Baby Fat

eighteen

The million dollar question to Corrie may always be, is this life worth living? Maybe he sounds a bit psychotic along with a dash of suicidal, but Corrie doesn't want to die. He just doesn't know if this god awful life is worth living. He probably shouldn't question it.

The pot is really getting to his head. It's making him feel too whoozy, and he's questioning everything. Maybe he shouldn't have swallowed those pills he found during his raid of his dad's medicine cabinet.

"Corrie?" A familiar voice asks, but it feels so distant. It's like the voice is a thousand miles away with clouds clogging his ears. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't even move to look for the voice. Frankly, he doesn't give a shit if it's Ophelia or Bradley.

"Are you alright?" The voice inquires again, only this time it's closer and clearer. Corrie wants to groan, because he doesn't want his high to be ruined. He takes more pleasure in being high alone than with other people yapping in his ear.

He's not in the mood.

"Go away," his raspy voice grumbles. He closes his eyes and breathes. It's almost like if he concentrates very little on the voice it will vanish into thin air.

"What the hell happened to you?" The voice is right in his face now. Quite literally, he can feel a warm breathe on his cheek. It's mint and vanilla.

It's Devon.

Corrie can only imagine what he looks like in Devon's eyes. Thinner cheeks, defined cheek bones, glassy and red rimmed eyes, greased hair, and a hazy and psychotic smile on his face.

"Hey, babe. Missed me, I see." Corrie's words tumble out in a mixture of words and slurs. He can't remember the last time he left the right corner of the couch in the guest room of Bradley's house.

He's doesn't even remember where he found the pot.

Devon gives up on asking Corrie how he is, or anything. It's just so pointless. Instead, Devon takes different precautions and sits down next to Corrie. Devon takes the bottle of whiskey and drinks some with little ease.

"Holy fuck that shit is strong," he curses. He wipes his mouth as Corrie chuckles darkly.

Like Corrie's mentioned before, Devon has never been able to hold his liquor.

"Of course it's strong, babe, it's mine."

They sit in silence, because neither of them have no goddamn clue what to say to each other.

"Why'd you leave?" Devon finally breaks the tension.

Corrie doesn't explain, because all his reasons are too scrambled up in his mind. They're like little words floating around, he can touch them but he can't put them into a sentence that makes a the least bit of sense.

Not to him, and certainly not to Devon.

"Why does anyone leave?" Corrie questions. He takes a swig of the whiskey and passes it along to Devon—who probably shouldn't be drinking because he drove here.

Devon takes a moment. "Because they're scared. Or because it's the right thing to do."

Those are the only two reasons Devon can manage to think of in the short bit of time.

"What was your reason?" Devon fiddles with his hands, making his thumbs wrestle with each other to pass the time. He's never had to pass time with Corrie.

It's always been constant go, go, go. When one thing went right something else fell apart. There was never a need to pass the time, there was always something to fix with them.