Whiskey in the Jars

Nightly ritual; three shot glasses and a bottle of Ogden's that was rapidly decreasing in volume. I hate the way you look at me, self righteousness practically dripping from your pores. He would need to visit a package store on the way home from work tomorrow night. Glasses lined up, flush against the edge of the battered countertop. They were novelty glasses, purchased by a friend of a friend years ago. The three were part of a set. When all six were used together, the glasses sang a bawdy Irish drinking song. He only used the three. He hated that bloody song. With a not quite steady hand, he carefully filled each glass to the brim-a seemingly practiced precision avoiding even a drop spilled onto the white and green formica.

Shot one; fire rippling its way down his throat and spreading through his chest. I hate the way I can pick your voice from a crowd, ears perking at the first syllable spoken across the room. He blinked back a few tears. The first shot always caused his eyes to water, despite the regularity of the action. He carefully rinsed the glass and placed it on the otherwise empty blue drying rack. He surveyed the cramped kitchen, watching the warm summer breeze ruffle the pale blue curtains. Mildly annoyed, his eyes landed on the mound of dishes next to the sink. The flat was hardly ever occupied for more an hour or two a day. He came home, he slept, he woke up, he went to work, and he repeated the process ad infinitum. How could so many plates and cups accumulate after only a few days?

Shot two; the fire duller this time, just barely a burn sweeping into his stomach and spreading warmth down his arms. I hate the way I've changed because of you, becoming barely an imprint of the man I was destined to be. Another glass carefully rinsed and set with an almost loving care in the rack. The edges of the objects around him began to soften, the pile of soiled dishes on the other side of the sink no longer a distraction. He would clean them tomorrow, if he remembered. He doubted he would, and besides. The lasagna from a few nights ago-the one night this month he'd been home long enough for a proper meal-would take the strongest of Scouring Charms to clean. He didn't know that he cared enough to bother.

Shot three; no longer fire, only a comforting warmth spreading throughout his body, down into the tips of his fingers and toes. I hate the way I can see you even when I close my eyes, your skin sliding against mine as you look down at me, claiming with your hands and your eyes. The last glass wasn't rinsed with nearly as much care, clinking against one of its brethren as it was tossed almost sloppily onto the rack. There's really no need to be so cautious with them. They were protected with an Unbreakable Charm long before they found their way into his flat. If they hadn't been, he would have done it himself-things have a tendency to be shattered against walls if they aren't.

He could feel his senses dulling rapidly, and he was thankful for it. It was the only way he could crawl into that bed at night. The only way he could sleep soundly. He told himself that drinking liquor is better than becoming addicted to sleeping potions. After all, his mother had died from an accidental overdose of the bloody things. At least that's what the House Elf told him when he awoke on the morning of his seventeenth birthday. Her death was directly correlated to the way he now lived his life, he was sure of that. He never would have made the same decisions, had she been alive during his seventh year.

A quick charm banished the overpowering scent of whiskey and he stowed the air dried glasses and almost empty bottle in a hidden cupboard. Steeling himself, he made his way toward the bedroom, palm against the beige coloured wall of the hallway. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom and cursed silently as he heard the sheets rustle.

"Draco? Is that you? It's late." A voice chided from the darkness, not unkindly.

"Ah. Yes, love. It's me." He fought to keep his voice from betraying his inebriation. Every night for five months now, and his boyfriend hadn't a clue that alcohol was the only thing to tame the racing thoughts in his mind.

"Well, come to bed, would you?"

"I am, Harry." He slowly stripped and settled himself between the sheets, wrapping his arms around the other man's torso and planting a soft kiss against his chest.

I hate the way I cling to you, somehow believing that you're the only one who could ever love me, the only one I could ever love.