Ples/Veser, kind of. Guilty!Ples, Drunk!Veser, Mellow!Veser, and Angsty!Veser.

Responsibility

There was some point, probably one that he had missed long ago, where he should have put his foot down about his willingness to enable minors to get utterly smashed out of their minds.

Ples Tibenoch sighed and dropped the empty bottle into the recycling bin.

This was guilt. And something like Lima syndrome, if he was using that term properly, which was doubtful. Veser wasn't a hostage.

Ples had just helped turn him into a victim.

Veser lay passed out on the couch. Ples had found the spare key he had given the boy on the counter, and made a mental note to slip it into Veser's jacket pocket because he would no doubt forget.

Debussy was blasting from the stereo, "Claire de Lune". Ples shrugged at the odd choice. Usually when he was knocking them back he preferred Mozart, but trust youth today to have good taste in anything.

It was not a punishment to his neurosis to welcome a stranger into his home at odd hours. It was not repentance for helping kill someone and behaving in a negligent manner. It was just taking responsibility for a minor who had nowhere else to go.

Well, nowhere he wanted to go, evidently. The answering machine was already blinking with a message from Conrad worried out of his mind about where that damn kid had gone, mourning was one thing but running off in the middle of the night was another, there was only so much he could do, and couldn't Tibenoch please, please, PLEASE put his foot down, take some freaking responsibility, and make the damn shark-boy behave?

Ples sighed again. Much, much too late for things like that.

He went to fetch the spare blankets that were practically Veser's now that he used them so much. When he got back to the living room, Veser had roused and was drowsily flipping through Ples' collection of classical music. He glanced at Ples guiltily. "I thought I heard you ticking."

Ples attempted to look stern. "So I guess you're not completely and utterly pissed out of your mind."

Veser shrugged weakly. "Just moderately, I guess."

"I've said before that I don't like you drinking alone."

"It helps me sleep."

Ples took a seat on the ottoman across from the couch. "A single gin aids sleep. The whole bottle is the sure path to a sorry liver. And that's my lecture for the night. Do you want more Debussy?"

"Yeah, please." Veser settled back into the over-stuffed couch, looking bemused.

"I have to admit, I've never taken you for a classical music fan."

"I'm not. You've just got nothing better to listen to," Veser growled half-heartedly.

"I see. This is the only other one I have. It's set to ocean waves; apparently people use it for guided meditation."

Veser stirred at the sight of the album. "I think I had that at some point."

"Oh really?"

"Lee gave it to me. It sounds the way my mother would sing if she sang in a major key. My mom's a really amazing singer. I mean, she mostly just hums under her breath, but it's really amazing anyway. She could have been famous, but I don't think that was really the point. I forget what I was trying to say." Veser paused and frowned. He tried again. "My mom's a really amazing singer."

Ples squirmed a little as he recognized the beginnings of a one-sided drunk conversation. He had sat through so many in his career as a 'regular' in various bars. "Should I not play it then?"

"She used to sing to me when I was little. It was nice. She stopped when Dad started getting so weird about where she spent her attention. I don't think he was actually that jealous when I was little, it just got that way later. Though actually, I'm not sure she would have kept singing to me even if Dad hadn't made a thing out of it. Actually, I don't even know if he made a thing out of it. I think she just got tired of singing to me. She could get really easily bored of things. Anyway, Lee noticed that she wasn't singing as much anymore, and asked me about it. And when I told him, he gave me the CD."

"Perhaps Mozart instead, then, if it bothers you."

"I forget what happened to that CD. I think I broke it."

Ples narrowed his eyes; this had become one of Veser's typical lies. "You broke it? Are you sure?"

Veser frowned, and suddenly seemed a bit more sentient. "Yes. No. No, yes, I think that was actually me who broke it." After another moment, he added, "I stepped on it. I was in a hurry."

"Late for school?"

"Getting the fu-scuse me, getting the he-uh, shit, I mean," Veser rubbed his eyes. "Had to get out of the house fast. Pardon my frigging French. I'm drunk."

"It's all right, I don't mind."

"Yes, you do."

Ples pushed the CD into the stereo's slot and pressed play. "Frankly, I still can't help but think of that as your father breaking the CD, not you."

"Did he say much when you saw him?"

"Who?"

"Lee. You saw him before he died."

"Veser, we've talked about this."

"Well, I forget, so tell me again."

"He poured his heart out over whiskey. He loved your mother very much, and he was worried about your family as a whole. He couldn't believe there was an ill-intentioned bone in your father's body, and he was sure that the whole thing could be fixed in a conversation. He was very intent on it. It was very good of him."

"It was my idea. I was the one who told him about the pelt."

"Yes, I know. It was a very nice idea for something to do for your mother. We've talked about this."

Veser closed his eyes. "The room's spinning."

"No it isn't. You're drunk. Do you need me to fetch a trash can? I don't mean to sound callous, but I'd like to keep this furniture in good condition. Especially if I'm going to be regularly hosting a guest on it," Ples added meaningfully.

"No, I'm okay. I'm just gonna go back to sleep." As soon as he said it, Veser keeled over and rested his head on the arm of the couch. He rolled over to face the couch inward. "If I close my eyes it all goes away."

Ples closed his own eyes reflexively. "That must be very convenient."

Veser didn't respond. He appeared to have passed out. Ples began covering him with the blankets.

"Ples?"

"Yes, Veser."

"I've been thinking. Most every time I saw Lee he had something to say about my mom."

"He was very attached to your family."

"Then was Lee just using me to get to my mom?"

Ples froze. Debussy and ticking white noise couldn't fill the silence.

"Surely," Ples began cautiously, "surely if he was only interested in your mother, he needn't have formed a relationship with you. He would have just associated with your father, and followed him home on the pretense of spending more time with him."

"Lee didn't just come around when Dad was home. And Dad wasn't home that much. He came to see me. But doesn't that just mean that he came to see my mom?"

Ples' gaze roved about the room desperately. "I think he cared for you too. You said that when he possessed your friend, that he had many harsh things to say about your father's treatment of you."

"Well, he said a lot of things about my dad. He's always been jealous of my dad," said Veser. In a smaller voice, he added, "And he hit me."

Ples let his mouth hang open helplessly, confident that Veser had his eyes shut tight against the spinning room.

"I don't know," he said finally. When he realized how badly that sounded, he said, "Try not to think like that." When he realized there was nothing he could really say that would mean anything, he said, "I'm so sorry."

Veser never responded.

Ples sat in the living room watching him for a very long time. Finally, he decided to go to bed.

Technically none of it had been his fault. Drunk men raved every night. He couldn't take responsibility for every one of them.

Just the one in his living room.