faderift | [open & closed] and when that day comes

Lyrium doses are an every-few-days sort of thing, so Barrow has had a bit of lead-up to the time that he stops taking it. That day will be tomorrow, and experience has proven that it won't be awful, not immediately, but he's still considering it an official Day One. That means being in the infirmary, under observation, which is a hell of its own kind, as far as he's concerned.

So the night before, he takes himself out to the Loose Noose and proceeds to enjoy a generous portion of whiskey (of which, much like lyrium, he requires an enormous amount to even feel it). He's there alone, serenely playing solitaire by the fire, enjoying his last night of calm before the storm.

When he and Seeker Hart and Astarion fell from the griffons, there were a few days Without; Barrow had tried to power through them, only to relent when it was clear rescue wasn't coming immediately. He'd asked the comparatively uninjured Tiffany to fetch his pack and administer the dose, and she'd done it, and they'd all managed without any dramatics.

Dramatics still seem far away, at this point, but the want is beginning to seep through Barrow's consciousness. He keeps busy, not wanting to shut himself away just yet: he fixes things in the infirmary, tightens joists, oils hinges, perhaps making a nuisance of himself with how single-mindedly he goes about it. His demeanor remains friendly, if a bit strained. He's thirsty, quite thirsty.

But he'll make it through, he's certain of it. Surely it won't get too terrible. He's happy to say so to anyone who asks, and even sings while he works.

"All right," comes the breathless exclamation, from a fidgety Barrow who can't seem to decide whether he wants to settle in the side room or keep pacing around the main infirmary, "maybe-- maybe I was wrong. This was a bad idea."

There's a tightness in the creases in his smile as he lingers in the side room's doorway, bracing himself against the frame and giving the faint impression he might rip it right off.

Edited 2025-01-22 04:24 (UTC)

The jitters in full swing, Barrow has been successfully confined to the infirmary's side room, where he paces like a captive lion, periodically stopping to scratch at his torso and arms. He's quick to look up when a visitor arrives, but any warmth that might normally light his expression at the sight of Mobius is replaced by a wary, animalistic stare. He doesn't speak right away-- it's difficult to do so spontaneously, with the way tremors overtake him when trying to make refined movements.

Edited 2025-01-22 04:29 (UTC)

"Hey, Barrow," Bastien says from the door, as if he's surprised to see him.

He isn't surprised to see him. It's not game night, they have more lively hang-outs than a mostly-empty tavern full of coworkers waiting for them in Lowtown, and neither of them do any drinking to speak of these days — so there isn't anything here for them to be seeking out except Barrow's company. They wouldn't be here if they hadn't tracked him down.

"Mind if we join you?"

Mobius has been supportive of the endeavor. Far be it for him to tell others what to do with their lyrium habits, besides don't start one to those who aren't trained to do so. His own relationship to the stuff, and to how he sees his own use with it in his system, has nothing to do with someone else wanting to be free of the shackles the Chantry put on them.

But he also knows it's a bitch and a half to go through withdrawal, and that's an understatement. He trusts Stephen to keep a close eye on Barrow, make sure whatever happens, he gets out of this alive and in one piece. But it's still a tricky thing.

This, here, is a tricky thing. Barrow in the midst of it all, the itching, the trembling, the feel of madness creeping in.

"Hey," he says, quietly, calmly. His eyes track Barrow's movements. "You might not be up for eating right now, but I brought you some pancakes anyway in case you get peckish." A proffered plate of flapjacks gets set at a small side table. They are thankfully perfectly edible with hands instead of needing the fine motion of knives and forks and spoons. "And I figured I'd see how you were holding up."

Hearing his name, Barrow looks up-- and narrows his eyes slightly as he smiles at Bastien, not about to let go of their recent rivalry just because he's about to be in the shit. But his smile warms as he beckons the two over, shuffling his cards all together in one sweep.

"Haven't you lads caused enough trouble?" he asks affectionately, resting his chin on his palm.

Trying to keep himself still, Barrow lowers himself onto the bed and grips fistfuls of sheet and mattress below him. The pancakes look and smell appetizing, but being unable to keep anything down all day-- even water, fuck-- means he just regards them uneasily, vacillating between gratefulness that Mobius thought of him and a pure, unadulterated rage that Mobius is here at all.

"Not great," he manages to get out, in a clipped, anxious grunt, glancing from the pancakes to Mobius with an uncontrolled jerk of his shoulders. This isn't what he needs, it's not what he fucking needs, and Mobius of all people should know that, should have mercy,

"Us?" Even when Byerly tries to look angelic, there's something decidedly devilish about him. Blame the facial hair - or maybe the face.

"We're never anything but good. Just the other day, we helped some orphans."

In contrast, no amount of unabashed devilry can stop Bastien from looking a little angelic. He answers Barrow's narrowing eyes with smile and an upward twitch of his eyebrows, together meaning I'm not afraid of you, you should be afraid of me, but there's still a warmth in his eyes that's let many a city guard let him walk away from crime scenes because he couldn't have possibly —

"They were having some trouble with a lock," he agrees.

