[1-2-3] DEALER'S CHOICE 1/4: ANACRUSIS

[threedimensions]

Dimensions: [1-2-3]
Timeline: August – December 2005
Title: Dealer's Choice 1/4: Anacrusis
Summary: Of Brandon's relationship with drugs; the beginning.
~4.1k
Notes: anacrusis - one or more unstressed notes before the first bar line of a piece or passage

>Warnings

The first time, it's easy. It's nothing.

Lindsey finds out that he has pot, and not just a joint or two, but half an ounce in his top dresser drawer—Dad trusts him enough not to have to dole it out a little at a time. He's been in a near-constant state of pleasurable haze for the last year and a half and doesn't ever want it to end, and why not share with a friend? He doesn't have a scale or anything and doesn't care enough to try to go get Dad's, so when she hints around and then hesitatingly asks if he might sell her some, he just rolls a couple of joints with the little contraption he'd gotten recently and passes them over to her, grinning back at the way her face lights up and she snatches them out of his hand.

The next day, instead of so-casually sighing that she wished she knew anyone that could—or would—sell her some, she asks him if he has any more and if he can spare it, would he mind? Nah, Brandon says magnanimously, and although he makes a show of getting a chunk out of the large bag he has stored, he notices this time how she takes the next two joints without a thanks, tucking them away in her sunglasses case in her purse, and then she eyes the joint he'd already got out for them to share. She doesn't offer money and she doesn't offer to light one of 'hers' once his is gone.

This is new territory, so he does the second thing he usually jumps on when he needs to know something; as information online about selling drugs is so convoluted, depending on quality and location—and he's not fully sure how much he can trust any of it (one person he knows online has mentioned getting an eighth for twenty dollars before, another has said she pays thirty, yet another pays eighty)—he needs real experience and none of his few friends in town smoke or know where to get it. So, he goes to his dad.

He's asked him once before how much it costs, and Dad had only waved a hand at him and said not to worry about it. He doesn't know where he gets it from, either, and while David knows that Dad smokes it, Brandon and his dad have unspokenly agreed that he doesn't need to know that he's sharing. Brandon doesn't give a shit what David knows or tries to do—he only doesn't care that Dad does because he enables it (going so far as to oversigning his periodic urine tests at the hospital), like he enables other shit Dad is dependent on him for.

(Like the pills they both think he doesn't know about. Finding one taped to the back of his own computer monitor was interesting. Trying it out and fucking flying for a period of time he still wasn't sure about was interesting. Eavesdropping on Dad and David's whispered argument later when David accused him of finding it and Dad's insistence that he didn't, but that he wished he'd had, because it was bad today and just get him another fucking one, you withholding manipulative shithead, was tiring more than anything else, because that was like day fucking six hundred of the same shit between them. He'd briefly wondered if he should feel guilty for taking it, but like hell he was going to leave it there and make David think he could come into his room and hide shit from his dad there, and besides, he had more. David was an asshole, but he was a conniving asshole, and he wouldn't have chanced the hiding place if it was the only one he had. After their argument got louder and Dad's comments got more and more cutting, clearly in pain and verbally biting David whenever he said anything else, he did apparently produce another one, so what the fuck?)

Brandon does see the logic in not necessarily flaunting it in front of David, though, so he heads to the hospital around lunchtime on a weekday, stopping at a nearby deli to grab a few sandwiches and chips. He goes right up to his dad's office and finds him alone, glaring at his computer, but his scowl turns to surprise and the hint of a grin when his son lets himself in and plops down in the armchair to the side of the desk, not in front of it like a patient or some dipshit colleague. Brandon tosses him one of the sandwiches and a bag of chips, then puts his wet, slightly muddy from the drizzle outside shoes up on one of the chairs. Dad sees him but doesn't care, biting into the reuben and leaning back in his own chair.

He jumps in—Dad has no patience for hints and pokes and small talk and beating around the bush (which he sometimes calls 'dancing around the dark wet hole'). Brandon doesn't come to the hospital that much any more anyway, and yeah, he could have just been bored, but he's here for a reason, and he knows that his dad already knows it.

"What's a good price for the pot you get me?" he asks.

Dad considers one of his Doritos and the bumps and grooves on it, the distribution of cheese powder. "You're not out already."

"What if I am?"

"That would be...slightly impressive."

"It would be majorly impressive," Brandon corrects, and Dad snorts.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks then.

"I'm curious and I looked online, but I didn't find anything I think I can trust." Quick and honest without giving it all up right away, with a hint of flattery thrown in for good measure.

"Hm. Good. So you went local—smart." Right back atcha, kid. "Are you asking academically or do you actually have a reason for wanting to know?"

