Delirium

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

He’s tearing through the apartment in a haze. It’s all fine; everything’s fine, but WHERE is that damned Hypo?!

It’s completely under control. The drawer is wrenched open and the whole dresser shudders as if in fear of him. It’s not fucking here. He doesn’t have time for this, damnit, not tonight. Who fucking took it? If it’s that cleaning boy so help him he’ll —

He spots it on the countertop a short distance away next to a bowl of brightly-colored fruit. The relief that spreads through him is intoxicating, like he’d been lit on fire and at last has been thrown into the cold, comforting ocean.

The glass is slightly warm in his hands as he picks it up, thrumming with the heat and energy that he desperately craved. A sense of familiarity stirs in his stomach, and almost without thinking, he slides the needle into his arm and presses down firmly on the syringe.

The flame hits his veins like a shot of whiskey and he has to steel himself so as not to jump in surprise. However many times he tries it, he’ll never get used to that initial shock — it’s like waking up from a million-year coma, taking shelter from a blizzard in a burning house, falling from an airplane with infinity spinning below you. It’s ecstasy — and it’s necessary. He has a big show tonight, and if he’s not at the top of his game… Well, the Incinerate! comedown is going to be the least of his problems.

The last of the liquid vanishes into his arm and he gingerly removes the needle. It stings, slightly, but he’s still reeling from the relief of finally feeling normal again and hardly feels it. As he stands, he leaves many tonnes of baggage with the empty Hypo on the floor — gone goes the tension in his chest, the agonized wail of his joints, the exhaustion in his aching bones.

And, most importantly, the fear that turns his weary body to ice each and every time he sees his name in all those lights.

He watches as flames dance across his open palm. There will be no freezing up tonight. Pleasantly, he regards the way his hands glow when he stirs the fire to the surface; it reminds him of the nights back home where he’d catch fireflies just to make a wish and set them free. He also notices that there is no tremor this time — he’ll have to make a note of that and bring it up to Dr. Lamb this week.

But now is not the time for that. The flames disappear as he straightens his stance and fixes his collar. For better or for worse, it’s showtime, and Phineas has never felt more ready.

It’s all gonna be fine.