Alcoholics Anonymous

A/N: Been up for 45 hours straight. This came to me. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: All characters and concepts are mine. If you recognize something, however, chances are I don't own it. And just to clue you in: No, I'm not Bill Gates.
Warning: Male/male, hardcore homosexual situations, minor (25-16), language, satire, incestual sensitivity (adopted father/son).

.::|::.


Irritation.

That's the emotion I'm feeling at this moment. There's no underlying exasperation, no hidden malice behind my facial expression. Just pure, unadulterated, irritation.

It's like when you have a massive fucking headache, and you can't find the Tylenol. And then, once you do find the Tylenol, you have to open the box 'cause it's brand-new. And then once you open the box, the pills are sectioned into single foil packets. Like some twisted misinterpretation of a condom - only, you take headache medicine after you feel like shit. So you have to fold along the perforated lines, which is nearly impossible, because there's usually eight sections, in two rows and four columns. Not like you can just rip off one of the sections. After dicking around for five minutes doing that, you see the 'peel here' in the corner. Well fuck me, I should just be able to pop it through the damn foil and have at it. But no, it's all a conspiracy. To get you so frustrated that your headache gets worse, so that not only one pill doesn't work, you now have to take two. And then you're pissed that you have to take two, so you may as well take four. And then either you overdose, or you go to the store to buy another fucking box.

That's the kind of irritation I'm feeling right now. And I just can't help but feel like I could use a Tylenol right now - if not a Tylenol, then maybe a bottle of Grey Goose. Can't get any classier than that.

"Are you even listening to me, Dorian!?"

I blink, and return to the present. Oh, right. The source of my irritation.

She's a wretched old hag, looking to be in her mid-fifties and probably a bible-thumper. She's from the South, or so I can only assume. And perhaps I should know by now, that I shouldn't make assumptions. They're usually wrong. But for some reason I don't think I am, in the case of Mrs. Blackburn. Her grey hair is pulled back into an impossibly tight bun and her dentures are slightly yellow, like she sometimes falls asleep with them in her mouth and therefore forgets to let them sit overnight in alkaseltzer or whatever. She always has an apron over the ugliest clothing I have ever laid eyes on; you know that girl that sat in the back of the classroom, the strange one that you know lets her grandma dress her? The girl that speaks in tongues occasionally and has a super freaky laugh that makes you wanna vomit into the nearest trash bin. Or maybe on her, even. That's how Mrs. Blackburn dressed. I always wondered how she came to be Mrs. Blackburn. I've never seen Mr. Blackburn before in the whole five years I've been living in this apartment complex.

As such, Wicked Witch of West Seattle is my landlady.

"Of course I am, Mrs. Blackburn," I say, mustering up the most suave, charming voice I can. I'm still irritated, though.

She points a gnarled, knobby finger in my face, and I recoil to avoid having her yellow fingernail touch me. God, please, spare me the contagious wrinkles and liver spots!

"You have one week to get that rent check in to me!" With that, she spun on the heel of her ratty loafers and stalked down the hallway towards the elevator. Thank God I lived on the top floor, and she lived on the bottom.

I sigh and shut the door, dead bolting it and doing the chain as well. I don't want to risk her oogly ways.

"Do you think she knows that rent isn't even due until next week?" Says a voice from the kitchen, and I smile at my son fondly.

Yes, you heard me. Son.

When I was just nineteen, I had already been living out on my own for a few years, kicked out by my parents' discretion. Apparently they didn't want a homosexual polluting their air - to which I replied "Hello? We're in Seattle! The most artsy, fruity fuckin' city on the West Coast! You're breathin in gay like SARS in China!". Yeah, obviously that argument didn't get me too far. Not like it mattered, though. At the tender age of sixteen I dropped out of school and started working as an errand boy for a restaurant, when I got an offer to be a secretary over at Microsoft. They loved my charisma, and despite the fact I was a dropout I am highly intelligent with computers, so soon I started an internship. I graduated that with flying colors and was rolling in the dough, when I realized perhaps I needed someone to share it with. And not a boyfriend or a life-partner, as those tend to be money-mongering slutbags. No, like... a son. And so I finally got my hands on Mikhail, a shy and slightly reserved ten year old boy fresh from Russia, and claimed him as my son. That way, I could dote my money upon him and he'd have to accept it - as his father, it was my job to give him things and love him endlessly. That's all I wanted: someone to spoil, someone to take care of.

