Cold Hands
EIGHTTEEN
Pete bought alcohol.
He drinks it down in shots, the vodka, in the little shot glasses Andy bought Patrick when they were in England, the tacky ones with the mini Union Jacks and Big Bens on the side. Pete says to Patrick how many calories are in each little glass, fifty-five, and he keeps crying. Opaque tears into opaque drink, into Pete. The light on the cabinet flickr absentmindedly in a warm beige, casting strange shadows across the creme carpet, like monsters stretching and flashing towards them. He closes his eyes.
Fifty-five calories.
Patrick stomach turns - calories are far worse than any monster he can dream up.
Then Pete stands and staggers from the meager living room, into the white-lit kitchen. Patrick can only stare at the bottle of vodka left behind, where it sits on coffee table he can see that a quarter is gone from its volume. How much was that? Two hundred calories? Three hundred? All empty, all fattening. And Pete had drank it all, like it was nothing. Like it wasn't all he used to eat in a week, Ryan hanging from his side like some morbid accessory. Patricks fingers begin to drum on his thigh, suddenly anxious to have so much within reach. Could he control himself? Of course he could - or could he? He was a fat, gluttonous pig, after all. It's how he got here in the first place, stuffing his face with -
"Patrick?"
Pete's in the doorway to kitchen, holding the frame with hands that are still too small, still too skeletal. He looks tired, so tired, and Patrick's never seen so many years hang from his friends eyes, never seen death so saliently creep at the wrinkles in Pete's skin, in the black of his eyes. He is reminded of Pete's morality, of his terrifying closeness to the end, to being away from Patrick, away from everything.
"Patrick," he whispers this time, and Patrick realises he's shaking. Pete comes towards him, steady and wide-eyes, his lip trembling minutely as he sinks to his knees on the floor in front of him. Patrick can feel Pete's hips brushing on the inside of his thighs, can hear Pete's suddenly too-loud breathing, smell the alcohol from him. Pete gently takes his face in his hands, and tips it down towards him, looking up at Patrick's face with such despair Patrick can't remember who he is for one, brief, blissful moment.
A deep breath.
"Why is there no food in your house?"
He drinks it down in shots, the vodka, in the little shot glasses Andy bought Patrick when they were in England, the tacky ones with the mini Union Jacks and Big Bens on the side. Pete says to Patrick how many calories are in each little glass, fifty-five, and he keeps crying. Opaque tears into opaque drink, into Pete. The light on the cabinet flickr absentmindedly in a warm beige, casting strange shadows across the creme carpet, like monsters stretching and flashing towards them. He closes his eyes.
Fifty-five calories.
Patrick stomach turns - calories are far worse than any monster he can dream up.
Then Pete stands and staggers from the meager living room, into the white-lit kitchen. Patrick can only stare at the bottle of vodka left behind, where it sits on coffee table he can see that a quarter is gone from its volume. How much was that? Two hundred calories? Three hundred? All empty, all fattening. And Pete had drank it all, like it was nothing. Like it wasn't all he used to eat in a week, Ryan hanging from his side like some morbid accessory. Patricks fingers begin to drum on his thigh, suddenly anxious to have so much within reach. Could he control himself? Of course he could - or could he? He was a fat, gluttonous pig, after all. It's how he got here in the first place, stuffing his face with -
"Patrick?"
Pete's in the doorway to kitchen, holding the frame with hands that are still too small, still too skeletal. He looks tired, so tired, and Patrick's never seen so many years hang from his friends eyes, never seen death so saliently creep at the wrinkles in Pete's skin, in the black of his eyes. He is reminded of Pete's morality, of his terrifying closeness to the end, to being away from Patrick, away from everything.
"Patrick," he whispers this time, and Patrick realises he's shaking. Pete comes towards him, steady and wide-eyes, his lip trembling minutely as he sinks to his knees on the floor in front of him. Patrick can feel Pete's hips brushing on the inside of his thighs, can hear Pete's suddenly too-loud breathing, smell the alcohol from him. Pete gently takes his face in his hands, and tips it down towards him, looking up at Patrick's face with such despair Patrick can't remember who he is for one, brief, blissful moment.
A deep breath.
"Why is there no food in your house?"