Chapter 9

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by louandharryaf

by louandharryaf

Harry

By the time Allison (whatever the gay-chaser's name is) leaves, Nick is hammered on wine. I help him from the dining room to the couch, him trying to fight me.
"This is taking advantage of someone, Harry! I can hear the sirens now! Wee-ooh..." He slurs annoyingly as I drag him to the couch. He pouts like a child once I plop him down, but I ignore him to go clean up the kitchen. He definitely owes me now. I will not tolerate this again. I mean, I know that we drinks too much, but at a formal dinner when I'm doing him a favor. This is out of control.

I scrub the pan he cooked the food in, the hot water burning my hands. I dry all of the dishes and leave them for Nick to put away once he's sober. When I walk back into the living room, Nick is sprawled across the couch, a new bottle of wine in his hand. He takes a large gulp, and I roll my eyes.
"Harry! Can you be a nice lad and go fetch me a glass? Much appreciated." He tells me, with a flick of his hand. Oh, so he thinks he's all posh now. I stride over and take the bottle from his hand. "How about we sober you up, instead." I offer, placing the bottle on the coffee table. I go back into the kitchen and I full a large class with cold water.
Suddenly, I hear a crash from the other room. Shît. I run in with the water, and Nick is swaying in the middle of the living room, the jagged neck of the wine bottle in his hand. Wine stains the carpet beneath him, and glass is sprayed everywhere. There is a large dent in the wooden coffee table where Nick broke the bottle.
"I asked you to fetch me a glass, Harry." Nick growls Amherst, wielding then broken bottle. I shuffle forward, holding out the cup of water. "Come on, Nick. Let's sit down." I say calmly. I move toward the the couch, coaxing him to sit down. "I don't need to listen to you!" He yells, raising the broken bottle. I duck just as the bottle comes down on me. The sharp edge scrapes the side of my face, drawing blood. I rush to the hallway, and Nick follows, swinging the bottle at me.
"Nick! Nick, look at me!" I yell, and he stops swinging.
"Look at me," I say gently, and the color drains from his face. His hands begin to tremble, and he drops the bottle. It shatters in the hardwood floor.
I stand from my crouched position. "Come here," I say softly, and Nick comes forward, shaking with sobs. I gather him in a hug, and he just choked out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again. "It's ok." I whisper, and he cries into my shoulder. My cheek burns, and I know he probably has scratches on his hands too.
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Once Nick has calmed down, but not quote sober, I am able to sit him down on the couch and but band aids on his hands. I butterfly bandage the wound along the side of my face, not really thinking it was emergency room-worthy. By the time I have picked up the shards of glass, and have paper towels soaking up the wine on the carpet, Nick is out cold in an armchair. Deciding that it was best for him, I leave him in the chair, covered with a blanket, two aspirin on the coffee table for when he wakes up.
I leave at one in the morning, and make it to my flat. And after another shower, I finally crash on the couch, waiting for tomorrow.

I'm sorry it's so bad! More to come!
All the love ~ N xx