Acheron prided himself on always arriving early to appointments. If not early, then at the very least exactly on time.
He liked the certainty of it. The quiet comfort of knowing where he needed to be and when he needed to be there. It made the world feel a little less messy.
So when Aviv joined him for the DAA meeting, Acheron had complete faith that his perfect attendance record would survive the experience.
It did not.
They were only ten minutes late (which, according to Aviv, is basically punctual by his standards), but Acheron still felt a little embarrassed.
Mostly because it was his own fault. Or rather, his adopted son, Nimbus.
The tiny kitten had become so attached to him in such a short amount of time that Acheron was starting to wonder if they had somehow known each other in another life.
When it was time to leave, he had carefully placed Nimbus into the small pet bed his parents had set up in the living room. The kitten had settled immediately, curling into the soft blanket with his tiny paws tucked beneath him.
For a moment, Acheron had thought it would be easy, but as soon as he had taken one step back. Nimbus's head lifted. Acheron risked another step, but the kitten let out the most pitiful sound he had ever heard; it wasn't a meow nor a squeak but something that sounded much sadder and dramatic.
If Acheron could name it, he would say it's the sound of betrayal.
Nimbus scrambled upright in the bed, still clumsy and unsteady on his paws. He practically tumbled over the side in his determination, wobbling after Acheron with all the urgency of someone trying to stop a departing train.
Acheron's heart had folded in on itself instantly. He had dropped to his knees without thinking, cupping Nimbus' tiny face between both hands.
"Hey," he murmured softly. "I'll be back soon."
Nimbus blinked up at him with huge, watery eyes.
"You're safe here," Acheron whispered, brushing his thumb gently over the kitten's head. "And Mom and Dad will look after you."
Nimbus answered with another small, wounded noise.
Acheron knew he didn't understand the words, but somehow, after he carefully placed him back in the bed, Nimbus stayed there. He didn't follow this time, only watched. Tiny paws tucked beneath him, ears slightly drooped, eyes fixed entirely on Acheron as he walked away.
Acheron had nearly turned around three separate times. Beside him, Aviv had watched the entire ordeal with poorly concealed delight.
Now, standing inside the meeting hall, Acheron found himself smiling softly at a few familiar faces as they passed.
The room smelt faintly of old coffee, warm sugar, and, oddly, fabric softener.
His feet carried him automatically toward the coffee machine, which was somehow still functioning despite looking older than he was. Beside it sat a bright box of doughnuts in different colours and flavours. Someone had put little handwritten labels next to them.
Acheron stared for a moment longer than necessary. He hadn't realised how empty his arms would feel without Nimbus tucked into them.
The absence felt strange.
If he could, he would take Nimbus everywhere with him.
The thought lingered as he reached for a cup.
Would a walking leash be ridiculous?
He frowned slightly to himself.
How young was too young for a kitten harness?
"Evening, Acheron."
Acheron looked up from the doughnut in his hand.
An older Beta man stood near the coffee machine, his paper cup cradled between both hands. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and the lines around his mouth seemed deeper than they had been a few weeks ago, but there was something brighter in him tonight, too.
There is a small spark shining behind tired eyes. A spark of Hope.
"How are you, Simon?" Acheron asked softly.
Simon smiled, a little crookedly.
"I had a much better week," he admitted. The relief in his voice was immediate and genuine, as though even saying the words out loud made them more real.
"That's wonderful." Acheron's expression softened.
Aviv appeared at his side, reaching around him to steal one of the brightly frosted doughnuts from the box.
"It really is," Aviv added warmly, giving Simon an easy pat on the back. "Look at you. Glowing. Thriving. Positively radiant."
Simon laughed under his breath. "Radiant might be pushing it."
"Not at all," Aviv replied, already taking a bite of his doughnut. "You've got that whole 'man who survived his own terrible decisions' thing going for you. It's very in right now."
Simon snorted quietly.
Acheron smiled faintly around the edge of his paper cup.
They stood together for another minute or two, talking about nothing important. The recent strange weather, the coffee somehow still tasted terrible, and the unfortunate discovery that the popular sugar-free biscuits someone had brought last week were, in fact, absolutely awful. Eventually, Acheron noticed Trudy moving toward the front of the room. She was carrying her notebook beneath one arm, her expression calm and familiar.
He lightly touched Aviv's sleeve, and Aviv glanced down at him immediately.
"Should we?" Acheron asked quietly.
Aviv nodded and led them toward their usual seats.
The chairs were already set up in a wide circle. Acheron settled into his seat, tucking one leg slightly beneath himself, the movement small and instinctive. His shoulders relaxed, but not completely. He never feels entirely at ease in rooms this full of people.
The meeting began soon after.
Trudy welcomed everyone, her voice warm and practised, and the familiar rhythm of introductions followed. Acheron listened quietly, fingers slipping into the pocket of his jacket. He found the handful of lollipops he had tucked there earlier.
Without thinking, his fingers curled around one.
The room is warm, and not unlike other meetings, there were a few people sharing their experiences.
Acheron unwrapped the lollipop carefully beneath the edge of his sleeve and rested it between his lips. He tilted his head slightly as he listened, rolling the sweet absently against his tongue.
Beside him, Aviv leaned back at first, one arm draped loosely over the back of his chair, posture easy and relaxed. He seemed comfortable, or at least in the beginning.
The first person to speak was a man in his late thirties. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
"I used to think I had it handled," the man said, his voice low and steady. "You know? I had rules."
He let out a small, humourless huff.
"Only on weekends. Only after work and never before meetings or never before driving."
His thumb rubbed over his knuckles again and again, the movement restless and automatic.
