bipolaroid ☹ andtrick

n i n e

In, and out.
In, and out.

Andy stood with a broken bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand, Patrick trembling in fear; tears running down his paling face.

"Please, I'm sorry—"
"You aren't sorry," Patrick spat. There was an uneasy silence before he ran upstairs.

I have to get out of here. He tried to hurt me.

The blonde locked himself in their shared bedroom, grabbing things from the drawers and shoving them into a backpack. He then took everything out again, putting it back into the drawers with unsteady hands.

"Patrick, please," Andy pleaded from outside of the door. He was crying— Patrick was sure of it.

In, and out.
In, and out.

Earlier.

"Andy, we need to talk."

The older man was standing in the kitchen, chopping vegetables of some sort. He didn't so much as look up.

"Go ahead."

Patrick drew in a deep breath.

"I never... I never told you about Elisa, did I?"

The room fell silent. It felt as if bugs were crawling all over his skin.

"No. You didn't."

Patrick closed his eyes, scratching at his arms to make the feeling go away.

"She... I... It was just one time. It was after you and I had argued about something. I don't remember what is was about... but you left, and I didn't trust myself to be home alone, Andy."

The older man cleared his throat after a moment, probably searching for what to say.

"So you cheated."

It wasn't so much of a statement as it was a question. Patrick felt sick.

"I had... I had some whiskey. Maybe. Maybe a shot. Maybe a whole bottle. I—"

Andy slammed the knife down, storming off into the living room. Patrick followed. Bad decision.

Andy was now standing in front of the large windows and rubbing his temples. The view showed everything. Everything from the Chicago rain to the kids playing in the backyard, only one house over.

Patrick touched his shoulder, causing the other man to abruptly snap around.

"Don't fucking touch me, Patrick. Not after you lied. Not after you cheated.

"You think I didn't find the empty bottle of jack in the trash? Well, I did, but I didn't say shit. Did I? No, I didn't. For our sake."

He walked back into the kitchen, getting the broken bottle from the cupboard.

"You must think I'm stupid or something. You think I didn't notice the cut on your hand, probably from this fucking bottle. Just because I had left, for one night, you went and had an entire bottle. After you promised me."

"Andy, I—"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Andy yelled. Patrick felt weak suddenly, as if he had been punched in the gut.

He stepped forward, striking Andy on the cheek. The older man stood there for a moment before erupting with loud, fake laughter.

Patrick was shocked. He was unsure whether to stay or to run. Whether to apologize or to cuss Andy out.

"You little whore," Andy finally said. He lunged at Patrick with the bottle.

Now.

The blonde looked out the window. It wasn't too far from the ground. He could easily make it out that way.

"Patrick, Patrick... Patrick!" Andy called from outside. Patrick sighed, sitting on the bed and taking out the emergency flip phone from his backpack. He then dialed Joe's number.

"Hello?"
"Joe... Joe. Hey."
"Hey, man, what's up? You sound upset."
"Come to the house."