he's peering at Steve cautiously, and Steve doesn't like the way he's looking at him, because it makes him feel watched and small, and oh, he should probably stand up.
"Don't look at me like that, man," he says, putting one hand against the wall to steady himself as he gets up.
"I'm not- what? Dude, do you live here? Are you visiting someone?"
"Yes of course I live here, you fucking moron. If I didn't live here, I wouldn't be home right now, so I'd be leaving. Which I'm not."
The guy runs a hand through his floppy ginger hair and somehow does not look any less concerned. Steve does feel less like a puny ant that could be squished since he stood up though, so he fancies himself to have quite the strategic position.
"Are you high?" asks the guy and Steve stares at him.
"How did you know that, are you psychic?" He tries to not think about anything incriminating and immediately thinks of the time he surfed the dark net with Cib. "Fuck!" he whines and slaps his hand on his face. The guy's hand jerks in place, as though his body moved to stop Steve, like a marionette controlled by Steve's actions.
The guy sighs. "Alright. Okay. You're definitely high, and no, I'm not psychic. You're just acting weird as fuck, and your pupils are huge."
"That's fair, that's fair, but that's also what a psychic would say, if they were undercover!"
The guy ignores him. "What's your apartment number?"
Steve giggles. "You're asking me for my number?"
"Your apartment number. Where you live."
"I dunno, I usually only tell people where I live after a couple of dates. I'd go on a date with you if you asked. You're pretty cute." The guy's cheeks turn a bright red, like a particularly bad sunburn.
"I- Okay, you know what, you can figure this out yourself. This is not working. Good luck, man."
"No, don't leave," whines Steve, and he can feel his face crumble in a way that is entirely genuine but will hopefully make him look suitably pathetic and get the guy to stay. "I'm sorry, I'll be good. No hitting on you, noted."
"That's not what-" he stops himself.
Steve chews his lip for a second, then asks sheepishly, "so what was it that you wanted to know? Some kind of number?"
"Your apartment number, dude."
"Hmm… I think it's 64B. Something even for sure. I live down the hall from 69A if that helps."
"It does. That's the sixth floor, come on." The guy starts walking towards the elevator and Steve trails behind him like an obedient puppy.
"You're really nice," says Steve as the doors close. "I'm glad you didn't kill me."
The guy laughs. "Not very high standards you've got there, bud. But you're welcome."
"For the record, it wouldn't have been so bad if you had," Steve says, patting the guy in reassurance. The guy whips his head around and stares at him, mouth twisting. Steve doesn't know why he looks disapproving. He's fucked this all up. He fucks everything up.
Then the elevator dings, just like his microwave does, but he's never been in his microwave. An elevator isn't unlike a microwave, he thinks. The microwave transforms things too, like the elevator does, just thermally and not spatially. He could use some thermal transformation - he's feeling pretty cold, but unfortunately he wouldn't fit in his microwave.
The doors open to reveal a familiar corridor and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Wow. You're so smart! This is my floor!"
The guy puts a hand on the center of his back and pushes him gently along the hallway, like a shopping cart. "Yup, just like you told me," he mumbles.
"We make a good team, dude."
The guy hums in affirmation. "Alright, here we are. You have a good night, take care of yourself."
"Are you leaving?" Steve feels sad at the thought, he thought they were a team.
"Yeah, man, I gotta get to work. I might be late already."
Steve guesses that work is something that needs to be done. It's a compelling point.
Still- "Okay, but could you tuck me into bed real quick?"
The guy looks torn but then sighs and says, "Fuck it, just real quick. Open the door," and Steve does. His beloved beloathed little apartment spreads out in front of him, nooks and crannies filled with memories both bad and good and it makes Steve feel a little nauseous.
He suppresses it and toes off his shoes and pads gently to his bedroom, pulling the blanket aside and flopping onto the mattress fully clothed.
The guy steps into his bedroom tentatively, looking endearingly out of place. It brings a smile to Steve's face. He leans over Steve to pull the blanket over him, briefly forming a wall between Steve and the world. Steve snuggles in contentedly. "Thank you," he mumbles softly. "'Preshiate it."
"Yeah, no worries," says the guy, looking like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He waves at Steve "bye, um. Sleep well, hydrate and all that jazz. Im Apollo, apartment 12A. If you ever, um. Wanna talk to me when you're sober."
Steve hums in acknowledgement, but he only half registered that the guy had been talking to him, let alone the words. The door clicks into place behind him. Steve drifts into warm darkness.