patrick was an alcoholic.

now that wasn’t something he admitted willingly, despite everything his dad had been telling him, despite all the concerned looks from the lads everytime he took it a little too far when they went to the pub.

he wasn’t stupid.

he knew his dependence and alcohol intake wasn’t normal — not for a lad his age. but he refused to admit it. he was young, living his life. he had so much responsibility. the farm, school, rugby. alcohol was a release, and it was a bad one.

he was realising that now. now he was in the middle of nowhere, sat on the cold and wet pavement as he slumps against a brick wall. he’s cold. drunk.

alone.

he’s so alone.

so he calls you.

it’s a mess of slurring and confusion, but you manage to figure out where he was and you say you’re on your way.

patrick’s pathetic. he knows that, but he feels worse calling you. you, who had tried so hard to help him come off the alcohol. you, who took him out and spend days on the farm with him so he didn’t feel so overwhelmed and go out and drink.

and patrick had repayed you by throwing it all down the drain. shouting at you. pushing you away, when the cravings got too much.

and he regretted it. regretted what could’ve been. regretted what wasn’t.

and he realises now, maybe, that this isn’t normal.

drinking yourself into oblivion isn’t normal.

and maybe he needs help.