Peroxide (Peterick)

remember to feed your maggot

Yet another bottle of sparkling apple cider sews a river from its tip to my wine glass, chased by an obsessive snarl from Gerard that mildly puts me off, but I only thank him for the consideration, but that's mostly because I realize that he's sacrificing his favorite beverage to allot some to the rest of us, and that means something special to him.

"Perhaps we should propose a toast," Gerard suggests, emigrating to his chair once his task has been completed and positioned in the space before him.

"You're really into this whole Christmas thing, aren't you?" I chaff, analyzing the soussouses of the carbonation inside my cup so that I can't see Gerard chastising me for being such a Debby downer.

"Never mind that." The host shakes his head, dismissing me for a reputation of stupidity, and he confronts the crowd strewn across the table. "A toast to our occupancy here."

Our glasses illuminate the dining room, shredding leather silhouettes within the crystal of the adjacent chandelier as they block the darkness from spreading anywhere else, and a chorus of "cheers" aligns the stars with our dinner party.

My wariness is ostensibly eternal, until my neighbor's glass coordinates with mine, and the air is wholly alive with Christmas spirit, so I lighten up for the traditions.

"Excuse us for a moment," Ryan pardons himself unexpectedly, scooting out of his chair and dragging Brendon along with him to an unknown destination. "We'll be back soon."

Dallon watches as the two boys dissipate from the room in a vaporific mélange, studying every move, every step, every nirvana of proprioception, and a conclusion is salvaged from the tumult. "It seems your friends always leave, Patrick."

Abomination brews inside me, leaves whirling as a precursor to a storm without questioning why I'm all of the sudden so angry when I'm never usually so worked up, but rage does not cease for logic, and that's idolized in an effigy cast towards my attacker.

"Don't listen to him," Pete instructs in a low bar, tantalizing my comfort with a sole tap of the knee.

Dallon detects the bond and leans back in his chair, cachinnating out of the farce of all of this. "You rely on Pete for everything, don't you?"

"I'm sure you wouldn't know what that's like," I divulgate. "No one ever liked you enough to offer that chance."

A sophic moan tunes Lindsey's larynx, and her glass prints the table cloth as she begins. "It isn't the time for this."

"You wanted us to resolve our conflict, so why not do it now?" is Dallon's defense, and though it's flimsy, it's the only thing that he can fabulate quickly.

"Because it's Christmas dinner!" the woman roars with a certain accuracy to her claim that neither of us care to admit. "Gerard, tell them."

Gerard is taken off guard, but he fleetly mutters a brief "yeah, you're right" before he continues to bully a mound of mashed potatoes on his plate, the entertainment from Ryan and Brendon vanished.

Frank, however, pipes up from next to his putative boyfriend with something actually helpful. "You can settle your dispute later, but you must remember that there are other people besides you at this table who are just trying to enjoy their meal."

"Right, sorry," I apologize, sinking into my food while queueing sporadic glances towards the assailant across the table. Belligerence still rends my neck, compelling me to add another thought. "You know, dinner table drama is part of the reason why I hate Christmas."

A tempest of exasperation undulates upon Frank's face, his stalwart solution lost in his own sea. "Just relax, Patrick."

"People like me don't relax," I contradict, hands mastering an earthquake close to Pete's. "They relapse." My head makes a beeline towards my opponent, crafted with danger and venom while concomitantly seething. "Isn't that right, Dallon?"