"I don't think the bat remembers her own name, sometimes," I say as I move to the bar and grab a small crystal glass, as well as a bottle of Disaronno. "I'm surprised she remembers mine."

"Well, she screams it enough, I should think she'd remember," Mikhail says a bit distractedly. He's sitting at the dining room table, text books and the like spread all around him as he does his homework.

I wince slightly, "Normally I'd be flattered that someone screams my name so much they can't forget my name, but in her case, I think I'll settle for slightly horrified, followed with the sudden wish that she might call me David, or Danny."

Mikhail laughs softly, and I let my steel grey eyes wander over to him as I put everything away and take a sip of my poison. He doesn't know that I'm gay. The adoption agency doesn't know that I'm gay. The majority of people I know, don't know I'm gay. After telling my parents, I decided to avoid anymore conundrums by just keeping it to myself. Besides, no one asks. I am almost a millionaire, suave and debonair; most assume I'm just a sexy bachelor not wanting to settle down. And I'm okay with them thinking that. Assume away, general populace. Assume away.

I move to sit at the rectangular table, directly across from Mikhail, watching him idly as I sip my drink and he absorbs himself in the world of arithmetic. He looks nothing like me; it's obvious he's adopted.

He's slender and athletically toned, due to his love of soccer and swimming. His hair is a dark brown and choppy and scruffy, no matter how many times I've taken him to an upscale salon to try and tame it, and his eyes are a stunning emerald green. His skin is slightly tanned from being outside all of the time, and he has a naturally straight, white, gorgeous smile.

I, on the other hand, am like the light to his dark. I've got platinum blond hair, wavy, that reaches just past my ears. My body isn't toned but it isn't out of shape, more like I kept the adolescent muscles that a boy gains automatically through puberty. Though I've defined them somewhat, I don't fancy the gym, and either hole up in my office or spend my time with my son. My eyes are a really crisp color, not quite blue but not quite grey. Sometimes I get the comment 'you look like Draco Malfoy!' and can't decide if I'm flattered or insulted. The kid's a twit. And my smile, well, I was a brace-face in high school so they're straight and white and pearly, but I don't think my smile is anything too particular.

I may act all charming and smooth and sophisticated, but it's just a show. Only Mikhail knows the real me - slightly clumsy, aloof, and charismatic.

Mikhail lets out a soft sigh and drops his pencil, rubbing at his temples as he stares at his math book. Unlike me, he's quite serious about school, and is getting ready to apply for Harvard - even though he's sixteen. Sometimes it baffles me to think that nearly ten years ago when I was in his place, I was dropping school like it didn't matter and moving on with my life. But Mikhail, he has dreams, aspirations. He wants to be a biochemist. I'm not quite sure what a biochemist does, and despite his countless attempts to get me to understand, even a little bit, it's all still a bit lost on me.

General technological genius I am - but, like every other computer nerd, put me out in nature and the like and I might as well gnaw my own hand off.

"Need some Tylenol?" I ask, and then think back to my mental tirade earlier about Tylenol. No, no. Not good. "Or how about a glass of juice?" Ah, better.

"Yeah," Mikhail says distractedly, and then pushes himself away from the table to go into the kitchen and grab a glass from the cupboard, and then opens the fridge and pours himself some grape kool-aid.

Rich as we may be, we have wholesome values. Such as Chinese take-out and kool-aid.

Or we're just useless, single men living alone. Take your pick. I personally have an image to uphold, so be nice.

As he sits back down at the table, I take another sip of my liqueur.

"Test?" I inquire, wondering why he's stressing out even slightly over his homework.

"Yeah, final exams are tomorrow before Spring break," he responds, albeit a bit distracted as he sips on the purple drink and then sets the cup down to the side. Apparently juice was the trick, as he picks up his pencil and starts scrawling in his notebook once more.

"Ah, right." I almost forgot that Spring break was next week. "Did you want to do something this year?"

It was just Spring break, but any vacation Mikhail got, I tried to weasel him into going on a trip, or doing something fun. He always denied, though, preferring to stay in town with his friends and whatnot. Which is okay with me, but you know, I'd like him to let me spoil him every once in a while.

But, just as every time before, he glances up, smiles, and shakes his head.

I'd say it's disappointing, but it's really not. I think it's endearing that he's so modest, even though I try to spoil the rotten hell out of him. He doesn't let me. I'm glad. I would hate to have a spoiled brat that demanded something every two seconds, especially expensive somethings.

