#implied drunkenness

It was Charlie’s voice; a little garbled and loose but recognizable so long as Finn was listening closely. He swallowed hard, shame flipping his stomach. He hadn’t seen Charlie in hours and hadn’t realized it. The other boy had gone off for something hours before and Finn hadn’t thought a thing of it, having been yanked away to bring one of Madam’s bejeweled friends a fresh martini.

“Charlie?” Finn tested, walking slowly forward. He turned one corner of the long table, then the other. The shape of a person was on the floor, half slumped against the wall, head tilted to one side. His wheelchair was pushed away from him, out of reach for sure, but he didn’t seem bothered by that fact. He didn’t seem to notice.

But he noticed Finn. “Heeeyy. Ya found me.”

Finn crouched down next to him, Charlie’s eyes swerving to stay focused on him. His hair was mussed, pushed off his forehead like he had just woken up. The collar of his shirt was open, his tie undone and hanging around his neck, sleeves pushed up to the elbow to show the watch band cutting into his bare wrist. Wet patches on his cheek and jaw caught the glow of the outside lights. When Finn rested a hand on his blazer, he found the lapel damp.

He’d only seen Charlie cry when he was in pain, and that was a restrained, shielded leaking of tears until the stronger medication kicked in. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. Finn’s skin prickled with the need to fix it, solve it, ease it. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“Oh fuck no.” Charlie shook his head, swatting at Finn’s hand and missing.

“No?”

Charlie shook his head again, steadying a hand on the ornate rug as he tilted dangerously to the side. “Fuck. No. I don’t want them to see me.”

Finn opened his mouth to explain where the party had gone, but stopped cold.

Charlie was still talking; distressed, weak, pained. “I don’t wanna move. I don’t wanna move. You’ll pick me up and, and, and they’ll see and, an-.”

“Charlie,” Finn interrupted. He smoothed a hand over Charlie’s forehead – no sweat, no heat, no sign of a fever. As he spoke, he slid quick fingers into the pockets of Charlie’s suit. “You can’t sleep on the floor, Charlie. It’ll hurt tomorrow. You’ll regret it.”

No vape pen. Not even a refill. Charlie wasn’t high, wasn’t sick. Just drink then. And something else, Finn supposed. The guarded self-control Finn was used to seeing, the presence Charlier seemed to regard as sacred to his whole person… that was gone. Stripped away. It made his insides knot and twist in anticipation – not the good kind, he thought dully.

“Pfft. Says you.” Charlie rolled his eyes and leaned close. Finn could smell his cologne, soft and piney, running up against the smell of rum. Dark rum, spiced, and ginger. “I’m the one that’s supposed to give you orders, aren’ I? Tha’s what this whole stupid thing was supposed to be.” Charlie made a noise, a face, of disgust. He jabbed a finger at his throat. “Me telling you.” He jabbed a finger at Finn’s chest. “What to do. Because I’m a shit person.”

“Charlie-.”

A weird clarity crossed over Charlie’s features at his name. He seemed to find and actually see Finn’s face for the first time since he crouched down. “What time is it? I want to see the fireworks.”

“Let me take you upstairs-.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You can see them better from your room,” Finn insisted. He reached behind to drag the chair closer. “And no one else will be up there. No one will see, okay?”

Charlie squinted. “No one?”

“No one.”

“I swear?”

Finn nodded, holding his pinkie out to Charlie. It was a weird thing, swearing on the littlest finger, but Finn liked the sentiment in the gesture.

Charlie pushed it away and sighed heavily. “Ugh… Fine. But no, no carrying me okay? I don’t need any of these idiots. Gettin’ ideas. More than they already have about me… ass wipes…”

It takes some maneuvering – Charlie is loose-limbed, soft, and unhelpful; grumbling in Finn’s ear as he wraps his arms around Finn’s neck – to get him upright, then seated. Finn pulled the blazer from Charlie’s shoulders, pulled away the limp green tie and shoved it into his own pockets. All the while, Charlie is muttering about his arm crutches and normalcy; half thoughts and half sentences jumbled up together in a manner only Charlie could possibly understand. Finn didn’t try to. 

He wrapped his hand around Charlie’s arm, snapping him out of his head. His gray eyes were wet again, nose curled up in frustration. “I’m going to push you, okay?”

