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Bob was sprawled out on the couch, his back against the cushions. His face was flushed from drinking; neither parent was home, just him and Randy. He cracked one eye open and stared at the blank TV screen, now realizing he was bored of lying there doing nothing.
Randy plopped onto the couch near Bob’s legs, and he glanced at him. "You just gonna stare at it, or turn it on?"
Bob turned onto his stomach with a "hmph." Then he spoke, "I’m thinking."
"That’s new," Randy snorted.
Bob whined and kicked at his leg, lightly.
Randy didn’t react.
A minute passed, then two.
Rain tapped at the window.
The rain came harder, but still stayed steady, as if it was waiting for him.
Bob let out a shaky breath, "I don’t think my parents see me as anything more than a person who could do no wrong…"
Randy didn’t know how to respond, or try and defend either side, so he stayed quiet.
Bob closed his eyes. "It’s either they think it’s their fault, or someone else caused it." He sighed, then added, "They’d rather protect me than punish me, even if it’s my fault."
He tried to let out a bitter laugh, but it failed halfway through.
"I wish they’d see me as a person, not someone to protect, or someone who’d do no wrong." Bob opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. "I could commit murder, and they would blame themselves or someone else, not me, never me."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I want them to see me as a real person. I’d even be fine if they belted me. I just want to be a person in their eyes."
His eyes were glassier than they were before, and his breathing and voice were getting shaky. "I could go home stoned or drunk, and they’d blame themselves and break down trying—" He stopped.
His mouth was pressed into a thin line, as if he was holding something back, and a tear ran down the bridge of his nose. He didn’t wipe it away.
"I’d do anything for them just to stop and think and do something other than blame others," His voice cracked on “blame.”
Randy stared at the floor and shifted his gaze back to Bob, who was half curled up on the couch. His gaze lingered on him a moment too long.
"You’re—" He stopped and tried again, "You’re fine, okay? Just… drunk and talking."
It didn’t land the way he wanted to with the way he said it.
Bob didn’t respond, stayed quiet but his breathing was slowing down a bit.
Randy sighed and leaned back against the couch, "You’re impossible when drunk, you know that?" His voice lacked bite this time.
He shifted again, a little hesitant.
"Y’know what… Come here." He said like it pained him to say.
Before Bob could react, he reached out—not pulling or forcing, just offering.
Bob didn’t move so much as… gave in. He turned his body heavy and uncoordinated, letting his legs stretch out the rest of the way on the couch, and let his head drop heavily onto Randy’s lap.
Randy froze.
"Are you serious?" he muttered. He stared down at him.
Bob didn’t answer.
His face was turned inward a bit, and his breathing was slow but shaky, his lashes still wet. The fabric of Randy’s jeans already darkened where tears had soaked through. They were spreading in uneven patches, as he quit trying to hold anything in.
Randy’s hands just hovered awkwardly, unsure of what to do. "You’re heavy…" His voice was quieter this time.
Rain tapped against the glass like nothing had changed.
Randy leaned back and muttered, "Idiot."
Bob quit fighting sleep.
Bob woke up, confused. His head hurt; he definitely had a hangover. He blinked slowly and froze. Then he remembered last night. He slowly sat up, just as Randy woke up.
"You look tense," Randy commented.
Bob shook his head and stretched his arms above his head. "I’m fine."
Randy stayed quiet. He looked Bob up and down, "Listen… About last night—"
Bob cut in and stood up, "Like you said, I was just drunk and talking. I was just…" He trailed off.
Randy pressed a hand to his head. "But you still don’t have to pretend nothing happened," he responded.
Bob’s hands gripped the couch cushion. "I said I’m fine, Randy." His voice was tight.
Randy threw his arms up, "Whatever."