Chapter Text
“Don’t be such a baby.”
Zach Skeet’s words ring inside of Matt’s head like a ball, bouncing off the sides of his skull the same way that the throbbing of a headache would make him feel dizzy. “It’s not like anything’ll happen if you do. It’s just a drink.” Skeet continued, pushing the glass bottle closer to Matt across the table. Faint grey eyes looked at the bottle, then at Skeet. Matt’s lower lip quivered, as if he was afraid to speak up to the older boy. “But—“ Matt started, finding some courage to try and avoid downing the liquor. “But what? Seriously, Matt, you’re so childish. It’s just a drink. Don’t tell me you’re actually scared.” Skeet continued, scoffing as he leaned back in the chair.
The TV was still on in the living room, playing whatever channel the two had left it on earlier when Skeet first came over to celebrate. The cake was pulled from the fridge, which was half eaten by both of them. The candles were blown out and strewn on the table nearby. “But… isn’t it bad for us? Mom said that you have to be an adult to drink alcohol…” The younger mumbled quietly, Skeet’s gaze falling on him more intently than the boy had hoped. “So what? You’re a year older now, so you’re technically closer to being an adult than a baby. Just drink it.”
Matt’s gaze once again fell on the bottle. The glass was lime-green in colour, the cap was crudely opened and popped off by Skeet earlier in an attempt to remove it properly. The smell that wafted from the inside was weird. It was sour and bitter to Matt’s senses, making him crinkle his nose. He remembered hearing his mother speak about wine once, when he was younger. She had always said different scents came with different kinds, but all Matt could smell was the grossness and bitterness that came from the bottle. He hated it. He moved his head away from the bottle, hand slowly wrapping around the cooled glass neck to swish the liquid around inside of it. The tiny bubbles slowly fizzled to the top, making a soft hiss that only made the pangs of concern dig deeper in Matt’s stomach.
Matt turns his head, looking at Skeet. He looked at the bottle one last time before he let out a sigh. “Um…” A glance at the older boy. “Aren’t you gonna drink, too?” Matt spoke, looking at the pack of bottles that were unopened on the table near Skeet. Skeet stopped, brows knitting together like he was confused. “What?” Skeet sat upright, looking at Matt like he was stupid. “You said there was nothing to worry about… And, you’re older than me, so you’ve drank before, right?” It was pure innocence, the words spilling from between Matt’s teeth. Skeet, despite knowing this, felt something red-hot boiling inside of his veins. He did say there was nothing to worry about. Was Matt teasing him? Saying that he, Skeet, was the chicken? “‘Course I have, dumbass.” Skeet rolled his eyes, lying while swiping a bottle from the pack in a moment of desperation to look as cool as he thought he would if he did it. “You’re such a loser for thinking anything bad will happen. It’s just a drink.”
He shrugged the sleeve of his hoodie down over his palm, closing his hand around the top to try and pop the cap off. He knew better than to use his hand uncovered— years of fetching bottomless glasses and bottles for her father pre-opened had taught him that a bottle opener was best, but Skeet didn’t want to go snooping around the kitchen to see if the Rivera family owned one. They probably did, seeing as they owned literally everything else in the world… He thought bitterly, twisting and popping the cap off with some force. There was an audible sound that came after, followed by the soft wafting of trapped air releasing from the bottle. He knew Matt was watching his every move with a wide-eyed stare, eyes following the movement of his hands as thin fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle while the liquid sloshed inside.
Skeet took the first sip, the taste of something sour forcing its way down his throat felt like a violent and unwanted intrusion in his body. How can adults get addicted to this? It tastes so bad. He felt it warm his tongue and the back of his throat the longer it stuck, but it didn’t make it taste any better. If anything, it made it worse. “See?” He swallowed the last bits stuck to the sides of his mouth, the corner of his lips twitching at the awful taste. “Now drink yours. I brought it just for you.”
