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They try not to make a habit of it because it always ends badly. Without fail. They try not to make a habit for it because for all the psychological bullshit that says ‘talking about it’ will help, it really, really doesn’t.
It always starts the same.
He says, “I’m just glad they’re happy” but somehow it just comes out “I hate how much it hurts” and she swallows hard, saliva and gin, takes a shaky breath and says. “No, don’t” but it comes out slurred together and sounding like “I know, I know, I know.”
The alcohol burns when it goes down for him more than her and she tries to justify it by laughing a bitter ugly sound: “Strider you’re still a lightweight,” she hisses the ‘s’s and he just takes another drag from the bottle. It tastes like disinfectant and his stomach is an open wound. She stops laughing when the noise starts sounding like sobs.
“Why do we do this to ourselves?”
“Because you love him and I love her and that’s fucking all there is to it.” She sounds more sober like this, with all her humor crunched up and broken and sharp. Matter of fact and firm and bitter. Or maybe she sounds more sober because he’s more drunk.
“They’re not worth it.” He says it every time and every time she nods but neither of them ever believe it. Part of the routine. The unforgiving rhythm of wanting impossible things.
But something is different this time. A phone call (Listen, English, I…there’s something I need to tell you. / Oh, no, that’s okay, I understand. Still friends, right? / Haha, of course, so ironic. Bye.) and a real, true and clear broken heart.
The hardest part is the resolution that comes with it. The act of knowingly, willingly giving up. He never thought the phrase ‘still friends’ could ever twist and turn itself into ‘no hope’ but it did and now here they are, drunk and crying on cheap carpet in a room full of dead cats. Her magenta eyes are hazy and out of focus and her hands are soft on his shoulders. He doesn’t remember when he started crying in earnest or when she started hugging him.
“I shouldn’t’ve s-said-” He hiccups and wants to blame the booze in his blood instead of the lack of air in his lungs between sobs.
“Shut up,” It’s soothing and soft and she really can be downright motherly sometimes, in her own drunken, fucked up way, “Shut up, you know that’s pointless because you – you woulda’ said something eventually. You know you would’ve. Don’t lie-to me Strider, just shut up.”
She’s right and he shuts up as she rubs his back in tiny circles.
They’ll be sick in the morning, or maybe later tonight, and they’ll both hate themselves a little more when they wake up aching and hurting in new and old places because nothing will have changed. They’ll wake up an push forward because that’s what they have to do. The countdown clock is ticking and pretty soon they’re going to have to save the universe or die trying.
“I’m just glad they’re happy.” He repeats and it doesn’t make it any more true, but the words come out right this time and he can feel her nod against his neck. Maybe next time when he says it it will be a little stronger, and a little stronger still after that. Maybe.
“Me too, Strider, me too.”