Could Be Worse (2 of 3)

Inspired by real events; reader discretion is advised

Could Be Worse

It could be worse.

At least, that's what Shaun kept trying to tell himself as he looked at the prone form of his partner, lying in a crumpled, dishevelled and drunken heap on the cluttered and unmade bed that was the centrepiece of his bedroom, that was crammed full of models, a myriad assortment of books and electronics.

"Aldred," Shaun said gently, toeing the edge of the bed with his foot, and was rewarded with a faint stirring. "Al, c'mon, you're late for work." Again, Shaun left unsaid, though he was sure his tone of voice implied that fact. This was the third morning in a row that he'd had to delay his own departure to rouse his boyfriend up from a drunken haze.

"I'm not going," was the slurred response, and Shaun considered himself lucky to have gotten that much, considering Aldred's head was buried deep into pillow that he was hugging tightly. "I'm sick."

Shaun supressed a sigh, and refrained from commenting on what Aldred was sick from... for Aldred wasn't unwell, he was just hungover. Or still drunk, Shaun added to himself. Shaun was trying not to be too judgemental – after all, Aldred had been through a terrible, shocking ordeal barely six months earlier, and, combined with moving away from home at barely nineteen years old, was clearly having a hard time coping with his new-found reality.

But it's been six months, wouldn't the time to have hit rock-bottom have been then, not now? Shaun shook the thought away – that wasn't how PTSD worked, and he knew better than to suggest otherwise. Or at least, I thought I did.

"Hun, you need to go to work," Shaun said kindly, sitting on the edge of the bed, cursing the fact that the two of them had separate bedrooms in the unit – if they had a shared bedroom, there'd be no way Aldred would dare to stay up all night drinking himself into a stupor, because he knew Shaun wouldn't tolerate it. "They'll fire you if you don't go."

"No, they won't, it'll be fine." Aldred waved Shaun away lazily, wrapping himself in tighter under the doona. "They love me too much, they'd never get rid of me."

"Not if you don't ring and let them know," Shaun pointed out to him, and was rewarded with a scornful opening of one eye. Shaun held the accusatory gaze steadily, completely unfazed by the look – indeed, if he was honest with himself, he was used to the look by now. I've been getting it often enough the last few weeks. "Weren't you saying last week you would have fired your ass by now?"

"... Yeah, well, they're not me."

Shaun sighed explosively. "C'mon, Al, we agreed that you could take this year off uni if you worked full time. Sittin' on your ass drinking isn't working."

A resentful silence descended between them for long seconds, punctuated only by Aldred's slightly laboured breathing – he hadn't slept well in months, ever since that night. Even when he was in Shaun's bed, snuggled in his partner's arms, he often had fitful dreams, even nightmares... not that he'd ever talk about what plagued his dreams.

"Fine," Aldred growled out, his tone of voice oozing resentment as he shakily propped himself up on one hand, letting the doona fall down, exposing his bare chest. He truly looked like death warmed up at this point, his once well-kept hair a knotted mess, dark bags hanging under his bloodshot eyes. "Where's my phone?"

Shaun pointed at the device, its bottom protruding from the wireless keyboard of Aldred's computer that sat next to him, frowning in annoyance. "Do you want me to ring for you?"