Brandon sees the bait nestled within the choice; a two-option answer often was, versus an open-ended question. "You want to give me a consult on this, and then I'll fill you in?"

David thought that their 'conversational negotiations', as he called them, were immature and ridiculous. Brandon loved them; it hadn't taken him long to realize that Dad was teaching him how to get what he wanted, even with others that were as smart, as quick, and as difficult as he could be. You want to as a question was an order framed as an option, cemented by the promise to give the information he was asked for only after his own question was answered or direction performed. It didn't matter who had asked first, but it gave the illusion of the other person being in charge of the conversation, which, as Dad said all the time, was key: make someone think that what you wanted them to do was their idea and within their control, and you could puppetmaster the little marionettes for as long as you wanted.

"Thinking of going Drug Lord on me?"

"Nah." Brandon grins. "I think I'd prefer Kingpin, actually."

Dad shrugs. "Whatever toots your scoot. George Jung you're not, though. You need more for yourself, that's fine."

Of course, as he's gotten older, Dad doesn't let him win nearly as easily anymore. He isn't going to tell him unless he gives him the reason he wants to know, but that's fine—he's planned on telling him anyway. And the for yourself already tells him that he's suspecting.

Brandon shrugs while he pops the last bit of his sandwich in his mouth, chews thoroughly, swallows, drinks some of his soda. The deliberate pause that he controls puts the conversation back in his own hands, giving him the ability to break it when he wants or to force someone else to break it. Of course, Dad is letting him have that, which in reality puts him in control, because he won't break it. Sometimes, winning is knowing when you aren't going to win and backing off for the time being, to keep it in mind for another day. Why dig in and put forth effort into a lost cause? Recognize when someone else has a better hand than you do.

Still, the practice is good.

"Sort of for me," he says. "I gave Lindsey some the other day—just a little, which was fine. She offered to pay, but I didn't say anything about it because it was just two joints and she's my friend, so I figured, what the hell, right?"

Dad just looks at him benignly, waiting for him to go on. Not disapproving, but not giving him the approval he could have keeps him in control, forcing Brandon to keep talking and showing more and more of his own cards. He still counts it as a win when he knows exactly what his dad is doing, though, so it's fine.

"But then yesterday," he goes on, "she asked again. So at first I was like...okay...I gave her a couple more. But then I was watching her. She grabbed them up and put them away in her bag, didn't say anything about money, and stared at mine until I passed it back to her. Then when it was gone, she suddenly had to leave when earlier—when she first texted me to hang out—she said she had nothing to do the whole day. Now I'm like...fucking forget that. I'm happy to help out a friend, but if that's all she wants me for, I'm shutting that shit down right now and we can go from there."

Dad snorts. "Yeah. Good plan. Welcome to the world of fucking moochers. You got something they want, especially if you're nice enough to give 'em an inch, and they'll trample you all the way to the next mile."

"Uh huh."

Something pops up on Dad's computer, and he glances at it, reading it quickly before making a face and then rolling his eyes. "Go on home," he says, sounding irritated now. "I'll talk to you about it later."

He will tell him, help him figure it out, Brandon is sure, but what is he supposed to do in the meantime? Dad sometimes doesn't get home until after four, and Lindsey's school lets out at two-thirty; she often shows up at their apartment around three. He can try to set a price himself, but he isn't confident enough to be fair to himself without going overboard due to the conflicting answers he's found earlier. He could confront her about it, but he doesn't have enough information right now to go on from her reaction to that.

"Okay," he says, getting up and gathering their lunch wrappers. He'll figure something out.

By the time Lindsey shows up, right on time, he's almost satisfied with his solution; he's hidden away the bigger bag in a backpack in the hall closet and has put only a few chunks into another quart-sized bag from the box in the kitchen. When she suggests to smoke up (or, her way of doing that, which is to wistfully say that the music he's put on would sound amazeballs while high, it would be awesome to watch him play his guitar while baked too), he can pull that out and show how little he has "left", graciously grinding it and cleaning it and rolling a joint to share. He won't have any to "spare" this time, not that isn't out of the rest of his stash.

They go through all of this exactly like he thought they would, and he watches her out of the corner of his eye as he brings out the large, nearly empty bag and gets out his grinder, papers, and roller. She'll either not comment on it and take the hint, or she'll force him to lie, and if he does, whose fault is that?

"Whoa," she says softly, checking out the bag as he moves his keyboard to clear a space on his desk and assembles the paraphernalia. "Dude, like...did you blaze all of that yourself? Impresh."

