Spoilers: Nup. By the by, anyone know the actual canon ages that all the Rafi/Danny/foster care stuff happened? I'm just making it up... And the age difference between Danny and Rafi? Guessing again...

Disclaimer: Fortunately for all involved, I own neither WAT nor any alcohol. I write enough crap and I don't drink. Imagine my drunken ramblings... I shudder at the prospect. Named after the Clash song, vaguely.

Author's Note: Respective characters' ages are in italics at the top of each section, in case anyone was curious about the randomly placed numbers.

Well, everyone's really sympathetic and forgiving about Martin's addiction, and Danny's, but Rafi is always the bad guy for his. Thought I'd throw a spanner in the works – have some fun. Good start to the New Year, too!

Danny

Sixteen

On his worst nights, Danny contemplated driving down to Hialeah. Taking the highway, or the freeway, or whatever the hell way got him from New York to Florida. He'd only ever driven it once, and he'd been too busy cursing Rafi's addiction. The irony there was that Danny had almost envied Rafi his addiction. Well, he'd envied him his oblivion, really; he'd hated him for his addiction.

But now Danny had an addiction of his very own. He wasn't stupid enough not to notice that, wasn't naïve enough not to notice; only he'd only ever admit it to himself when he was drunk beyond comprehension. When he was drunk enough to hate himself and not feel miserable about it.

When he was drunk enough to deny that his addiction was comparable to Rafi's, to their father's, to his current foster mother's. And drunk enough not to have the capacity to think about it for more than a few minutes at a time.

It was still surprising how easy it was to get alcohol at sixteen: from other foster kids, from certain bars, supermarkets with apathetic or familiar cashiers. Strangely enough, he'd never stooped to the level of stealing alcohol. Some of the stuff he bought from other kids was bound to be stolen, he knew, but he tried to stay away from that as much as possible. Stupid, really, that drinking at sixteen was fine as far as he was concerned, but stealing was a total no-go.

Everyone needed their limits, he supposed. Even junkies.

Fourteen

Even in the better homes it wasn't easy to relax without some fermented help. It was hard to relax anywhere, though, when your brother was in the next room killing himself. And one thing he'd learned over the years was that you don't confront junkies about their addictions.

Better for you if you just avoided them altogether, really. The hard thing was that Danny didn't want to avoid his big brother. Well, he didn't want to have to avoid him. Didn't want to feel sick every time he thought about Rafi's addiction: what Rafi did on dark street corners, in alleyways, in his bedroom, when he had one. Didn't want to picture him shot-up in public toilets in the middle of Miami. Couldn't stand the sight of his brother when he was high, or had the look that told Danny just what he intended on doing tonight.

The worst part was that Rafi didn't seem to notice. He had asked Danny for 'help' so many times he'd lost count.

I got a pick-up I can't make, hermano; I need some money, Danny – just this once; Just tell me if anyone's coming, yeah?

Danny never did any of those things. Not once. Rafi only ever resented him until his next fix, anyway. Then there were tears, apologies, shouting, laughter, whatever this dose seemed to demand. All on Rafi's part. The thing that Danny found strangely hard to believe, though, was that Rafi had never hurt him. Never smacked him or shoved him hard. He never hugged him, either. Not really, not like when they were kids: to make him feel better, safe, make sure he was okay.

Once, not long before they were separated, Rafi passed out across Danny's chest while he slept. He woke up to a god-awful pain and numb limbs. He'd checked Rafi's pulse before pushing him off and heading for the shower.

It occurred to him much later that he'd never wondered what Rafi was doing on his bed. Even then, he'd just put it down to drugged disorientation.

Rafi

Seventeen

Rafi woke up shivering. It wasn't cold – it was never cold in Florida – but he knew what it was. He needed a fix. Now. An hour ago. He searched the room with his eyes, not daring to move the rest of his body. He was almost surprised to find himself in a bed. In a bed that was, for all intents and purposes, his own. This must have been the first time in weeks. He'd found himself in dozens of places recently: alleyways, warehouse floors, once or twice in his dealer's bed. Even then, he'd been too high to really worry about that. As far as he figured it, as long as he got his fix without having to remember anything done to him, it was a good deal.

It had taken him a couple of weeks to convince himself of that.

He suddenly realised that his pillow was wet, his underwear soaked through. His stomach flipped and he gagged. He was sure that running to the bathroom was the most painful thing he'd ever done. He was vaguely surprised that he'd known where it was. He threw up, collapsed on the tiles and shut his eyes, panting. The tiles were cold against his side and his thigh, which he suddenly realised was bruised. Finger-shaped marks, and he didn't want to think about that. Couldn't really, anyway. Couldn't think of much but how much he wanted the drugs. No. How much he needed the drugs.

He swore aloud; English, Spanish, he didn't care, but his throat hurt like hell. Groaning in pain he grabbed the sink above his head and tried to pull himself up. His arms couldn't do it. He seemed to have doubled in weight, though he distantly knew that was ridiculous. He gasped as he hit the floor with a thud. The gasp hurt more that the fall. Still shivering, he dragged himself to the tub.

It took him five tries to turn the tap, and at least as many to put his mouth to it. There was momentary relief as he felt the water go down, but only seconds later he retched again.

It had been two days. Two fucking days since his last fix, because his asshole dealer had been stupid enough to get arrested, only leaving Rafi enough for three days. He'd used it in two.

Rafi had no idea how long he laid on the floor, cursing his pain and his dealer in raspy, agonising words. Every time he tried to drink, he threw up again; every time he threw up, he just felt worse.

Eventually, he made his way back to his room.

Leaning heavily on the doorframe, he looked at the lump in the bed across from what he supposed was his. Had Danny always shared his room in this house? He had no memory of it, and they'd only been in the house for a fortnight at the most.

But his brother slept soundly, a fuzz of overgrown hair, a frown on the child's face. Rafi choked, but this time for an entirely different reason. Oddly, his immediate sense of guilt came from the fact that someone should have cut his hair. Danny didn't like it long, had always said that it tickled his ears. Rafi had always teased him and told him that it was just because he had big ears. The memory hit him with unexpected clarity and he heard himself sob.

Didn't register movement or pain, but suddenly found himself half-sitting on his brother's bed.

Silent sobs added to his shivers, to the point where he was surprised that Danny didn't wake up. But he didn't, so Rafi put his hand on the overgrown hair, shifted to wrap himself around his small brother, like Mama used to do when Rafi was a kid.

He buried his face in Danny's hair, hand worrying it of its own accord. Danny's hair was wet with tears after a few minutes.

"I'm sorry, little brother," he groaned through the pain in his throat. "Danny. Lo siento."

He kept muttering nonsense apologies, confessions, pleas. He hugged his brother as tightly as he could, Danny's shoulder blades hurting his chest, his own arms aching with the effort, and Danny was too skinny. No one was taking care of his baby brother. He had. He'd taken care of him for so long. And then one day he'd just stopped. He hated himself for it.

Rafi was arrested the next morning.

It wasn't an accident.

Review for the New Year?