The NotSoFine Line: Dustin I

(A/N: This story is a collaboration between me and one of my dear friends. It is, primarily, a character study, delving into the past of two role playing characters, and establishing the dynamic of their current relationship. As my friend does not have an account, I'll be posting my parts and her parts. They will alternate. All chapters written from Dustin's point of view are mine, and all chapters written from Rick's point of view are hers. Also, we have a terrible tendency to be rather overdramatic, but it's what we enjoy. That said, please feel free to give constructive criticism, and thank you for reading!)

By the time I was fifteen, I had become accustomed to the sharp pinch of a needle as it slid against the inner walls of the vein in the crook of my elbow. The nearly instantaneous rush of vitality and pleasure was my favorite feeling. I was addicted, and I knew it, but fuck if I cared. How could something that felt so damn good be bad? Trevor didn't seem to agree with me, though I don't really think a raging alcoholic should be allowed to say a damn thing about someone else's vices.

I don't blame him, though. I'm a fan of a nice cold beer, myself. And you know what goes best with a nice cold beer? Another beer.

Now, two years later, I've learned that age really doesn't make one damn bit of difference in a person's ability to make good decisions. I'm still making every bad decision I possibly can, and I'm still fucking loving it.

My name is Dustin Clark. I'm about five-foot-ten, with bright blond hair, some random, electric blue highlights added, just for fun. I enjoy v-necks, tight pants, high-top Converse All Stars, butterscotch schnapps, crack, amphetamines, girls…and boys. Sex is another one of my preferred vices. Not only does it burn energy, but it relieves stress, too. Don't believe me? Try it sometime.

My father is a strict, devout, but corrupt Catholic, as many Catholics are. He doesn't know that I'm as twisted as a pretzel. If my father were aware of my orientation, I'd probably be dead. Every time I come home drunk or high, I earn myself a few bruises. Lucky for my sorry ass, the old man works the night shift. So, when I get home…he's usually not there to beat me to hell.

But it doesn't bother me. As long as he never finds out about all the crazy gay sex I have, I should be able to keep living.

My mother, of course, turns a blind eye. Why should she care? Unless her own neck is on the chopping block, it isn't her problem, now is it? Call me disrespectful, but my mom? She's a fucking bitch.

There are two people that keep me grounded. My big sister, Clara, is a life saver. I'm not sure what I would do without her. Being five years older, she's usually away at college, but she does make holidays a welcome relief from my normal family dynamic.

Then, of course, there is the aforementioned Trevor. Trevor Jones is my best friend. I've known him since, literally, before I could speak. We went through elementary school together, and currently, we're struggling through the trials and tribulations of high school, supporting each other as best we can. It's difficult, considering we're both leading royally fucked up lives. Still, I wouldn't trade Trevor for all the sex, alcohol, and drugs in the world. I'd die for Trevor, and he'd do the same for me. At least…I think he would. It nags at me, you know? Every single day, I wonder if I can actually trust the people I trust. I walk on eggshells with everyone, thinking 'Careful, Dustin, they could turn on you at any second'.

If I had been as cautious in the past, with my father, I may have seen the nut-job abuse phase coming before it was too late, and I had to nurse a split lip in homeroom, using a mirror from the compact of the slutty girl sitting next to me. She'd give me anything. I'd taken it once. Don't be fooled. Just because they show more ass than a man in a loincloth, it doesn't mean they're good in bed.

I looked up at Trevor when his shoes appeared in my vision. "Hey," I grunted before looking back at the tiny mirror. I dabbed at my bloody lip with a tissue, cringing. A bloody lip distorting my fairly handsome face meant less sex. Less sex meant more stress, and more stress meant a general decrease in my bubbly nature.

Trevor raised an eyebrow, trying to look aloof, but I could see the concern in the expression. He was such a pussy. He got upset about everything when it came to me. Damn, sometimes it bothered me. But…mostly it just felt kind of nice to be worried about.

"What happened?" he asked me.

"Dad," I answered simply.

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously," he said. "I mean, what did you do to make your dad hit you?"

"He caught me shooting up," I replied, snapping the compact shut and tossing it to Miss Spread Legs. "No big deal."

His eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Last time he caught you shooting up, I had to take you to the hospital," he said. "How did you get off with just a bloody lip?"

I couldn't help but chuckle bitterly. "Oh, I didn't," I muttered. "I popped my shoulder back into place last night, my head stopped bleeding around two in the morning, and my ribs are shot to hell."

"Oh…" Trevor murmured, and I just nodded. "Maybe you should go to the nurse?" he suggested.

I shook my head. "No," I said firmly. "I'm just going to go to class, go home, shoot up, and everything will be just fucking perfect again." I scowled and stood as the bell rang. The moment I stepped into the hallway, I froze.

There stood Rick, the object of my every desire. My feelings for Rick were true as could be. I just didn't know how to go about expressing them. Therefore, I was outrageously forward, and acted like a total and utter fucktard whenever I tried to speak to him.

"Hey there, sexy," I said, waggling my eyebrows at him.

Rick just scowled.

I had never seen a more beautiful sight in my life…