"Well," I say, standing up and picking up my glass of poison and taking a drink, making my way over to Mikhail and kissing him on the top of his head. "Don't stay up too late. Early bird gets the worm~"

He laughs and brushes me away, as if embarrassed that I kissed him. I pout slightly, but retreat to my bedroom, intending on finishing my drink while watching late night television before passing out.

From tiredness, not alcohol.

I'm not an alcoholic.

.::|::.

I wake up, but I'm not sure why. My alarm hasn't gone off yet, and it's still dark outside, and I'm caught in that limbo where you're disoriented and not quite sure what's going on. It's either early morning or later at night, but I could swear that I've been asleep for hours. Or maybe I had just laid down. If it's one of those weird hours where it could be morning or evening, like 5 or 6, then it's really fuckin' confusing. I hate this state.

A warm, heavy pressure on my chest alerts me that someone is in my bed. I blink and squint, but it's useless 'cause it's dark in my room and I can't see shit without my glasses. But then I come to the rational explanation that it's Mikhail, since he's the only one that would come into my room in the middle of the night and sleep in my bed.

Not that he's done it before. I'm genuinely surprised. Even when I first adopted him, he established his independence and declared that he wouldn't be sleeping in my bed, for anything.

Oho, Mikky, looks like you lost your own bet.

Letting out a breath, I find my arms are wrapped protectively around him. My son, my angel, my Mikhail. He's my everything. And maybe I'm his, too.

"Ngh..." he groans in his sleep, and I can't help but think it's the cutest sound I've ever heard in my life. It makes me wish that I could have gotten to see him when he was a child; I imagine he was much like this. "Dorian..."

I blink, and my heart nearly stops. Mikhail only says my name in serious matters - like, when we're in a fight. It was his way of reminding me that I'm not his biological father, whenever I got too out of hand with him. And yes, I admit that I get overzealous. I just want what's best for my kid, you know?

But the way he says it... all breathy and hot, the puff of his breath washing over my neck. God, it was sinful. So sinful on precisely three levels.

Homosexuality.

Pedophilia.

And the clincher: incest. Even though we're not blood related, the prospect of 'father son bonding' just flashed through my mind in a very, very lewd way.

Gently, I start to shift and push him away slightly, and he gives a groan of protest in his sleep, latching on to me like a koala, limbs and arms and feet and hands and ohmyGod he's got an erection.

Okay okay okay. Calm down. He's a hormonal teenager. For whatever reason he got into bed with you, he did it and you have to live with it, because you're a good father and you'll do anything to take care of your son.

... Agh, he's humping!

If anyone in the outside world saw me flailing and struggling silently, nearly hysteric in my moment of trying to flee the situation, they would have said I have an eccentric weirdo twin that acted like he needed another hit of speed in the next ten minutes or else he's going to fucking freak out.

That's about what I feel like, right now.

Finally, through my vain attempts at struggling, bleary emerald eyes crack open, and it's ridiculous that I can tell they're open since my room is so God damn dark. I don't remember closing my blinds; then again, I don't remember opening them, either.

"Dad...?" He asks, his voice cracking slightly and thick from sleep.

I swear to God my swallow echoed in the room, but Mikhail merely sat up a bit on his elbows and blinked at me in slight confusion.

"You okay?" He licks his lips and yawns, stretching his arms over his head as he flops back down on the pillows, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be here.

In my bed.

Wearing just his boxers.

I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow, letting out an annoyed, muffled grunt.

I'm irritated, yet again.

Of course Mikhail doesn't have those thoughts. Impure ones. About other men, that is, I could care less if he had a girlfriend or something. Good job son, I'd say, make me some grand-babies.

But right now he's acting as if he belongs in this bed; as if it were normal for him to wake up in my arms.

It, decidedly, is not where he belongs.

Grunting again, I roll my head to the side to see his green eyes sparkling in the dark. And it's not a mirthful sparkle, an amused smile - no, his eyes just seem to... glitter. For no reason. Happy, sad, angry, petulant, his eyes were always shining.

"I need a drink," I mumble, scooting out of the bed, briefly getting tangled in the blankets. This ends in me huffing in annoyance and clawing at the sheets to try and get them unwrapped from my legs, but this fails, and I sail face-first into the carpet. At least it's soft carpet. The kind you could lay on and nuzzle and inhale and run your fingers through and act like you're on ecstasy when you're not because it feels that good. It's a deep blue with deeper purple and blue fern patterns. I love it.

"Dad, it's three in the morning," I hear Mikhail say, and I let out yet another grunt.

Irritation.

It's an irritating emotion.

