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"I’m going to be sick." Barry’s hand slapped at his arm. "Joe, I’m going to be sick."
"Not on my shoes you’re not." Joe maneuvered Barry—thankful that he was still small and scrawny, even for 13, and easily moved—so that he was leaning over the porch rail. Joe kept a hand on his back as Barry was sick into the bushes.
"Oh God," Barry leaned his head back against Joe’s chest and stared up at him blearily. "This is awful. Are you—are you gonna arrest me? You should arrest me. This is illegal. I’m illegal.”
"I’m not arresting you, Barry," Joe said, repositioning him so they could go continue up the porch steps and into the house, but Barry didn’t hear and continued to babble on, words slurring into each other.
"Could I stay with my dad in his cell? I wouldn’t mind if I could stay with him. I miss him, Joe. He didn’t do it. I did it." Barry nodded firmly, and Joe had a moment of panic, heart skipping a beat before he felt his blood pressure rise. But Barry continued, "I did a keg stand. And then drank even more. Oh God. Are you mad at me?” Barry asked suddenly, almost desperately. “Please don’t be mad at me. Or Iris. She told me not to. I’m sorry.”
And it was pretty hard to be mad at a kid who was still so young and small and looked on the verge of tears.
"I’m not mad," Joe said. "I might be in the morning, though. Come on, let’s get you to bed."
Barry was still talking, but Joe didn’t catch most of it. Joe shouldered open Barry’s door and helped him flop unceremoniously onto the bed. He was pulling off Barry’s shoes when Barry said, mostly asleep, “Don’t tell me dad, please. He’d be dis…dis-a…he’d be sad. About me.”
"I won’t tell him," Joe promised, but Barry, already passed out, didn’t hear him.
With a sigh, Joe pressed a kiss into the kid’s floppy hair, turned off the light, and, wishing things could be different for Barry, could be better, left him to sleep off the alcohol.