Charlie’s features softened as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Finn didn’t say anything more. He smoothly turned Charlie around and took them both out into the hallway. The house was a shell – all the guests outside, the caterers now cleaned up and departed. It was just the two of them inside; totally alone. Finn had learned every inch of the hallways, rooms, walls, and doors in the house. Not because he was ordered to, but because he found it convenient. Knowing the quickest route, the closest exit at hand at any given time had proven worthwhile over the last several months. He could go a whole day without Miss Mercedes and Madame seeing him. 

The house was old; old enough to have hidden corridors and pocket doors meant only for the use of servants and staff. Charlie had explained it all to him once. Sitting next to him then, video game controller in hand, Finn couldn’t help feeling drawn to it. Like it had been meant for him all along, even though someone back then could have imagined someone like him. 

He took Charlie to the servant’s stairs off the end of the narrow hallway nearest the kitchen. Meant for people to dash back and forth between the dining room and the stoves, bringing full platters and collecting empty dishes without a peep. Without anyone’s notice. 

Surely no one would notice them now, Finn thought. He opened the door to the thin stairwell. It ended in a hallway around the second floor, the third door opening into Finn’s own bedroom. He’d bring Charlie there first, take care of him there. He took a breath then tucked one arm under Charlie’s thighs, the other wrapped tight around his shoulders.

“Finn, I said-!” Charlie whined through gritted teeth. 

“Hold my neck,” Finn said, tone verging on an order. A spike of pain shot through his temple, then faded. “It’ll be easier this way. No one’s going to see. I promise.”

“But… but, I-...” Charlie’s eyes were still closed. Finn took care to make it comfortable, trying to offset how miserable the other boy looked. “Oh fine..” He bent his head into Finn’s shoulder, sniffing hard. His fingers came up to brush the ends of his hair, his arms secure around Finn’s neck. “Don’t drop me, okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“You promise a lot of stuff, Finn.”

“I do. I have to.” Finn replied smoothly as he started up the stairs.

Charlie hummed. “You don't have a choice.”

“I guess I don’t… but I don’t mind it.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

“Because they beat it into you. You don’t have a fucking choice, you have to. You’ll always have to, even when you’re not a pet anymore, you’ll still want to because they fucked with your head,” Charlie grumbled. His words were warm on Finn’s neck, his body warmer still. “You don’t have a choice and you’re still a good person. Some of us have a choice and we make fucking terrible ones…” 

Finn let those words drop to the floor and be stepped on. The need to ask clawed at the inside of his throat, but he silenced it with a deep breath. Arriving at his door, he pushed it open and crossed the room, setting Charlie down on the window seat. 

“I’ll be right back. I left your chair down–.”

The other boy seemed relieved to be set down. “Take your time.”

The second trip took no time, but Finn was rushing. When he came back, Charlie was exactly where he had left him. He sat against the cushions Finn had arranged on the bench, leg stretched out across the length of it, his fingers fiddling with the sewn-off pant leg of the other. Blinking, he cast his eyes around the room before settling on the cold window glass next to him. 

For a long moment, Charlie stared out the double windows. Finn had done the same thing many nights in a row; had done the same alongside Charlie, companionable silence and vapor between them. They overlooked the garden and patio below, where guests were gathered around warming lamps. Waiting for the finale, the last act of the night, to begin. 

After a minute, Charlie lurched forward, hand landing loudly on the old frame and metal latch. He fumbled with it, then succeeded in pushing the panes wide open. 

Finn bolted forward and closed it with a bang. Charlie squinted up at him, but Finn only shrugged. “It’s freezing outside. That’s why we’re in here.”

He seemed to buy that explanation, letting his hand drop from the glass and back to his leg. His head tilted back against the wall. The flush of alcohol ran pink through his skin. The red rim around his eyes making the gray look brighter, harder, sharper. “You’re smart, Finn. Really smart. No one wants to remember that but you are.”

“Thank you?” Finn perched himself at the edge of the bench. The pads of his fingers turned circles over the barcode nestled in the crook of his elbow; a nervous habit. “Charlie, are you alright?”

“You’re smart, so smart… You should just…” Charlie took in a slow, deep breath. His eyes didn’t meet Finn’s as he raised his hands, turning them in inexact ways and making little noises. A second later, he turned his palms flat and jerked them forwards. “Right? Just push.” He jerked his hands again. “ And it’d be over with.”