"Therefore still night time, not morning, so I'm gonna pour me some scotch."

My logic isn't skewed, and I'm not an alcoholic.

.:;|::.

Today when Mikhail left for school, he gave me the strangest look. Granted, I was sitting at the dining room table, cigarette dangling from my mouth, chin resting in my hand, elbow on the table, and a glass of Disaronno in the other hand. I poured it, but I didn't drink it. The cigarette had barely been puffed and the ashes were falling into the ash tray. My 5 o'clock shadow was starting to come in. My hair was a mess. My eyes had bags around them and were slightly sunken in.

Perhaps I looked like I was dead, because he had come over to take the unsmoked cigarette from my lips and stub it out in the ash tray, which made me turn my glance to him slowly. He had given a small, concerned smile, but I'm sure once he realized that yes I was indeed alive, he grabbed his backpack and headed to the bus stop.

He insists he rides the bus to school, even though I could easily take him. Just three more weeks until he gets his license.

Once he shut the door behind him, I let my body slide down in the chair until I was slouched in it something horrid. My robe was open with my bare chest exposed, pajama pants slung low on my hips, fuzzy bunny slippers on my feet.

I'm like that when he gets home from school six hours later.

"Dad?"

"'M not an alcoholic," I protest, letting my eyes fall to the still full scotch glass.

"I know you're not, dad," he says, and I register that he's sitting next to me, concern flashing in his beautiful, sparkling eyes.

See, what I've been pondering all day, is... why is my son so beautiful? Why is he so young? Why is he my son?

"Are you okay?"

His lips look soft, like a baby's bottom...

"I'm worried about you."

Maybe not like a baby's bottom, that makes me sound even more like a child molester. Like a freshly-baked creampuff, hot out of the oven, more like...

"You haven't moved since I left. Well, you kinda moved, but still."

Or maybe even like the carpet in my bedroom.

"And your scotch glass is full; something's definitely wrong."

No, that's a different kind of soft. Hmmm... what's the thing I'm thinking of?

"You're zoning out more than usu-"

"Rose petals."

Mikhail blinks confused, shimmering emerald eyes, and I smile all dope-like as he stares. "What?"

"Your lips look soft, like rose petals."

He raises a dark brow, not looking creeped out, but more... curious. I don't know if I should like seeing that look on my son's face.

"Dad." He finally says sternly, reaching out and slapping me lightly on the cheek. It wasn't like a 'you've been a bad whore, time to be punished' slap, more like a 'you're acting fucking weird, snap out of it' slap. And it worked, too.

I blink as if suddenly realizing where I am, and then sit up straight in the chair, wincing at the kinks in my back as I push the glass of scotch away from me and scratch at my straw-colored locks in thought. A big yawn, and then I smile brightly at the brunet sitting next to me.

"Hey son, how was school?"

Now there was a look of confused exasperation on his face, and he threw his arms up as he let out a sigh of frustration and stood from his chair. "Dad, come on! Don't do that stuff to me, you had me worried!"

I stand as well, taking the opportunity to put my hands on my hips and twist my back from side to side, relishing in the popping sounds and the relieved feeling that flows through my muscles. Still grinning, I reach out and ruffle his hair.

"Naw, just a rough morning Mikky."

A light blush dusts his cheeks as he bats my hand away, and he glances off towards the side. Why the blush? It only makes him more alluring, my beautiful, perfect son...

"Don't do that, dad." He says, and I raise a brow before my smile turns mischievous.

"Oh? Do what?" I drawl innocently as I let my long legs carry me to his side, an arm draping over his shoulders as my free hand reaches up so I can pinch his cheek playfully. He's maybe three inches shorter than me.

"Agh, dad!" He cries out, and I decide I'd much rather hear him say my name again; when he's not mad and when he's not sleepy. "Don't do that, you big meanie!"

"D'awww," I say, bringing him closer into my body as I start to knuckle his head. "C'mon, don't wanna play with daddy?" I tease, and he wrestles out of my grip.

"Not like this!" Was what he said, and that made us both fall silent and stare at each other.

Er... what?

I blink and he blinks and a blush suddenly rises from his collar to his ears, and he growls in frustration before he stomps off towards his bedroom and slams the door behind him.

Left standing there, I blink stupidly into the space that he had just occupied.

Maybe I should become an alcoholic.

--
A/N: This is gonna be in 3 parts, so... yeah.
Just something to try and keep my brain active while I map out WRAW and Kicks.
Review please? :3

♥
Camui