Matt felt his chest tighten at the words. Skeet did bring it all just for him. So, swallowing his fears like a warm glass of whiskey, Matt slowly brought the tip of the bottle to his lips and tipped his head back slightly. The taste nearly made him gag. It was sour and unpleasant, only becoming warm with the weird tingle down the back of his throat that he didn’t enjoy— not at all. He grimaced as he swallowed, setting the bottle down as he looked to Skeet with an unhappy gaze. “Skeet, it tastes weird. Can’t we just drink the juice in the fridge…?” The only response Matt got was Skeet groaning, as if his plea was nothing but an annoyance to the older boy.
“That’s just how it tastes. The more you drink, the better it gets.” Skeet wasn’t even sure if he was telling the truth, or if he was right at all. There had to be a reason why his dad loved to drink so many of these. Maybe it just tasted better the more you’ve drank. So, experimentally, he did the same as Matt. He took a longer sip, trying to get accustomed to the way it tasted on his tongue. He could feel Matt’s gaze laid on him, following his actions and taking another sip. He’s trying to one-up me. The disgusting echo of a voice in his head that festered like an ugly scar, opening and spewing black blood across his brain like an infection until it reaches into his veins under his skin, making him feel nothing but vile envy.
So, Skeet downed it. He tipped his head back quite far, feeling the wood of the chair lightly tap against the back of his head as the liquid rushed down over his tongue. One bottle wouldn’t get him drunk. It takes his dad at least five to get angry. There were only four bottles left. Two left for each of them. Didn’t people call this stuff liquid courage anyway? He had drunk half the bottle by the time he had realized it. It sat in his otherwise empty stomach, a part of him wishing he had eaten a little bit more cake.
Matt was struggling to down the amount Skeet did, the liquid probably having to be forced down his throat by a strong swallow. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to drink all that. Skeet himself didn’t feel too comfortable about drinking three bottles, but he had to prove it to Matt, obviously. He rarely could finish what was on his plate on a normal day if there was ever enough on his plate, so three bottles of beer… maybe he could prove something to himself, too.
And so it began. Skeet would occasionally eye Matt, refusing to fully meet his gaze, dismissively. Matt was still on his first when the younger boy heard Skeet crack open the second one. Neither of them had said a word to each other for the time they had been drinking, and Skeet intended to keep it that way. Matt, however, didn’t.
“After we… um, finish our drinks,” He began, much to the displeasure of Skeet. “Can we go play a game? Maybe Roblox? We can take turns on my computer.” He tried to smile, the look of hope in his eyes that Skeet would agree was wavering like a broken flag. Skeet glanced at him first, putting his bottle down before facing him. Whatever. “Sure. We can do that.” He answered, seeing the way that Matt’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree upon hearing. Skeet felt something churn inside of him like flesh stuck between two gears. He quickly turned his gaze away, taking another long sip. Matt slowly turned back to his own drink, doing the same to finish it. Once there were only a few drops left at the tip, Matt placed it on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Skeet turned only a little, placing his down to grab another for Matt.
He was slow, this time. Reaching for the bottle with slightly hued cheeks. He grabbed it, dragging it across the table to himself to open it for the younger boy. He struggled, his sleeved hand twisting the cap with less accuracy than before. Once it was off after a good minute or so of trying, he slid it over to Matt, who mumbled out a polite ‘thank you’ before taking a small sip. Skeet didn’t reply.
Time began to blur for Skeet. He could see out of the corner of his eye the window that had been left open with the curtains pulled to the side. There was a slight fog on the glass, the winter weather gently brushing up against it like a calling. Snow had fallen earlier in the day, leaving Skeet with rosy cheeks and his hoodie zipped up as high as it could go when he first arrived at Matt’s place. Despite never being properly dressed for the season, Skeet liked the winter. Something about the cold brushing up against him felt nice. It felt welcoming in a way. Comforting even. He had barely realized that he had finished his second, and Matt was halfway through his. His head felt a little light, words building on his tongue.