Finn blinked. He balked at what Charlie was suggesting. “I’m not pushing you out a window.”

Charlie didn’t seem to hear him. He was deep in his own head that night. That reality sent worry twisting through Finn’s skin, leaving it crawling. “You could probably hit the pool from this angle… maybe the edge. That would hurt. Be fast though.” He pursed his lips, whistling low before cutting of in a strange-sounding huff, his hands mimicking the shape of a splash. He paused, hummed, his head dropping to the side. “Huh. It’s thirty-ish feet up… sixteen feet from the doors… I think that math works out?”

“Charlie. You’re not hearing yourself–.”

“I’m a bad person, Finn.” Charlie’s eyes, dull and cloudy, turn towards him. Unblinking, unwavering, in a way that said you know I’m right. All of a sudden, his expression shifted and flickered, as if he finally heard his own voice. His face dropped, sadness leaking out across his features, his eyes watering up again. It made Finn feel sick. “Oh… I’m a bad person. I’m… Fuck.” 

Finn shook his head hard enough to give him a headache. “You’re not.”

“I am. I’m a bad–. I mean, you’re right there. You’re fucking right there and that.” He turned away again, waving his hands as if pushing something invisible away; waving away an unseen smoke. “ That’s proof right? Right… right.” Charlie rubbed at his eyes, half-gulping air. He shivered as sobs worked their way up his throat, painful and ragged. “I own a person and Ashton is dead. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck… fuck.”

Thinking twice wasn’t something Finn did. Second thoughts had gone the way of his old memories, he reasoned. He was meant to fix, to soothe, to right the ship when nothing else would. 

It was muscle memory, the way he slid forward close to Charlie. It was training that guided him, told him to bundle the other boy into his chest and hold him tight. It was conditioning that kept him still as the first fireworks crackled in the dark sky and Charlie gasped and choked around tears. 

At least, Finn hoped that’s all it was.

~*~

He slid off of the guy — no longer No-Name, but Daniel; Daniel Something, it didn’t matter — Henry felt an ache growing in his stomach and bones. He was dizzy from the endorphins, the effort, the haze of alcohol burning off, and now distinct, unshakable guilt. 

He rolled onto his side, dropping an arm off the side as he stared at the door. He could smell Daniel more strongly now that he was closer to the sheets and pillow; now that he was moving to press up against his back, biting open-mouthed at the back of his neck. If he wasn’t still drunk, Henry might have pushed him away. If he wasn’t still drunk, he might have been more upset with what he’d just done.

It isn’t cheating, the anger yelped at him from over the haze of crappy alcohol and party energy. He walked away, it’s not cheating.

Henry groaned and buried his face in the pillow under his cheek. He wanted to curl up and hide; wanted to will a chasm to open up in the shitty dorm mattress underneath him for him to fall into. 

Daniel seemed to take that as fresh encouragement; his hands moved with more urgency, more insistence. Henry just went still, trying to push back against the disgust welling up in his throat. No encouragement, no movement, and Daniel would roll over and fall asleep. It worked with Alexander every time, why wouldn’t it work now?

Maybe it would work on him too, letting him fall asleep and forget himself. Forget this whole night. Forget this whole, meaningless fuck. Wipe it out, start again, start fresh. This wouldn’t look great in the morning, but at least in daylight he could figure out a way to glue himself back together.

He wouldn’t though. He never slept when he was drinking.

Dread dropped over him. 

It wasn’t Carter laying on the bed behind him. His familiar, comforting presence wasn’t there for Henry to sink into, roll himself in, and hold onto. He wasn’t there to hold him, smooth out his anxious jittery feeling, warm him up until things felt better. Carter had walked away and left him there. 

Because you told him too, the voice yelped again. He was clamping down too hard on you, wanted to tell you what to do just like they all did before. 

Henry rolled his eyes. He was just sobering up enough to know that was stupid. None of this felt good anymore. None of it felt victorious or sparkling or liberating. It was stupid and selfish and foul. Each one rolled over him, over and over, dragging him further under the surface. 

The anger started to turn on him. The voice turning vicious, fork-tongued in his ear. 

He deserved it. He needed it.

Henry felt Daniel’s arm get heavier, his breathing even out and deepen. Finally asleep, finally alone. Alone with his guilt and his anger and his own nastiness. Henry ran a hand over his face and settled in for a long night.

He would just apologize.

He could just apologize.