Toasts
Go ahead, he says, tell me I should have picked better friends. He says and drains his glass. You don't know him; don't know what he's talking about, but you nod anyway. Tell me I should have seen it, because he was always a little bit crueler than the rest of us, because sometimes he took things too far. His glass has been refilled already and he takes another drink, gulping half of it in one go.
If you had told me that, he says if you had told me that yesterday I would have said you don't know a damn thing. The glass is empty and filled again and you think maybe you should stop him, but it really isn't your business, so you don't.
The worst of it is, he says, is that I was afraid, so afraid that he would think it was me. Because I thought, oh God, I thought, he shakes his head, that I didn't deserve him. All these years I thought I didn't deserve him. Fuck, I was stupid. He goes to drink again and this time you stop him and he flinches away from the touch. He looks at you and even with all the drinking; the pain in his face is raw and clear.
Maybe the worst of it really is, he says lower so that you have to strain to hear him, is that if he walked in that door right now, with some crazy, bullshit story of how it wasn't really him, it was Peter or something absolutely insane like that, I would believe him. I would believe him in a heartbeat. He picks up the glass and this time you don't stop him, though God only knows how he's getting home.
Here's to friendship he toasts, and drinks it down.
Here's to love he toasts and slams the glass on the bar.
A/N: I wrote this really quickly in math the other day, hope you enjoy. Reviews are always welcome.