"This? Nah," he says casually, twisting the grinder back and forth, listening to the stems breaking. "Sold the rest. Held this back." He indicated the remaining chunk. "I'm going to go hang with Adam later, so I'm going to take this then."

"Oh...cool." Lindsey relaxes back on his bed, leaning against the wall as she toes her shoes off. Now that she knows he's only got a little to split, she won't grab it and run, at least. He wonders if she has a boyfriend or something that she's been taking it to—not that that was a problem, he was doing the same thing. "So hey, how's it going with him?" she asks.

"Good," he says, and then he frowns slightly at the ground weed between the metal teeth, partly trying to decide if it's fine enough or if he should give it another few turns, and partly unsure that he wants to bring it up. "I think."

"Uh oh," she says knowingly. "I told you 'bi-curious' was code for 'he wants you to touch his junk but he isn't going to touch yours'."

"Listen," he says, as he dumps the pot on the desk surface and begins sorting out the stems and seeds, slightly annoyed that she's, apparently, right. "He's really hot. And he doesn't refuse, he's...unsure. That's what the 'curious' part means. How's anyone that's questioning ever supposed to figure it out if they can't try in their own time? And he's at least a good kisser, so there's that."

"So, he'll make out with you but stays above the equator?" When he looks at her, she points at her hips and wiggles them a little.

Brandon makes a face and returns his attention back to the roller as he gets the joint ready for the paper. "I guess."

Lindsey snorts. "So you're going to get him real high and see if it goes farther? Tricksy, my precious."

He pauses long enough to give her the finger. "Fuck off, I'm not tricking anyone into anything. I mean, yeah, it'll probably help loosen him up a little bit...but if he doesn't want to, I'm not making him. He's just going really slow, which...is fine." He leans forward to lick the paper and seal it closed as he rolls it back and forth a few more times. As he turns around in his chair, Lindsey scoots forward eagerly to the edge of his bed. He lights it and they pass it back and forth quickly while he clicks up some music to put on—a playlist of old grunge/alternative/90s shit that's mostly the popular singles, which is all she likes of that era.

"Do you think he's straight?" she asks then.

"Huh? Adam?" Brandon shrugs. "No. Not totally. He does get really into making out. And last weekend..." He trails off, realizing that he hasn't told her this yet. Tough to share updates on his new relationship with his best friend when she smokes up and cuts out three days in a row.

"Oh my god, what?"

Now she's interested, now she sounds more like his friend again, like someone that's seeing him versus free weed. He's probably being overdramatic about it, but he can't fucking stand it when people aren't grateful for what they're given. He hasn't wanted to admit, perhaps, that he was a little hurt before when he tried to talk to her about Adam and she kept steering the conversation toward more pot. He'd been high enough himself that he could successfully keep it from actually getting to him. Mostly. He thinks it says something now that she's back to her normal self when he only has this much to share versus a giant bag to apparently give out willy-nilly, but he isn't exactly sure what it is.

Either way, he has a little fun for the time being telling her about making out with Adam last weekend, when he'd gotten up the courage to go under his shirt and play with his nipples for almost half an hour, something Brandon hadn't realized he'd like so much. By the time they've finished the joint, he hears the front door and knows that Dad is home, and he excuses himself out to the living room to gauge what sort of mood he's in. If he's chill, Brandon will go back to his room and test how much longer Lindsey will hang out without anything to smoke, and if he's not, well, he feels okay about using it now.

Dad is supremely irritated about something, which works. "Hi Dad. Yell at me," Brandon invites.

"Piss off," Dad says shortly, half-serious but not nearly loud enough.

Brandon decides to goad him into letting out some of whatever's bothering him in his second most often used method of reacting to the world, of ranting versus becoming morose and refusing to talk (though he uses that more when David is around, which makes Brandon feel smug). "Make me," he says.

Dad gives him a look, trying to figure out what he's doing, and he's not just irritated but upset about something, so Brandon relents a little.

"I want Lindsey to leave," he explains quietly. He's been enjoying their conversation and the attention and doesn't want to tell her himself or to outright lie about his father's mood, but she'll leave any of their friends' houses if there are arguments, particularly when they involve parents vs. teenagers, and he won't have to lie if she does all of the assuming on her own. He doesn't have a problem lying if it suits him, but he much prefers to mold and influence a situation so that it works out for him without such directness.

"Your goddamn little friend is going to leave whether you want her to or not," Dad says loudly. "You think you don't have shit to do other than sit around all night? You think someone else is just going to do everything for you? Get your head out of your ass."

Brandon gives him an appreciative thumbs up; not only is this what he wanted, but it gives him a bit of a clue as to why Dad is so pissed off. He's grumbled before about others in his department sitting around basically jacking off all day while he actually spends the time to dig into patient files and figure out how to treat the delicate ones, the difficult ones, the ones near death.

