He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry. The words rolled through his mind again and again. It helped as he willed the tears back, even though a few stray drops had indeed fallen. He was stronger then this, his history had made it necessary for the lean and lanky male to be so. When you had no one to protect you, you needed to be solid within. Heath didn’t feel strong, he didn’t feel much more then the liquid that swirled in his stomach. Repeating the words helped that too, calmed the vertigo and eased his stomach. He hated this, hated being unable to take control and be someone that could overcome emotional hardships without the help of his precious vodka. In the end it only hurt him. And the hurt was being to become less pleasure and only pain.
The words were honest. He was indeed sorry. Sorry that he could express himself to the one person who knew and understood him most. Sorry that in the end he would always drift back to this state. Sorry for using his fists instead of his words. Haven’s words hit his ears, breaking the repetitive thoughts, but still he would not look at the male. He wasn’t even sure what happened anymore, it was all a jumble and if he could explain it he would have spoke it all. He just wanted to say it, wanted to get it off his chest and into the open air. “No. Its not.” French accented voice spoke in a rough tone. The alcohol whirled in his head once again, and Heath was thankful that he was already on the ground.
His head shook, the thoughts so jumbled and so overwhelming. “I’m going to fuck it up. She’s the best thing…” His voice trailed, burned by the vodka’s wrath. The bottle was lost, thankfully and Heath brought two hands to his face ease the pain holding the tears back brought to his features. “I’ll hurt her. I already have.” He had, he was sure of it. He closed his eyes, sure the black world would be unable to spin. He was wrong.
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