He reached for his third, head slowly bobbing as he grabbed the neck of the bottle and pulled it out onto the table. He tried to open it with haste, but failed the first two times. Matt blinked a few times, looking at Skeet’s hands on the bottle. “Want me to—“ “Shut up.” Skeet shot back with a sharp tongue, palm pressing into the hardened edges of the cap to rip it off haphazardly. He let out a huff, looking at the final bottle in the cardboard holder, taking it out, and handing it to Matt without warning. He then lazily pushed the cardboard off the table, taking a sip of his third beer. He kept eyeing Matt, who was taking small sips with long strides of silence between each one. He was taking too long. Skeet didn’t have all day.
He weighed the options as best he could in his head. They swirled together like liquid, becoming sloshy and blurry in his mind. What was he going to do again? His head turned slowly, eyes lidded as he looked at Matt. Juzt do it. Don’t be a babyz. The more spotty his vision became, Skeet stood up. Matt looked up at Skeet, swallowing nervously. “Um… Skeet?” He sounded nervous. Skeet didn’t reply. He just stood there, wobbling a little with his hand on the table. His expression was unreadable to the younger boy, making Matt feel even more unsure. “Skeet..? What are you… doing…” His words slurred a little, pausing to try and remind himself of the English terms he wanted to use. Skeet slowly raised his knee, placing it on the empty space on Matt’s chair. “Skeet, I’m serious… what’re you
It happened all too fast for Matt to register what was going on for the first few seconds. Skeet was on top of him, hands slowly traveling up to wrap around Matt’s neck in a moment of drunken stupor. He wasn’t squeezing very tightly, as evidenced by the way his hands kept flexing around the warm skin of the younger boy. It had felt quite strange. Skeet had such cold hands, yet his cheeks were painted a rosy hue like he had been outside moments ago. They’d been inside Matt’s house for hours now.
Ah, Matt kicked his legs, hands flailing to grab onto something. He’s drunk. He’s drunkand he’s going tokill me. Matt felt tears prick the corner of his eyes, his heart thumping out of his chest with wild fear. “Zach, Zach!” He cried out, kicking his legs and grabbing at the older boy’s wrists frantically. “Stop..” Skeet slurred, pushing him into the ground harder. “Stop fuckin’ calling me that, dumbass…” He squeezed his hands around Matt’s neck harder, pushing him into the kitchen floor. Matt let out a shrill yell, begging for Skeet to stop. He kicked his legs, panic forcing adrenaline to surge through his body like blood through his veins. He grabbed at Skeet’s hoodie, grabbing the drawstrings as he pulled on them to force Skeet closer to the ground.
The action caught Skeet off guard, making him pull back and giving Matt a moment of freedom to scramble to his knees with tears in his eyes and a dizziness in his stance. He doesn’t waste any more time, slowly getting onto his feet. “Z- Skeet! What are you doing?!” Matt sobs, wiping away tears from his eyes as he sniffled. Skeet stared at him with glazed eyes, unable to muster up a response. “Say something, you’re scaring me!” Matt cried again, shaking his head as he took a few steps back when Skeet came closer. The older boy stumbled forward, eyes glassy, breath sour with beer. The push sent them both crashing to the floor. Matt felt a tooth dig into his lip, the subtle and metallic taste filling his mouth.
Matt shoved him back and away from him, getting desperate. Skeet hit the carpet, rolling with a groan before pushing himself up again, weaker than before. Then both of them were on their feet, swaying, shouting words neither could remember. A shove, a swing, a flailing punch that landed wrong. It was like watching two puppies bite at each other. Neither of them knew what to do, but they both knew that they had to do something.
In the flashing moments where his vision was clear enough to see, Matt’s hand found a bottle on the table. It was still dripping with excess liquor, but the neck was firm in his grip and the wide end was facing out. He raised it, not thinking about anything but defense. Skeet’s eyes widened when he saw the bottle, seeing Matt raise it like a memory. His arms came up like instinct, blocking his face as he turned away with a flinch. Matt blinked, the action catching him off guard as the bottle slipped from his hand, falling to the floor with a loud shatter that made both of the boys wince.
