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Sometimes, when he was younger, he wished that he would die. Not by his own hand, but by someone else’s. He wished that one day some thugs would come kidnap him and his parents would refuse to pay the ransom, and the thugs would shoot him in the temple. He used to tell these things to the neighbor boy, Stanley, who would just laugh at him and pass the rolled up bill to snort a line of his own.
Stanley, the only other person his age knowing what he was going through, was the only person he hated just as much as he liked. Not even Sam, the man he had once thought to be his close friend and then had betrayed him, could compare to Stanley. He had helped Rafe through sixteen years of adolescence until Stanley had died of an overdose.
When he was still with the Drake’s, early on, he remembers looking at them with envy. Cursing his mother for not being intelligent enough to have another heir to the Adler fortune. Cursing his parents for leaving him alone so often to the point where he sought out Stanley’s attention. He watches the brothers work together, laugh together, finish each other’s sentences. He envies their closeness. They had each other when they were younger, at least until Nathan was fourteen. Rafe had Stanley.
Stanley and all of his drugs and women. All of his self-hatred that he projected almost too well onto Rafe. Stanley and his family which dabbled in illegal business. His father who had once held a knife to Rafe’s throat while he had been drunk, screaming in his ear that he was rat, a mole for the FBI.
No, Sam had Nate. And Nate had Sam. They had someone to rely on. Someone to talk to without having to be high first. He sighed.
Now, he’s almost forty, on the brink of middle age. Or death. Depending on whether you were considering the national average or his family’s average. Three years after he found Avery’s treasure and almost left the brothers there to die. Three years since Nadine had turned her back on him and stolen half his fortune for her troubles. He had made the money back no problem, but it had hurt like hell.
He moaned, leaning onto his side and letting to bile dribble from his mouth. Personally he didn’t like the taste of whisky, but it went down hard and got him drunk fast so he wasn’t really minding it tonight. He coughed, the staleness of his breath almost causing him to vomit once again.
His house – mansion really – was empty. There was that dog – stupid fucking dog – downstairs just in case someone tried to break in. But otherwise, it was just him.
He had paid a lot of money after they got back in the states to put Sam up in a nice house wherever he wanted. Even more money to give Nate and that girl – Alena? Ellie? – a house big enough for them to have their perfect family. He even threw a couple thousand at Victor ‘God Damn’ Sullivan so he could buy himself a new ‘god damn’ plane. And what was their thanks? Their forgiveness. He didn’t want their forgiveness. He wanted their…their…
Shit, he was balling like a baby now. Last time he had cried he’d been young enough not to fight back, but old enough to understand that with tears came pain.
He wanted their forgiveness, yes, but he also wanted their friendship. Maybe not friendship. More like, they would be his business partners again. Maybe not Nate and his girlfriend – wife? Lover? Hooker? – but he hoped for Sam. He begged for Sam, at least in private. Sullivan…he could do without. The man was knocking on death’s door what with his age and his constant smoking.
Sam though…he respected Sam. They were the same really, just from different backgrounds. Sam had nothing. Rafe had everything.
Sam had Nate.
Rafe had Stanley.
He knows, having been around Sam for so long, that there were things that the other man would never do to him. He wouldn’t let Rafe get blackout drunk and make him think he raped a girl. He wouldn’t force him into drugs over and over again. He wouldn’t belittle him. He wouldn’t do as Stanley had done.
He’d praise him, help him, teach him.
Rafe whined loudly and pounded his fist on the ground, wondering how much more he’ll have to drink before his body shuts down.
With a grunt and some drool, he manages to pull himself up off the floor, bare feet below him stumbling around as if they have a mind of their own. He grumbles, reaching around to grab the sides of the sink and pull his body up far enough to see his face in the mirror. He looks like shit. Like he just partied for seven days without sleep and hasn’t showered in double that time.
How pathetic. Drinking himself to death in his bathroom. At least it’s a nice bathroom. Marble countertops, quartz on the walls. People would kill for this bathroom. Whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore. Now, where are those anti-depressants?
Only take one very four hours, he reads. “How about…” he opens the bottle and counts the number of pills left. “Twenty-three at once?”
“Rafe!” He grumbles, continuing to lift the bottle to his mouth and the opening to his lips. “Rafe!”
Now that fucking dog is barking.
“Down Captain, down!”
Rafe chews on the few pills in his mouth and rolls his eyes. The only person who calls that stupid mutt ‘Captain’ is Sam. What the fuck is he doing here anyways? Rafe just wants to finish this bottle in peace and quiet. “Rafe!”
“Bathroom!” He responds finally through the mashed pill dust in his mouth.
Sam stomps up the stairs in an elephant type fashion, and manages to get to the bathroom that he knows is specifically Rafe’s before the other can moisten his mouth enough to swallow. “What’s going on…?”
Rafe opens his mouth childishly. “Seeing what happens if I take the whole bottle.”
Sam’s hand darts out to grab his jaw and yank his head down to the sink. The water is running around his mouth like a million little Olympians, cleaning his mouth like he’d been brushing his teeth. He starts to choke on the water and feels the hand on his head loosen, then grab his hair and pull him up. His head is wet and his eyes are glassy as he stares over at the taller man. For a spare second he thinks that this is Stanley, here to laugh at his misery one last time.
He’s wrapped up in arms soon after being pulled out from under the water, his whole body slumping. “Jesus Rafe, you didn’t show up for dinner at Nate’s, then you didn’t answer your phone – I thought you were being murdered.”
Rafe chuckles darkly. “Nope!” He yells straight into the other man’s ear.
Sometimes, when he was younger, he thought he was going to die alone. But now, being held by this traitor, he figures that he wouldn’t mind dying around other people. His hands clench at Sam’s shirt.
“Sorry.”