Sweets pounded another shot and began to contemplate life and death, which one was more important and if he even cared about either anymore. He couldn't seem to make anyone happy or get anything right. Everything he reached out to was too far away. He could see his arms flailing. Although maybe that was because he'd had a shot of nearly every flavoured vodka the bar had to offer. He hadn't had anything to eat in…a few hours…maybe. He didn't know if his coworkers were there anymore. Even if they were, it didn't matter. Nobody cared about him.
"Hello, may I sit here?"
Sweets twisted in his seat. The blurry image of Mister Vincent-Nigel-Murray swayed before him. Or maybe Sweets was the one swaying.
Sweets twirled his fingers in the air, leaving Vincent to guess that he meant yes. He just pointed to whatever it was Sweets was currently drinking. He looked the way Vincent wanted to feel.
"You know what I hate about this job?" Sweets had both hands on the bar and was leaning, crazed, at Vincent.
Vincent blinked rapidly and stuttered. "Uh, uhuh?"
"They don't appreciate me!" Sweets arms swam up in the air like he was praising God. He turned back to face the front. "Everyone just barges in on me," his hand just barely missed Vincent's head. "No one ever makes an appointment or, or – or even values my advice! They're all just like," his hands became sock puppets, his voice helium. "Oh, Sweets, psychology is stupid, now help us with everything!" He ended his rant with a cough, his elbows slammed into the bar and his head slammed into his hands. Vincent grabbed Sweets' unfinished shot and downed it, then picked up his own new one and, glugging the sourness, ordered four more. The bartender shook his head in exasperation, but complied.
"Are – are you crying, Doctor Sweets?"
Sweets shook his head. "Yes. I don't know. God, I hate…my life…"
Vincent nodded. The burning feeling in his throat hadn't yet dissipated from his last shot, so he took this one more slowly. Sweets looked at him. "And you? How's your life?" Sweets let his chin drop to the bar and edged a full shot glass toward Vincent with one finger. He watched the liquid spill over the edges and race along the wood, never dripping into the finished woodwork.
"I'm…not sure that I want to work here so much anymore either." His head started buzzing, facts skimming the surface. "I thought I'd changed my mind because this is what I really love, but these people – no offense – they just don't…" he used his hands for emphasis "love knowledge. And that's what I want. I want to learn. There's just no room to –" his eyes glazed over, facts overcoming him so much that even basic words left him. His mouth hung slack, and he began to sway on the spot. This felt better.
"Grow?" Sweets offered.
"Huh?" Vincent blushed, not quite getting the right connotation. Was he growing? He looked down to make sure he wasn't. Sweets started laughing.
"No, that isn't what I mean. You stopped in the middle of your sentence."
Vincent stopped swaying and tried to concentrate. What had he been saying? "Oh, yeah, room to grow. No, there isn't."
The two nodded in agreement and sat for a moment, enjoying the silence. Sometimes, it really was okay to just not say anything.
But both, after a minute, turned to say something to other and, in their drunken, unbalanced state, fell into one another, completely on accident. They remained frozen for a minute. Sweets, inebriated with the idea of something new, pulled back for a split second before pushing forward again, this time kissing not on accident. And Vincent didn't exactly pull away.
When Sweets finally did break it off, Vincent barely had time to stutter, "You know, kissing produces a substance two-hundred times more powerful than morphine, in terms of narcotic effect" before kissing Sweets himself.