They're very helpful. And gentlemen, too! Bastien pulls out Byerly's chair for him — it's his day to be gallant — and contemplates the empty space left behind by the one-player game Barrow has already swept away.

"What are we playing?"

This part of the job isn’t exactly something Strange is accustomed to doing — narcotics detox is so wholly out of the realm of his medical expertise — but they’re making do.

“It’s only the third day,” he says, not even looking up yet from his desk, where he’s sitting and working on paperwork. “Far too early to call it. I’ve had milk in my refrigerator longer than that.”

"Paragons of the community," Barrow remarks, "'d'y'let 'em keep the haul, at least?"

He smiles as the pair join him, and, pausing before he puts the cards away, glances between them. "Wicked Grace? Or something else you like better?"

It's fortunate that Barrow, who also went to Stark's world, also knows what a refrigerator is: it gives him pause only for a moment, and he shakes his head like a dog flicking away water.

"Too early," he repeats, gritting his teeth, "'s late enough to know it's shit. Don't think I'm cut out for this, mate." His gaze flits from the healer to the racks of potions and medicines behind him: surely there wouldn't be any lyrium just sitting there, but what if...?

"It's a bad call."

"Virtuous Grace," says Byerly, sitting. "The rules are the same. It's just that it's us playing. So."

Bastien tips his head toward Byerly: what he said.

Maybe they won't even cheat.

"Hmm."

Barrow runs a hand over his chin, considering: "but if all of us are playing, it won't be completely virtuous, either," he points out. "So... Flawed But Doing Its Best Grace?"

"Barrow," Bastien says, leaning forward and placing his hand on the table. He'd be placing it on top of Barrow's hand if he could; the vibe is the same. "You are the best of us. You have never done anything wrong in your life."

Byerly nods in solemn, silent, earnest agreement.

"Yeah. It's not easy." He's never made it to the other side, himself. The symptoms had been bad enough to never, ever want to have to do it again. "But they say nothing worthwhile ever is. That freedom you want's on the other side of all this, and then you won't need it anymore. You just have to hold on."

Mobius doesn't get any closer. Doesn't want to spook him or startle him, especially when Barrow's in the stage of not fully being in control of himself. But he doesn't back up to give more space or room. He insists on looking perfectly comfortable right here.

"Is there anything I can fetch you?"

Barrow's skeptical squint flickers between them, but he doesn't argue; it's bad enough with just one of them, but when they're united, chances of success plummet.

"All right," he concedes dubiously, with a sip from his mug, "what're we wagering?"

"How 'bout some fucking lyrium," Barrow snaps back before he can stop himself, and immediately paws his hand to his forehead and wipes it down his face, with another shudder. Keep your shit together, he seems to be telling himself, with increasing difficulty.

"'s not worth it, mate, this isn't fucking worth it," he mutters, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying not to look at Mobius.

Fair enough. Mobius doesn't look taken aback by the snapping, even if that's so damn unusual for Barrow. His own memories of going through some of it are hazy at times, but he knows he couldn't have acted normal.

"It's not gonna feel worth it while you're in the shit," he reminds his friend gently. "If you want out the other side, you'll have to grit your teeth and push through. If you don't..."

Well, if he is really sure he doesn't, they can get Strange. But surely that's just the withdrawal talking?

"Oh, save it," Barrow snarls, and jerks to his feet, beginning to pace-- away from Mobius, first, his hands shaking as a sudden burst of rage courses through him. He's never been an angry person, is the sort who requires a great deal of prodding to reach a breaking point, and the part of his mind that isn't dominated by lyrium obsession is shocked by how quickly he's rocketing toward one.

"Fucking save the speeches, mate," he growls, back turned, and thuds a hand against the wall in a loose fist. A moment later, his forehead presses on it, and he tenses his shoulders as though it'll stop the tremors.

"Help me or get out. Tell that smarmy shit out there he was wrong and it's time to end it."

"...I can fetch him, if that's really what you want." Because it's not like Mobius is going to judge anyone for deciding the withdrawal isn't worth it. It's easy to underestimate how awful it is, how truly damaging it can be even. But it's also easy for a man in the midst of these fits to throw in the towel.

"I just want you to be sure. Cuz if I go and I get him, Barrow, and you get your blue and you come back up from this, I don't want you getting pissed that I didn't ignore you and let you get the hell through it."

Trying to deliberately go through it a second time feels less likely, knowing what's ahead, after all.

"Do it," comes the snapped response, and Barrow's other fist is on the wall as he braces himself, "stop talking, do it, maybe he'll listen to you."

[open & closed] and when that day comes

the evening before (for basterly)

days one and two (ota, especially infirmary staff/patients)

day three (for Strange)

day four (for Mobius + maybe more)

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