HT100 FlashFic Challenge #07: Lit Up -- "Whatever Gets You Through The Night"
Title: Whatever Gets You Through The Night
Prompt: 07: Lit Up (drugs or alcohol)
Timeframe: Episode 206: Strange Bedfellows
Word Count: 698
Whatever Gets You Through The Night
by Severina
Toby paces for two hours. When the overhead banks of light flick out, he barely notices. Three steps to the sink, three steps to the bunk. He pauses occasionally to splash cold water on his face, to fold and re-fold the same pair of jeans, the same wrinkled T-shirt. Three steps to the bunk, three steps to the sink.
He presses his palms and cheek against the outer wall, splays himself wide open like a pinned bug, and tries to let the cool glass chill his flushed skin.
He paces. Three steps to the sink, three steps to the bunk. A pounding in his temples, words crowding in his brain like a mob clamouring to be heard.
He drops into Chris’s bunk, covers his eyes with his palms. Smells Chris on the blankets, the sheets, everywhere.
And when the jar of moonshine is suddenly in his hand, it seems like it was meant to be. Large but not too large, the perfect size for his grasping greedy hands. The glass is smooth and warm, the liquid sloshing gently and sliding across the sleek sides of the jar when he tips it to and fro. The lid depressurizes with a faint pop, opens so easily under his sweat-slick fingers. And he wants to drink it, has never wanted anything more in his life, and fuck the hacks that will be making their rounds soon. Fuck their flashlights and their pounding on the glass and their intrusions into his life. Let them come.
Maybe he’d end up in the hole next to Chris.
Maybe he could press his naked body against the filthy crud-encrusted wall and feel Chris through the barrier that divides them.
Maybe that way, he’d get to be with Chris again. Almost.
His heart pounds, staccato rhythm, and he knows he should be stronger than this. He crosses to the sink. Knows he should get rid of it, dump it out, face the night without it. This night, and the next, and the next.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, eyes wide and glittering in the faint light. Presses his lips to the mirror, and feels cold.
He’s never been very strong.
When he brings the jar closer to his face, he winces slightly as the sharp odour assails his nostrils. The moonshine smells like mouthwash, like cheap aftershave, and he’s briefly reminded of one of his father’s junior partners, the only man he’s ever known who actually admitted to being an alcoholic. Jerry would turn his nose up at the designer drinks at the firm’s Christmas party, at the expensive wines at Beecher family functions; sniff in disdain and announce loudly how he hates the scent, how the very smell of alcohol made him want to vomit. Toby remembers his mother’s shocked face, her small mouth rounded in an silent O of displeasure, because Victoria Beecher is fine with talk of hostile mergers, of men losing their entire savings and potentially their very lives, but talk of puke in polite company is going over the line, thank you very much.
Toby isn’t like Jerry. Toby likes alcohol, even now. He likes the way it tastes, the way it smells, the way it makes him feel. But this isn’t a martini over a power lunch; it isn’t Glenfiddich on the rocks, a dark wood panelled bar and a waitress in crisp white linen. It isn’t like anything he has ever experienced, and Toby takes a deep breath, once, his nostrils flaring warily, before bringing it to his lips.
The first swallow makes him gag and he splutters over the sink, choking back the bile that rises in his throat. He ignores the splatter of moonshine on his shirt, shakes his head and bends to the task at hand. Drinks and swallows again, and this time the liquid burns and scorches his throat, corrodes his insides like acid, but stays down.
Toby shudders, clutches the jar feverishly as he gulps down every drop. Like water from a cool mountain stream. Like liquid ambrosia, like an oasis in the desert. Like Chris’s lips opening beneath his, Chris’s hands clutching his waist.
Like a slice of heaven.
.
Prompt: 07: Lit Up (drugs or alcohol)
Timeframe: Episode 206: Strange Bedfellows
Word Count: 698
Whatever Gets You Through The Night
by Severina
Toby paces for two hours. When the overhead banks of light flick out, he barely notices. Three steps to the sink, three steps to the bunk. He pauses occasionally to splash cold water on his face, to fold and re-fold the same pair of jeans, the same wrinkled T-shirt. Three steps to the bunk, three steps to the sink.
He presses his palms and cheek against the outer wall, splays himself wide open like a pinned bug, and tries to let the cool glass chill his flushed skin.
He paces. Three steps to the sink, three steps to the bunk. A pounding in his temples, words crowding in his brain like a mob clamouring to be heard.
He drops into Chris’s bunk, covers his eyes with his palms. Smells Chris on the blankets, the sheets, everywhere.
And when the jar of moonshine is suddenly in his hand, it seems like it was meant to be. Large but not too large, the perfect size for his grasping greedy hands. The glass is smooth and warm, the liquid sloshing gently and sliding across the sleek sides of the jar when he tips it to and fro. The lid depressurizes with a faint pop, opens so easily under his sweat-slick fingers. And he wants to drink it, has never wanted anything more in his life, and fuck the hacks that will be making their rounds soon. Fuck their flashlights and their pounding on the glass and their intrusions into his life. Let them come.
Maybe he’d end up in the hole next to Chris.
Maybe he could press his naked body against the filthy crud-encrusted wall and feel Chris through the barrier that divides them.
Maybe that way, he’d get to be with Chris again. Almost.
His heart pounds, staccato rhythm, and he knows he should be stronger than this. He crosses to the sink. Knows he should get rid of it, dump it out, face the night without it. This night, and the next, and the next.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, eyes wide and glittering in the faint light. Presses his lips to the mirror, and feels cold.
He’s never been very strong.
When he brings the jar closer to his face, he winces slightly as the sharp odour assails his nostrils. The moonshine smells like mouthwash, like cheap aftershave, and he’s briefly reminded of one of his father’s junior partners, the only man he’s ever known who actually admitted to being an alcoholic. Jerry would turn his nose up at the designer drinks at the firm’s Christmas party, at the expensive wines at Beecher family functions; sniff in disdain and announce loudly how he hates the scent, how the very smell of alcohol made him want to vomit. Toby remembers his mother’s shocked face, her small mouth rounded in an silent O of displeasure, because Victoria Beecher is fine with talk of hostile mergers, of men losing their entire savings and potentially their very lives, but talk of puke in polite company is going over the line, thank you very much.
Toby isn’t like Jerry. Toby likes alcohol, even now. He likes the way it tastes, the way it smells, the way it makes him feel. But this isn’t a martini over a power lunch; it isn’t Glenfiddich on the rocks, a dark wood panelled bar and a waitress in crisp white linen. It isn’t like anything he has ever experienced, and Toby takes a deep breath, once, his nostrils flaring warily, before bringing it to his lips.
The first swallow makes him gag and he splutters over the sink, choking back the bile that rises in his throat. He ignores the splatter of moonshine on his shirt, shakes his head and bends to the task at hand. Drinks and swallows again, and this time the liquid burns and scorches his throat, corrodes his insides like acid, but stays down.
Toby shudders, clutches the jar feverishly as he gulps down every drop. Like water from a cool mountain stream. Like liquid ambrosia, like an oasis in the desert. Like Chris’s lips opening beneath his, Chris’s hands clutching his waist.
Like a slice of heaven.
.