patrick feely was an alcoholic.

he knew it, somewhere deep down, no matter how much he tried to laugh it off. the way sleep never came unless there was a burn of whiskey in his throat first. the way mornings felt impossible without something to steady the shaking in his hands. the flasks tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket, slipped into his bag before school like a second set of keys.

he told himself it wasn’t a problem. plenty of lads drank. it was cork, for god’s sake. a few pints here and there never hurt anyone.

except patrick knew his wasn’t a few pints.

since he’d met you, it had been the one thing you never quite looked past.

not that you were dramatic about it. you’d just look at him sometimes, quiet and worried, like you were waiting for him to notice what he was doing to himself. now, a year into dating, patrick could feel the weight of it sitting between you.

on the bad nights — and there had been more of those lately — you were always there. hauling him into bed when he passed out halfway through a sentence. pressing a glass of water into his hands when he woke up shaking. he hated those mornings most.

the thing was, patrick wasn’t drinking because he liked it that much. not really. he drank because it made things quieter for a while. the constant hum in his head, the pressure, the parts of himself he didn’t want to think about, it all dulled. just for a bit.

and once you’d felt that kind of silence, it was hard to give it up.

today had been no different.

he’d spent the afternoon at johnny’s house with the lads. at some point he’d spotted a bottle on the kitchen counter — something expensive johnny’s da probably kept for guests — and before anyone could stop him, patrick had nicked it and necked half of it straight from the bottle. that, mixed with the other pints he'd had earlier at biddies, was not a good mixture.

he barely remembered johnny swearing at him, or gibsie trying to pry the bottle out of his hands. the next clear moment was the sound of someone saying your name and the dull realization that he’d messed up again.

now he was slumped in the passenger seat of your car, head tipped slightly against the window as streetlights slid across his vision. gibsie and johnny had practically dragged him into the seat before backing away awkwardly, mumbling something about calling if you needed help.

patrick studied you through the haze.

your hands were tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. your jaw was set in that way it got when you were trying very hard not to say something you might regret.

the quiet in the car was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the distant rush of cars passing outside. patrick watched the way the streetlights caught in your hair, the way you blinked a little too hard like you were holding something back.

patrick rubbed a hand over his face, breath shaky. “i didn’t mean for them to call you.”