The moment that Skeet realized Matt was no longer holding the bottle, his body moved before his mind did. He drove forward, ramming Matt against the wall with a thud that shook the picture frames hanging along the space. His hands flew to Matt’s neck, squeezing as hard as he possibly could. Saliva dribbled down the open side of Matt’s mouth, kicking and uselessly trying to hit Skeet to get him off. He had landed a pretty sizable hit on Skeet earlier, the blood still dripping fresh from his nose, while a reddening mark on his cheek would eventually bloom into a deep purple bruise. “Can’t you jus’…” His words came out like they weren’t really his. They were broken, half-slurred, half-sobbing. “Can’t you just give up?” Skeet mumbled through gritted teeth. Their breaths rasped in sync. Skeet’s eyes cleared just enough for guilt to flicker through.
Matt could see the way that his vision was spotting and the way that Skeet’s hands were faltering, so he didn’t have much time. Adrenaline still rushed through his body like lightning, making him unable to think clearly. He could only think about how he was going to live. Quickly, without thinking, his hand flew to Skeet’s head, fingers tightly gripping into a fistful of hair. The action caught Skeet off guard, trying to shove him away.
They stumbled sideways, both boys still gripping tightly to each other as Matt eventually leaned himself on Skeet, sending them both into the table with Skeet hitting it first. Glass scattered, caught in the kitchen’s light, and there was the disgusting sound of something breaking that wasn’t furniture, followed by the soft squelch of glass into skin.
Matt had stayed on the floor, unable to muster the strength to get on his feet. His whole body ached, and he felt sick in his stomach. The feeling of puke trying to escape his mouth was coming, almost making Matt want to force it out just to get it over with. He sniffled, choked sobs leaving his mouth as he tried not to cry any more than he already had.
His hands burned, and his head hurt so badly he wanted to die. The room was moving like a kaleidoscope, making Matt feel dizzier. He couldn’t remember if he hit the table, the wall, or Skeet before landing on the ground. Skeet. Matt felt his heart rate quicken, scrambling to his knees as he pushed himself up against the cupboards that were against the wall. He searched the scene for Skeet, finally seeing him lying on the floor with his back to Matt across the kitchen. Glass surrounded him, yet Skeet made no effort to get up. He just laid there, motionless.
He didn’t want to get close; he didn’t know what would happen. A couple of minutes went by of soft sobs and hiccups coming from Matt, waiting for Skeet to get up, or even move. Nothing.
“S- Skeet?” He hiccuped, uncovering his reddened eyes, tears staining soft brown cheeks. Dark curls stuck to his face from the wetness, making it hard to see until he messily brushed them away from his view. Seconds went by, and Matteo was met with no answer. “Zach…?” He tried again. Blood trickled from his nose between the shards of glass that lay on the floor under his head, making a reflection of red and green that shimmered in Matteo’s blurry vision. Saliva mixed with blood leaked from the corner of his open mouth, fingers lying relaxed on the kitchen floor.
Matteo stumbled to his knees, feeling the glass begin to pierce through the fabric on his legs. “Zach, get up, please.” He shook Zach’s shoulder, hearing the glass crunch beneath both of them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, get up, please, Zach!” Frantic and exhausted, Matteo kept shaking him as tears fell and dripped onto the tiny glass shards beneath him. He could hear the sound of excess air being squeezed from Zach’s lungs, as if he was unable to get in any oxygen through his nose. “No, please, I’m sorry, Zach, I’m sorry, please get up, I’m sorry!” He sobbed, fingers curling into the old, thin hoodie that Zach always wore. He could feel his skin underneath, still warm and waiting.
The younger boy felt his stomach twist into knots and violent, sharp edges as his gaze slowly fell on Zach’s face. Blood slowly trickled from his nose, face pressed to the ground like he had no energy to get up and fight back. Small, translucent tears fell from the corners of his eyes as they traveled down the ridges of his face and onto the ground. His eyes were fixated on Matteo, unmoving and unblinking.
Matteo felt his heart sink into his stomach, as if it hadn’t been sinking the whole time.
Matteo Rivera, what haveyou done?