"I built this whole system around it," he continued. "And because I had rules, I thought that meant I was in control."
He took a slow breath, his chest rising unevenly before he let it out again.
"It didn't happen all at once," he said after a moment, his gaze dropped to the floor.
"There isn't some huge moment where everything suddenly falls apart." His voice quieted. "Sometimes it happens so slowly you don't even notice."
Acheron's fingers stilled around the lollipop stick.
"One day, I broke one rule," the man said. "Just one."
"I told myself it was fine, and it didn't mean anything. That nothing had changed." His jaw tightened faintly.
"Then I broke another."
"And another."
The room stayed still around him. Acheron lowered his eyes for a moment, catching sight of Aviv's leg bouncing beneath his chair. His earlier ease had vanished, his shoulders were tighter now, his posture no longer loose and relaxed as before.
"I remember the first time I realised I couldn't stop," the man said, his voice was quieter now."I was sitting in my car, telling myself to go home. Just… go home."
Aviv's fingers curled slightly against his own arm.
"I sat there for forty minutes," the man said. "Arguing with myself like there were two people in my head."
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
"I still didn't go home."
Silence settled after that. It felt heavy, not entirely uncomfortable, just… familiar. A few people murmured quiet agreements beneath their breaths. Acheron glanced to his side. Aviv looked different now, smaller somehow, as if he were slowly folding in around himself. His guard had gone back up. Acheron could see it in the way his shoulders had drawn inward and how he carefully avoided looking at anyone directly. Maybe the man's story had landed too close to something tender.
At the front of the room, Trudy spoke gently, thanking the man for sharing. Her voice moved through the room like warm tea; it was both soft and steady, allowing for the tension in the room to loosen again.
Just enough for the next person to speak.
A woman sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest, as though she were holding herself together by force alone. She didn't look up when she spoke.
"I didn't start using because I was sad," she said quietly. "Or broken or anything dramatic like that."
Her voice wavered just slightly. "I started because I wanted to fit in."
A faint, bitter smile touched her lips.
"Everyone around me was doing it," she continued. "They were all laughing and seemed relaxed. Like it made everything easier."
She looked down at her hands. "I wanted to experience that. I wanted to be… easy to be around."
Acheron's fingers pressed deeper into the fabric of his own sleeves. He understood that feeling far too well, the need for the world to be softer, easier and less complicated and less like yourself.
"So I said yes," the woman murmured. She inhaled slowly, as though even now the memory sat heavily in her chest.
"And for a while, it worked." Her lips twitched faintly. "It was fun. I was lighter, and people liked me more."
Her voice dropped lower. "Then I needed it so that I could be that person all the time"
The room stayed completely still. Acheron could hear the faint buzz of the old lights above them and the distant sound of someone stirring sugar into their coffee.
"I remember the first time my little sister looked at me..." Her throat tightened around the words. "With fear."
Acheron's chest ached.
"She didn't trust me anymore," the woman whispered.
Silence wrapped itself around the room.
"That look..." she said, staring at the floor. "It doesn't go away."
Her hands trembled slightly before she pressed them tighter against herself, forcing them still.
"It's not the cravings that keep me up at night," she admitted quietly. "It's the things I did while I was high."
Her gaze finally lifted. Her eyes were glassy, but much steadier.
"The lies, the disappearing. The way I made my family worry every time I didn't answer my phone."
Acheron swallowed hard. He could still remember the first time his parents had caught him high. The way his father had looked at him, like something inside him had cracked straight down the middle, and his mother... her eyes had been full of tears as she held onto him, not because she was angry, but because she was terrified of losing him.
"I can live without the drugs," the woman said softly. "I just don't know how to live with... everything else."
Not long after her last words, and before Trudy could talk, a voice broke through the silence. The sound came from a much older man. His hair had long since turned grey, and he sat with one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed in the way older people sometimes were—like they had already survived enough to stop rushing through life.
He smiled faintly after greeting the room, the expression worn but genuine.
"I used to think recovery meant I'd wake up one day, and everything would just... be better."
A few people shifted slightly in their seats.
"Like there'd be a moment or a switch flip." He snapped his fingers softly. "And suddenly I'd be fixed."
A few quiet smiles appeared around the room. The man shook his head.
"That's not how it works." His tone wasn't bitter. It was calm, which only appears due to experience and certainty.
"Recovery is boring," he said, and a few soft chuckles moved through the room. "It's repetitive. It's waking up every day and making the same right choice over and over again."
He leaned forward slightly in his chair.
"Some days, that choice feels small and insignificant." His gaze softened. "But it isn't."
The room stayed quiet.
"It's drinking water instead of something stronger," he said. "It's calling someone when you don't want to."
His eyes moved slowly around the room.
"It's sitting in a place like this," he added, "when every part of you is telling you to get up and leave."
Acheron lowered his eyes briefly to the lollipop in his hand.
The older man paused for a moment before speaking again.
"I've been clean for almost twenty years now," he said.
A few people blinked in surprise.
"And I still have days where it feels just as hard as it did in the beginning." He smiled faintly.
"But when I come here..." he said softly, "it passes."
His voice gentled.
"And when it does, there's something left behind." He tapped lightly against his chest. "Space."
The room felt still around the word.
"And in that space..." he continued, "you get to build something new."
He leaned back again, looking calmer somehow after saying it.
"Just felt like some of you needed hope," he finished quietly.
For a moment, the lollipop in Acheron's mouth stilled completely. He sat there, listening to the words settle somewhere deep inside him. Part of him hated the thought that recovery would always be there. That it would be a fight he would have to wake up and choose every day for the rest of his life.
But seeing someone who had been fighting that long...
And still winning...
It soothed something inside him.