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“What is that, your fifth? Are you alright?”
Jon frowns into his drink, a rum and coke, “Sixth, actually.”
Daisy sucks in air through her teeth and takes another swig of her beer, “No dice, then? That blows.” She laughs then, as if at an inside joke with herself.
“It's—I mean, it’s not that I don’t feel it. That’s almost the worst part. It’s like all the bad parts of being drunk but without any of the numbing or—or euphoria. I’m still perfectly aware, but it’s like—like squinting through a fog. I feel sick.”
He takes another careful sip as Daisy studies him curiously.
“Why d'you keep going, then?”
Jon shrugs, “It’s what you do at a bar, isn’t it?”
Daisy cuts her eyes at him and then finishes her beer in one long pull, “Oh, good lord,” she croaks when she comes up for air, “Give me that.”
She snatches his drink and staggers off to the bar.
Basira slides into the seat next to him, then, back from the toilet. She’s looked distinctly uncomfortable since they all arrived, and he can’t really blame her.
“Everything okay?” Jon asks anyway.
Basira gives him a withering look, “Sure.”
Daisy comes back from the bar, then, and slams an ice water down on the table in front of Jon, splashing it across the front of his shirt.
“Drink,” Daisy commands.
Jon is not in the habit of arguing with Daisy when she’s sober, let alone while she’s drunk, so he sips it obediently, grabbing a napkin with which to dab at his sweater.
“Honestly, you’re like a teenager,” Daisy grunts, drinking Jon’s appropriated rum and coke, “You just go out of your way to make yourself miserable—if you don’t like drinking, then don’t drink. Use that big important brain of yours for once.”
A sharp spike of irritation goes through him at this, “You were the one who dragged us here, Daisy. Basira doesn’t even drink.”
“Jon,” says Basira, and Daisy sighs.
She slides into the seat across the table and puts her chin in her hands.
“You’re right. This was a mistake.”
Jon blinks. Daisy sounds much less intoxicated than she did just a moment ago.
“None of us ought to be drinking. Least of all that one,” Daisy jerks her thumb across the room at Melanie, dancing off-beat amidst a crowd of other drunk revelers.
“At least she seems to be having fun,” Jon grumbles, drinking his ice water. He is feeling a bit less nauseated, at least—not that he would admit that to Daisy.
She looks almost contrite, to her credit, “Maybe next time we’ll just go for a bite to eat.”
Jon and Basira scoff at the same time and then glance at each other in vague reproach. Daisy presses her lips into a line, clearly trying not to laugh.
Jon stands abruptly, then, trying to hide the sway in his step, “I’m going to have a cigarette, if anyone needs me.” He adds under his breath, “If some monster doesn’t snap me up.”
“Jon,” Daisy calls, but he’s already turned away.
—
Jon is halfway through his cigarette when Daisy slumps onto the bench beside him.
He wordlessly offers a light, but she waves him off.
“Oh, absolutely not. You know what that stuff does to your body.”
He laughs, “Yes. I’m not so much worried about it anymore.”
Daisy frowns at him.
Jon shrugs, “The way I see it is: either it can’t hurt me, or if it does, then what’s the real harm? One less monster, and all that.”
There’s a long silence, then, and Jon is about to apologize for being maudlin when Daisy mutters, “Fuck you.”
“Excuse me?”
Before Jon can react, Daisy reaches over and plucks the cigarette right out of his hand, dropping it on the pavement and crushing it out under the heel of her boot.
“Daisy!”
“Just because you’re suicidal doesn’t mean you have to rub it in everyone’s faces.”
Jon freezes, gobsmacked, “I—I’m not—what? Daisy—”
“Shut up,” she hisses, “You think you’re turning into a monster—how terrible. I am one. You’ve seen me. And I’m fighting tooth and nail every moment not to fall back into that place. Because I deserve to die, not you, Jon. What have you ever done?”
“I…”
“I’ve done plenty. I’ve been to hell, and I’m not going back.”
“Daisy—”
“Don’t say anything that’ll make me want to kill you again.”
Jon swallows.
Daisy looks at him sideways, “It’s a joke.”
“Right. Your jokes aren’t very funny,” it comes out hoarse, but Daisy cracks a grin.
“Look who’s talking.”
There’s a long, tense silence as both of them study the pavement.
Jon sighs, “Why are you doing this, Daisy? Why do you care?”
“That’s an odd word to use.”
“Would you call it inaccurate?”
She ponders this. “No. Maybe over-simple. But…you’re my friend.”
“I’m wh—”
“You’re also a dangerous bastard, and I’m watching you. I’m not—” she hesitates, rubs a hand over her face, “I’m not going to let you go where I went, Jon. If you do, I'll—I’m going to stop you. Like I did all the others. No matter what it does to me,” she smiles, and there’s something broken in it.
Jon nods slowly, “I…honestly, thank you, Daisy. That’s all I can ask for, really.”
She squints at him, “You realize I just promised to kill you, right?”
Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, “I—yes, Daisy, I had sussed it out,” he throws up his hands in exasperation, “Why, is this another of your ‘jokes’?”
Daisy snorts, “No. I am serious. Just wasn’t sure you were really that keen on dying. Almost makes me feel bad.”
“I’m not!” It comes out too sharp, indignant. Jon clears his throat, “I mean—I’m just—scared. Daisy, I’m scared. I don’t want to become—”
“You haven’t. Not yet.”
“What?”
“You haven’t even hurt anyone—not anyone who was ever a person, anyway—so calm down. You’re so soft, Jon. And so moral. Jesus, any time I mention my dreams you get this look like I’ve kicked you… You’re doing it now.”
Jon tries to school his features into neutrality, and Daisy laughs.
“You can smoke if you want by the way; I won’t actually try to stop you. Was just making a point. It really is awful for your lungs, though.”
Jon shifts uncomfortably and resists the urge to immediately reach for another cigarette as Daisy watches him.
Instead, he says, “I have hurt people, though—you, Melanie, Basira, Martin…Tim.” He pauses. It’s been months, but the pain of that loss feels fresh suddenly.
“That’s not what I mean, Jon. You know it. Everyone hurts people in the way that people hurt people. It’s part of—it’s part of being a person in the first place. That’s why—you have to hold on to them to keep what’s left of yourself. Trust me.”
He meets her eyes and realizes that he does. Not the fake, forced trust he’s had to work to cultivate in order to function at all around his coworkers, but truly. Somehow, Jon trusts Daisy of all people.
“That’s just mad,” he says to himself, not really intending to say it out loud. Daisy laughs.
“You would think so.”
“No, I—” Jon sighs, “I don’t know. It makes sense—I know you’re right. But I can't—” he stops abruptly, takes several heavy breaths.
“Jon?”
“I can’t trust myself. Even if I can trust you, I can’t trust myself. I know…I know I can’t.”
He does get out another cigarette then, shielding it from the brisk wind as he lights it.
Daisy sighs, “Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, “I’m going to go check on Melanie. We should probably get out of here soon. Don’t think it’s doing anyone any good.”
Jon exhales, and he can’t tell what’s smoke and what’s the fog of his breath in the cool night air.
“I’m…yes, sure. But Daisy—the drinking wasn’t great, but I’m glad. Glad we talked. Thank you.”
She stands, “Of course. Let’s go home, Jon. I’ll go get the others.”
“Okay.”