Why Are We (Best) Friends?

No, Fuck Me

May 2nd, 2017.

"Oh, fuck."

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck of fuck—

"Reeemuuss!"

How could Patton still sound exactly like himself while covered in cocaine and his breath ripe with cider?

Patton was drooling garbled words onto his chest. Everything he slurred barely registered to Remus, who might have blushed if he wasn't so busy trying to process what he was witnessing. "Are you okay?" Was all he could think to say for himself. "Hehe... I've no idea wha' words are righ' now," Patton giggled, summing everything up.

And Patton was staring at him.

Tugging on his sash scrunched in shaky fists, tugging on his heart strings, Patton stared. Centre of gravity balanced on top of him, his trust thrust onto him, Patton stared. He never stopped staring. Never cringed and shied away.

And Patton was smiling at him.

The picture of innocence, tipsy and twisted like an image reflected in a bubble, smiled at him. The epitome of adorableness, smiled at him as if he was the one who beheld someone truly precious. He never stopped smiling. Never cringed and shied away.

Please tell him Patton hadn't sniffed any cocaine.

"Your sash matches your eyes," he said. Remus went cross eyed watching Patton lift a finger to his face. Booping his nose, he triggered a rush of blood to dot Remus with red like scattered fairy lights. His heart started panicking— Patton played with his mustache, the curled ends latching onto him. The little tweaks felt so... nice, weirdly. Remus liked weird.

His heartbeat escalated.

Why did it feel so nice?

It broke into a sprint.

"An' your mustache loo' li'e mouse whis'ers— no! A lil' ca'erpilla'," Patton giggled. And he sounded like fucking jingle bells chiming.

Remus's heart tripped, grasping at his lungs like hanging onto a cliff's edge. His breath struggled with his heart's still, strangling grip.

Nose scrunching, Patton ducked his head into Remus's chest to hide from the kitchen light. Then, Patton became a completely dead weight.

Startling back to life, his heart pounding between the bars of his ribs, it beat so hard it made Patton appear to shiver. He gasped at his circulatory system coming back online. On reflex, Remus looped his arms around Patton's waist so he'd continue to slump against him rather than slide to the floor. Butterflies would have flown if their wings hadn't been sewn shut. As it was, they flopped uselessly at the pit of Remus's gut.

Alcohol poisoning, Remus had previously pondered, was either the best or worst way to go. As figments of the imagination, it was impossible to die.

Accidentally. Accidentally die.

Now, Remus wanted to believe Patton got this drunk by accident. Yet how could someone drink so excessively, so determinedly, without the intent of... and if a figment of the imagination really wanted to...