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Years ago Nathaniel asked him "Why do you drink, Hezekiah?" and Hezekiah did not answer, for he did not know what to say to him.
Every time he came home to their shared flat he would be greeted with that question, and the drinking grew more and more insistent.
Why do you drink, Hezekiah?
I don't know.
He drank because it was all he knew how to do. He didn't know how to talk to people, he didn't know how to make himself a future, he didn't know how to sit on a couch with his friend and not view him the way a man is supposed to see a woman. There were a thousand things Hezekiah didn't know, like the amount of bees in the world or when cards were first invented or who the first Prime Minister was. On a miniscule scale he could stay awake worrying about all the things he didn't know, how he should do this or that, or he could drink.
So he drank, and he drank, and he drank.
He came home pissed and attempted to start a screaming match, trying to get the noise in his mind to match the noise in the house. Nathaniel would gently take hold of his hands and sit him down, get him a tea and lie him down on his side so he didn't choke to death on his own vomit.
Nathaniel was always so gentle. So much kinder than Hezekiah knew he deserved.
Why do you drink, Hezekiah?
Because I cannot sleep. I lie there and I have waking nightmares of my father's fists, of my mother's death in labor, of the day you finally leave me because I don't deserve a man as kind and beautiful and patient as yourself.
Nathaniel kisses his forehead and Hezekiah feels sick, like his insides are eating away at himself and he's sure to wake up dead. He should, for feeling like this, for being so rotten inside and out. He wants to itch his skin off until all that remains is bones, he the floor to swallow him and to never get out. He wants to love a woman, he wants to hold her close to him and sleep with her in his arms, to scratch that itch for comfort that never seems to leave him, but whenever he thinks too long about his ideal match he sees Nathaniel's face.
He squirms with discomfort in his sleep, the cheap beer not enough to hold him over.
He gets up in the night for a second mug, just to keep himself down, and he thinks hazily of Nathaniel's scratchy red beard and big, leathery hands. What would they feel like to hold in his?
These are sinners' thoughts, and he must drown out the sinner within him.
But damn does it feel good.
Is it wrong?
Nathaniel, the drinking, all of it. Why should be be wrong? After all, he is just a man, and if this is not God's image, does God not know joy and comfort and light? Did God create them just to dangle in front of Hezekiah and take away at a moment's notice?
Why do you drink, Hezekiah?
Because God made me a drunk and that must be what He wants of me.
Feisty words, angry words, words quickly regretted, but not nearly as much as the strain it puts between the two of them. Hezekiah wants his friend back. Nathaniel does not think he’s funny so he will be snappy and rude.
Why do you drink, Hezekiah?
He's come home drunk once more, collapsed onto the couch like a sick man. And yet there's a silly smile plastered across his face, one he can't maintain.
I drink because I love, he tries his best to explain. I love the drink. I love the feeling of it in my belly, I love the lightheadedness and the dizzy spells you hate. I love your comfort, I crave your affection, and I love it. I love drinking my worries away until there are none left, until I can be here with you with no filters or worries in the back of my mind.
Nathaniel leans down to kiss his forehead goodnight and before his guilt can leave
Hezekiah paralyzed, he grabs hold of Nathaniel's face and slots their lips together, a warm, giddy feeling spreading across his stomach. His childhood friend pulls away, but there's a faint smile on his pink lips that spreads to Hezekiah.
Go to sleep, you drunkard.
You need help is the start of a conversation at least once a week. Hezekiah brushes it off, but he doesn't dink during the day. Just before bed, just to put himself down. And after a particularly difficult day where he loses his job, and the subsequent weeks afterwards.
He doesn't get up. He doesn’t have the energy to remain awake, half a decade of insomnia creeping up on him.
You lied there for a day, unresponsive while I splashed water on you and shook your shoulders and threated to call a doctor. You're the love of my life and I can't stand to see you like this. I have to intervene.
Hezekiah can't even savor the confession of love that didn't make his stomach twist in Catholic guilt and shame.
I love the drink, Nathaniel.
I know you do.
When it comes time to bury him, Hezekiah takes one last drink from his old flask. He broke into their- Nathaniel's- house. It has his father's initials engraved and still smells like the cheep shit he bought. His former lover bought much nicer things when the fucking drunk was out of the house, wasn't he?
But Hezekiah can't be mad. He loves the drink. And he loves Nathaniel.
He loves Nathaniel like a substance, but what do you do when the substance doesn't work? When it isn't there with you, when it fights you every step of the way? When it's self righteous and holier-than-thou?
Nathaniel's unresponsive in the grave Hezekiah dug for him, and he throws down his flask, trading it for the shovel.
I love you and you betrayed me and you were my everything and you killed what was left of us and now.. now you will join me in the dirt. Now you will see what it is to love and be loved by something, and you will see what it is to have no one understand. Do you see? Do you get it yet?
I'm so alone, Nathaniel. When did you leave me? What was the catalyst? Why won't vou answer?
He starts to pile the dirt on, talking to Nathaniel as if his words could somehow reach him.
I drink because...
I drink because I love you.