Cold Hands

But Pete was drunk.

Patrick didn't stumble, didn't move, and Pete was drunk, so drunk. He sobbed and heaved (and how many calories does that burn?) and he told Patrick that:

"He always told me not to. He always told me, eat for me today. He was always so cold. And I didn't want to eat because I read his diary and he hates us - I mean. He hates them. The people who eat.

The fat scum.

I didn't want him to hate me,"

It sounds childish, it sounds like being a long haired teenager with bare wrists and it feels like undiluted purity. Vulnerability unwashed. Patrick remembers writing lyrics like that, and his shoulder is wet from Pete's tears, and he would write them in a ugly metallic notebook with spaceships on the corners of the pages, because what the fuck else did he have to write on. The lamp glares upon his unshed tears, fogging his eyesight to a hazy mist of childhood pathways and roadblocks. Seeing. Never speaking. He itches for a pen, for the chance to write his thoughts. But Pete's spilling out all over him, soaking him in tears and fears and the feel of his ribcage, cool against thighs. It tastes like longing.

Patrick stares at the carpet, and Pete whispers about mints and sore joints and bottles of water. His breath is another universe away, warm and sad against Patrick's neck, while Patrick floats to the beige ceiling and watches dust crawl to his engorged corpse. There is a longing to disconnect, to pass through the roof and to writhe in the plaster between, fingertips brushing on frigid air beyond.

Blink.

God, he fucking hated vodka.