Chuckjd's Words

a convenient dumping ground for my writing

1988/02/20 3:43am

20 February, 1988 – 3:43 am – Richey and Nicky’s flat

Nicky and Richey’s flat was sparsely decorated and had only the bare necessities. They were poor, so only what they direly needed furnished the small space. There was the table, stolen from a trash heap like so many other things around the house; the “chairs” made of stacked crates; the well-loved book shelves, which were full, of course, made of bricks and boards nicked from a construction site late one night; the bed, which they either shared or alternated use; a very ratty couch that was on its last leg (literally); and the rest of the kitchen, which was there when they moved in. Of course they had other things, but not much else. Nicky had brought his record player from home, and Richey his television. It was the perfect compromise.

The money they saved was spent on food and booze. The food kept them alive, and the booze kept them living. They ate Fray Bentos pies, mostly, and had an order of fish and chips here and there. Primarily, their allotment of money for the day went to either food or booze.

Tonight was a booze night.

Nicky and Richey fell through the door, holding each other up and laughing. Nicky slammed the door behind them, the keys forgotten in the lock. They tumbled together onto the couch, hysterical over something. They couldn’t stop laughing and they were wheezing from trying to breathe at the same time.

They had gone out to the pub to celebrate a good mark or something. They couldn’t be arsed to remember now. It was just an empty reason to go out to the pub together and get drunk. They still needed reasons to get drunk, but it wasn’t hard to find things to celebrate or commemorate. Not with such creative minds working together.

Richey leaned his head on Nicky’s shoulder, unable to hold it up on his own. Nicky, in turn, leaned his head on Richey’s, his neck starting to feel like rubber. Their laughter died down, turning into happy sighs of contentment. Their collective breath could get someone drunk, there was so many alcohol fumes coming from their between their lips.

They stared at the blank television screen in front of them.

“We shou’ really turn on the telly or somethin’,” Nicky slurred. Neither of them made any move toward the TV. They sat there for a while, still. Though they were sitting quite stationary, the room was moving enough in their minds. The constant spin and swirl of their surroundings kept faint smiles on their faces. It was television without the effort.

Richey pulled his head out from between Nicky’s head and shoulder, doing his best to sit up straight. He glanced over at Nicky, who now had his head over the back of the couch, and smiled. They had more pints and shots than he could count, and he was surprised they had made it home in one piece. He looked over at the clock, noting the very late hour. Tomorrow, or today, really, would be hell.

Richey turned his head back to Nicky, now looking at him with his head still lolling over the back of the couch, and saw the room spin a little with so much movement. Nicky was smiling, his idiotic grin spanning the width of his face. His half-lidded eyes gave away his inebriation.

“What you smilin’ a’?” asked Richey, letting his head fall back too, keeping his eyes locked on Nicky’s.

“We drank a lot,” Nicky said simply, beginning to giggle like it was the funniest joke ever. His laughter settled down quickly, but his smile remained.

“Yeah, we did,” Richey agreed, only slightly more sober than his friend. He hadn’t seen Nicky this drunk in a long time, and it was almost refreshing. He knew he would have to brave the whining tomorrow, just like every morning after drinking, only worse, but he was ready. It was going to be worth it.

Richey sat up again, balancing carefully. He looked back at Nicky. Nicky’s smile had faded, and a serious, pensive expression took its place. Richey cocked his head slightly, confused. His drunken state was doing nothing for his thoughts and logic. Everything he was usually able to block out during the day attacked his mind with a vengeance with the aid of alcohol. And all it took was looking into Nicky’s face.

Suddenly, without realizing what he was doing, he was leaning towards Nicky. Nicky held his eyes, and didn’t flinch. Richey pressed his lips to Nicky’s softly and recoiled, frightened of what he may have just done.

Nicky’s eyes were wide, his lips parted slightly in a look of shock. Richey’s mind reeled, desperately trying to come up with something to say that could fix this fatal mistake. Words refused to materialize, and he was left looking like a fish gasping for water.

Then they were kissing again, deeper this time. They tugged at each other’s lips, timid with their tongues and hands. Both of them didn’t know who started the second kiss, everything whirling and blurring, but it was happening.

Not long after it started, it stopped. Nicky sat up rail-straight and then bolted from the couch to the bathroom, almost knocking the TV and himself down in the process. The door was still open a crack and Richey could hear him getting sick into the toilet. Richey put his head in his hands. He rubbed his face vigorously, willing himself to sober up. He stood and shakily walked over to the kitchen sink to get Nicky a glass of water.

When he got to the bathroom door, he could hear Nicky breathing hard, but he was no longer throwing up. He opened the door and kneeled next to Nicky in the limited space, handing him the water. Nicky took it gladly, sipping some first, spitting it out into the toilet bowl, and then taking a healthy gulp and swallowing it. Richey rubbed a calming hand up and down Nicky’s back, making soothing sounds and whispering meaningless sounds and words of comfort.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered quietly, sure Nicky couldn’t actually hear him. “Let’s get you to bed,” he continued, louder this time. He helped Nicky up and guided him to the bed. He was mindful enough to make sure Nicky got into bed with as few movements as possible. Nicky groaned as he turned over and Richey pulled the blankets over him. Within seconds, he was asleep, his mouth gaping open against the pillow and his limbs in all directions.

Richey sighed. He looked into the living room to the couch and dropped his head. This was going to be wonderful. Motherfucker.


Filed under: Timeline:Original/Nicky, ,

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