He wasn't supposed to think of love in that way. He hasn't dared to think of it, because instead he chose to dance around on those lanky legs of his with a bottle of Hennessy in his grasp until the dawn came.
And maybe he wasn't supposed to think of love in that way. Love is for the birds, right? Right. So he tried not to think about it much and continued drinking his nights away and drowning his fears in yet another alcoholic beverage, drinking one bottle after another. Just one more doesn't mean shit, just one more means he's going to continue until he doesn't want to anymore. Until his body can't take it anymore.
Now, it's not that he needed love. Its not that he wanted it either. It's that a certain someone decided to waltz into his life like it was no big deal and that certain someone decided to fuck everything up for him. He wasn't supposed to think of love in that way.
But there they laid, his body going limp and sprawling out against the others own body. His knees were weak, because he was drunk again. And the other knew about his drinking issue and even offered help, but yet he refused. The other couldn't stand seeing his green eyes gloss over with drunkenness, the other absolutely hated the sight of him trembling down to his knees with bottle in hand and screaming at the sky for god knows what.
"Dylan."
He didn't respond, he just sprawled out his limbs a bit more as his vision blurred, unable to tell the features of the other. He wasn't supposed to think about love that way.
"Dylan. Please."
Yet, he still didn't listen. Small drunken figure eventually collapsing to the ground beside the couch on which they laid. The other sat up and picked him up, sitting him up on the others lap. The other whispered sweet words into his ear, but it wouldn't work. He squirmed. And squirmed. And squirmed. He wasn't supposed to think about love that way.
"I love you."
And in that moment, his world froze. He looked up into the eyes of the other and whispered back in that shaky, drunken voice of his, hands raising up to cup the others cheeks as the rough pads of his thumbs rubbed small circles. He realized what he wanted now, and his thoughts were cloudy. But, fuck, he knew now.
"And I love you."
And it was then, it was then that the other made him rethink his view upon the subject of love.
WRITTEN IN JOURNAL ON THE SEVENTEENTH OF JANUARY, TWO THOUSAND THIRTEEN. // Entry may not make sense to some.
