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"Holy shit!" He shouts at the top of his lungs, staring at me, finally seeing me. "Warn me, Christ above." He reaches out for someone to steady himself on, and stumbles sideways, as there's no one there.
There's only me, sitting in this damn chair, waiting for him to return so I can put him in his place and remind him under whose sufferance he is tolerated.
Mine.
The power is all mine. I haven't cut him off yet, although it's been near-miss in recent months. My eyes blaze with fury, and he twists up his face in a sneer.
"Don't look out me like that," he slurs, his words confused, "you'd be doing the same if the roles were averted."
"Reversed," I correct him, getting to my feet. Standing, we're nearly the same height. I miss the days I could pick him up, when he was a boy, a child, that I could set on the right path. When he was a kid who believed in me and listened to me. Instead he walks this trail alone, to ruin and wreckage, determined to drag this house along with him.
I will not allow it.
"Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I'm gonna sleep." He starts to stagger toward his bed, and I cross the room in three strides, grabbing him by the shoulders. I twist him around and give him a shake.
"What the hell are you thinking?" I demand. He stinks of alcohol. Our set is the kind that has to indulge for politeness's sake every once in a while. I have wine with dinner. I'll share a whiskey or a brandy at night while I talk to my contemporaries.
But this?
He's falling down drunk.
He wrinkles his nose, makes a noise, and then spits in my face. Saliva hits my cheek, and the carefully controlled rage that'sbeen simmering in my gut for years gives a tremor. He must see it in my face. His mouth tightens, his throat hitching as he swallows hard. He backs off, averting his eyes.
"I didn't ask you to fix anything," he says, with a hiccup in his words. "You always try to fix it, well guess what,brother—"
"You can't be fixed," I say flatly, cutting him off. "I know. I see that now. I'm sorry for even having attempted."
He stumbles back as his spit drips off my cheek and hits the floor. The backs of his knees find the edge of the mattress, and he sits down with a muffled thud, staring at the ground, cradling his head in his fingers.
"You should've—" He mumbles, trailing off, his words buried into the palm of his hand. "Never-mind. Whatever. Fuck you." He lifts his head to glare me down. "Go get fucked. Choke on your ducal sash." He falls backward, arms spreading wide as the mattress welcomes him. His eyes close. My chest is tight. How the hell did we end up here? He was my best friend when we were children.
But life isn't what it promises. The universe sticks you, not even from behind, no. It stares you in the face as it sinks a blade between your ribs. Fate twists the knife in your chest and laughs as you go down to your knees, choking on the blood there, watching as it bubbles out of your lips.
The silence in the room closes in on me, thickening the air and making it hard to breathe. I came here for a purpose. I pull out the handkerchief from my pocket and wipe the wet from my cheek.
I came here for a good reason, and I'm not leaving until I've said my peace. Whether he's drunk or sober, that doesn't changewhat I need to say.
"I'll go when you swear to stay away from Miss Bell," the words are out of me without hesitation.
He lifts his head. He stares at me.
Fuck.
There's a smirk on his face, and he braces one hand on the bed, getting to his feet. His movements are unsteady, but his intention isn't.
He's misstepping physically as badly as I've miscalculated verbally.
"It's staying away from Miss Bell," he slurs, savage amusement in his tone. "Is that it then? The only thing you've ordered from me?" He looks up at the ceiling and lets out a short laugh. "Could you be more fucking obvious?"
He licks his lower lip as I debate shoving him back down on the bed and leaving. He's drunk enough. He might just stay if I put him in his place like that.
"Why don't we go to her right now, see which one of us she chooses," he threatens and starts walking to the door. It's impossible. I've poorly played my hand here, and he knows it. Even drunk, he knows.
I follow him, grabbing him by the upper arm, and wrenching him down to the ground. He stumbles and then swings for me, catching me across the face. Red flares along my jaw, the pain exploding in my bones. I reach for the back of his head and grab him by his hair, whirling him around. With a shove of my knee into the back of his, he slams into the wall. I pin him there, arm barring against the nape of his neck. He lets out a growl, mywhole weight pressing into him.
He tries to claw at me, but I grab his wrist with my other hand and twist his arm up behind his back until he lets out a breath,
"Mercy," he grinds out, but I shove his wrist higher, making his shoulder strain. "Mercy!" He snarls. "Asshole, let me go!"