Brandon goes back to his room and sees Lindsey already tying up her shoes. "Sorry," he says carelessly. He doesn't mind if any of his friends think that his dad is a grouchy old fuck—to be fair, he kind of truly is—but as long as they take it as gospel, he can use it whenever he wants.

"No prob," she says quickly, standing up and tossing her purse strap over her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, maybe?"

"Um, text me first."

"Okay."

Annnnnnd, she's gone.

Brandon sees her out and goes immediately to the kitchen, grabbing a beer for his dad and another soda for himself. He gives to get; he gives the beer, and he gives sympathetic silence while he listens to his dad bitch about how he'd gotten interrupted from their lunch with another pointless directive from the dean, which had led to his discovering that Blake had gotten the go-ahead to hire yet another fellow that would follow him around like an anxious duckling and try to do all of his work while he napped in his office and chased nurses and only deigned to see any of his patients for five minutes at a time.

When Dad is down to grumbles and mutters, he remembers their midday conversation and realizes that Brandon's waiting for it to continue, and he gives him a considering look. "How'd you handle it until I got back?" he asks.

Brandon shrugs nonchalantly. "Moved most of it to a new location, put a couple of quarter-sized chunks and some crumbs into a new bag and stuck that in my drawer. Told her I sold the rest and that one of the chunks was for when I see Adam later."

Dad grunts. "What'd she say to that?"

Brandon knows that he means about the pot, not about his boyfriend. (Dad doesn't care about that.) "Nothing, really."

"She got money?"

"Some, I don't know how much—she always has enough to pay for herself if we get food or go somewhere. She had no problem paying me back for her Metallica ticket last year."

"How much you think she's going to want?"

"She was happy with two joints...though, from the way she grabbed them right out of my hand, I bet she'd want more. And she wanted more than the two, like, a day later."

Dad nods, tipping his beer bottle up until it's empty. He shakes it at Brandon, who nods back but doesn't get up yet. Dad puts it on the table and leans back, using both hands to carefully move his prosthetic leg into a more comfortable position. It's not that Dad wants the money from it; he's probably more trying to gauge how much faster he's going to have to supply if Brandon now has his own demand. He gives him a few ideas, a short range, clarifying the low end with 'if you're feeling generous' and the high end with 'if they piss you off'.

He says 'they', so Brandon takes that to mean that Lindsey doesn't have to be the only one. He can do what he wants with what's given to him; he always could.

So he does. Lindsey is surprised when he mentions that he's gotten more "in", and starts off with the high end of the price spectrum; but she's more surprised that he's going to charge her versus the price itself, so while he can lower it, give her a "friend discount" or some shit, he decides to let it ride. It's good shit and she doesn't complain—in fact, she has all of the cash on her—so he doesn't feel bad about starting out high. He sort of wishes he'd started out higher, just to test the limit, but the bar has been set, and he can always experiment later with "this shit's better than what I had before" or "this is all I've got and someone else already asked, but I thought I'd see if you needed first". It's not like he needs the money, either—Dad will give him cash or just buy him whatever he asks for—but it's weirdly nice to have some that he gets himself.

Lindsey leads to her older brother Sean and his girlfriend, then a couple of Sean's friends and a friend or two of their friends. Four months later, the single joints and the eighths and quarters and odd half-ounce that he's been selling off have turned to enough cash that he doesn't need his dad's supply any more—which is good, as the last time when Brandon asked him if he could get two whole ounces for him had gotten him a raised eyebrow in return before he got it it—and he has his own contact for increasingly larger amounts, his own clientele.

He likes being the guy, everyone's contact. He likes having a constant supply of both drugs and cash. He likes going all around the city by himself, the frequent texts and messages sending him even to Southie on occasion, which is not his territory and he knows it, the adrenaline keeping him sharp and on point lest he be noticed by the wrong entity.

He likes being stoned almost every minute he's awake, he likes hanging out with strangers and smoking up and meeting more people and getting deeper in it. He likes the culture and the language of the heavy hitters, he likes the power that he holds over so many of them—even the older ones, the ones his father's age, and he's only fifteen. Most of them don't know that, though—he says he's between seventeen and twenty, depending on who's asking, and he picks up quickly how to hold himself and how to speak to fit it in each group. He learns his audiences, how to read their language and how to speak it. He's good at this. It's exhilarating, non-stop; he adjusts to new situations, he adapts, and he goes up and up. Higher seemingly without a limit.

He's the guy, and he can see no future other than right now. It's all that matters.