Wearily trudging up the last flight of stairs to the top floor, I lean against the wall beside the door, hurriedly wiping my tears so my roommate won’t see them. After taking a deep, shuddering breath, I unlock the door and step inside. I barely glance at him as my make my way to the kitchen; specifically, the freezer where we kept our shittiest alcohol. I note that he’s sitting on the floor, his laptop perched on the end of the coffee table, headphones firmly in place covering his ears. Probably playing World of Warcraft again. He doesn’t even look up. I’m still in uniform; I haven’t even taken my boots off yet. Despite this, I grab the only bottle of cheap whiskey from the freezer and with a deft twist, throw the top on the floor as I chug straight from the bottle. Poorly timed swallows cause trails of stinging booze to run down my neck, but I don’t care. All that matters is getting enough alcohol in me that I can’t remember who I am anymore.
Gasping for air, I remove the bottle from my lips, clunking it down on the counter and wiping my mouth off with the back of my arm. The sound of glass scraping against tile countertop gets his attention. Pulling his headphones down to rest around his neck, his eyes pass over me, to the bottle resting on the counter, my hand still clenched into a fist around it.
“Rough day?” he asks deadpan, staring into my face. Not for the first time, I wonder how anyone could have eyes as shockingly blue as his. I debate whether or not to even admit a fraction of how horrible I’m doing. Instead I answer nonverbally, bringing the bottle back to my mouth and draining the rest of it in one fell swoop. Grimacing at the taste of ice-cold bourbon, I toss the bottle into the trash, heading back to the freezer to hunt down something else. As I go to open it, he places his hand on the door, denying me entry into the frozen tundra of alcoholic salvation.
“Dude. Fuck off. I need booze. Get out of my way.” I glare at him, trying to convey how much I don’t want to deal with his shit right now, but he doesn’t relent.
“No way broski. If you need alcohol that bad we’re gonna get drunk on some good stuff. None of the crap we keep for desperate times.” Furrowing my eyebrows, I look at him quizzically, asking what he means. In response, he grins, one of those shit-eating half-grins full of mischief and promise, grabs his keys and helmet, and opens the door. “I’ll be back in 10. Don’t get drunk without me.”