The Debt of Guilt [BxB]

7: after

May
1995

Danny didn't sleep after Peter left. He stared up at the ceiling, laying in his grand bedroom, thinking back to his youth. His adolescent years had been filled with so much anguish, he thought he deserved a little bit of luxury in his life, like a reward for everything he had been through. But Peter hadn't received the same reward. His suffering hadn't ended when Danny's had; his was only just beginning.

He looked back at memories he ought to hate with a strange fondness. All those nights he'd come scampering across the yard, like a wounded animal, all swollen and bruised, longing for comfort. He'd crawl through Peter's window, and straight into his cramped little bed. It would be freezing, in the depths of winter, with no heating, and only each other for warmth. At the time, they complained about the cold, and about the size of the bed, and the endless tug of war over the bedsheets.

Now, in the warm solitude of his king sized bed, he'd give anything for just one more awkward night like that. All squeezed up, fidgeting and uncomfortable, his skin itching with the blossoming of a fresh bruise.

He had so many memories of Peter, and most of them were good.

There were some memories he refused to revisit, though.

The ones where there was blind horror in Peter's eyes, and blood on his face.

The blood.

Red.

Agony.

Fear.

Regret.

Danny sat bolt upright in bed, clutching his chest, his lungs caving in as he fought for breath.

No, no, no, no, no...

Peter throwing a snowball at Scott. Peter trying not to laugh during a lesson. Peter smoking his first cigarette and coughing for the next hour straight.

He tried to conjure up every other memory he had of the brown eyed boy with that crooked grin.

Peter reading a book, brows furrowed in concentration. Peter sneaking them into the movie theatre, because he was the only one smart enough to know how. Peter making them sandwiches. Peter lending him jumpers.

The blood was beginning to melt away again as Danny's breathing evened out once more.

He had to do this sometimes; remind himself of all the sunny moments in their friendship to drown out the dark ones.

It didn't always work. Sometimes vodka was the only thing that would console him. He'd stagger outside and collapse by his pool, watching the sun rise over the hills, throwing a rainbow of pastel colours into the reflection of the water, as he downed as much of the bottle as he could. Eventually, one of the housekeepers would find him the next morning, passed out on a sun lounger, face streaked with tears.

He eventually dozed off as the birds started to chirp. He was grateful that it was a dreamless sleep this time.

But he didn't get much rest before his bedroom door was flung open, and Andrea stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, watching him like a disapproving Mother.