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He hadn’t had a day this bad in a long time. Things could always be worse, of course, but it felt pointless trying to cheer himself up after the guilt trip he'd already put himself through. At times like this, he wondered if the sinking feeling would ever go away. It spiked and it waned depending on the day, but at times it felt permanent—and if he was being honest with himself, the notion terrified him.
The rain was coming down lightly, not hard enough to be a bother by itself. Although, paired with the already-chilly autumn weather and brisk breeze, it was a dully awful combination that warranted staying indoors with a pile of blankets and a hot cup of coffee. Octobers in New Jersey always left him on the fringe, unsure of what to wear.
Dante walked down an empty street with his shoulders hunched, wrapping his flimsy flannel tighter around himself and cursing the weather under his breath. Of course the climate would turn to shit just when everything else seemed to be going wrong. He figured it matched his mood and the bitterness was strangely comforting. The cynical mindset he caught himself falling back into was an old familiarity, and he embraced the negative thoughts that floated around his mind rather than trying to correct them like he usually did.
He’d woken up earlier than usual that day. The floor had stung colder than usual on his bare feet, and he’d been feeling congested and foggy from the moment he’d gotten up. It seemed manageable, though, and he’d been grateful to have the day off, up until he got that dreaded phonecall calling him into work—something about a bowling event nearby and the store being busier than it should have been, apparently too busy for Randal to handle by himself.
So he’d come into work, despite feeling shitty and under the weather, and he’d pushed through the day while losing enough energy to mentally drain him for at least another two weeks. The customers were awful, the hours went by slowly, and Randal had been flippantly unhelpful as always. At some point, a man who had bought a slew of porno magazines mentioned an old ex before leaving the store, much to Dante’s irritation. The mockery seemed to never end. The guy had talked about her like she was some kind of cheap trick, bringing up dirty stories from high school and something about a BJ after junior prom.
She was only an ex, sure, but he still missed the comfort of being in a relationship. It had been a depressing reminder that left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he’d gone on a drive shortly afterward to clear his head. After his little escape from reality, he’d come back to the store like he promised he would, dealt with some customers, and cleaned the bathrooms as well. A few more old classmates stopped by throughout the day, each one with a snide comment that somehow seemed worse than the last.
By the end of his shift, Dante had wanted nothing more than to bury himself six feet underground. He’d been worn to the bone and thoroughly spent, and of course one of his high school tormentors had to walk through the door less than two hours before closing. The guy, some big loud-mouthed fucker, had done nothing short of delivering a hurtful speech about how “losers never change and old habits die hard", which Dante had decided to tune out at some point before letting the man tire himself out and leave the store. Dante didn’t want to admit it then, but there’d been truth in the guy’s words, and it frustrated him beyond belief that he couldn’t do anything about it. It all felt so pathetically demeaning at times, having to take so much shit from customers and not being able to dish an ounce of it back out.
And yet, that hadn’t even been the worst part of the shift. Throughout the duration of the man’s angry tirade, Randal hadn’t uttered a single word. He’d sat behind the counter with his feet kicked up, clenching a MAD magazine he was clearly only pretending to read and letting Dante take the verbal lashing without offering a shred of support.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. He hadn’t been totally silent— he’d mumbled something along the lines of “Fuck this” before throwing the magazine on the ground and retreating to the back office as if the whole thing wasn’t worth it in the first place. Which, quite frankly, Dante would’ve seen as a mature (albeit out of character) response from Randal if he hadn’t been in such a sour mood. Although, the smartass hadn’t done anything in Dante’s defense. No quips or snide remarks, no personal jabs, he didn't even cussed the guy out as he left.
Which is why Dante had stormed into the backroom shortly afterward, changed out of his work uniform, and grabbed his keys in haste without so much as a glare at his best friend and a sarcastic “thanks, asshole” before booking it out of the store with a huff. By the time he’d caught up to his former bully about a block away, he’d cussed the guy out himself and thrown a blind punch out of anger. A stupid move that started an inevitable fight which Dante quickly lost within a matter of seconds, not that he stood a chance to begin with.
And yet, he’d still managed to pull himself off the ground and start walking home, defeated and tired as ever.
He grimaced now, continuing to trudge on despite the circumstances, out of breath, making his way down the streets and cradling his sore hand against his chest.
It was raining a bit harder now and he felt the stress from the day taking its toll on his body. His forearm was scraped from falling on the concrete and it bled through his gray flannel, although it didn't hurt nearly as bad as his right eye, which he could feel throbbing and he was sure an angry bruise was beginning to form.
He couldn't stop ruminating over everything that had ever gone wrong in his life. Somehow everything seemed to be connected, but the only conclusion he could come to is that he must be a magnet for chaos, a black hole in the universe, a shitty B-list movie where his character was always the butt of every joke. A whirlwind of people and places and days that all seem to add up to nothing.
And God, Randal of all people. Deep down, Dante knew Randal hadn't had any malicious intent, that his response to an idiotic customer had been fairly appropriate. Dante supposed that maybe he was trying to be the bigger man these days, whatever the hell that entailed.
But the whole situation was still fucked up, Dante was sure of it. He wished Randal would’ve said something, anything in his defense—even blowing things out of proportion and throwing something at the customer would’ve been better than doing nothing. Maybe the smartass had been in a bad mood too, although Dante hadn’t noticed. Maybe Randal had just been tired. Dante really didn't care anymore. He was mad and didn't plan on forgiving Randal anytime soon. And as he trudged up the front steps to his apartment, he figured the stinging wound on his arm was merely the icing on the cake to the shitty main course that was his life.
The door slammed shut and Dante sighed, shaking his head. He was getting too old for this and he knew it, but wallowing in self-pity seemed more comforting than anything now. He needed something familiar, something that didn’t have the capacity to let him down.
He changed into more comfortable clothes and before he knew it, he was sunken in the couch with a bottle of whiskey and a case of beer to chase it, mindlessly switching channels with eyes glazed over the TV screen. He killed a few beers and stopped to relish the buzz for a while, then resumed drinking to increase the relief. Not that heavily drinking like this ever resulted in any long-lasting comfort, but he'd take whatever he could get. He supposed he should feel a twinge of guilt for leaving Randal to close the store alone, but he didn’t really feel sorry for him. Dante figured the guy deserved it for being a jerk, anyway.
They’d been living together for a while, a few years now. He put up with Randal's antics on a day-to-day basis, sometimes begrudgingly—maybe a downside to the rent being so cheap, but it wasn't always so bad. Dante usually wouldn't mind, although now he was dreading his friend’s exasperating presence. He knew the store was closing in an hour or so and the last thing he needed was the guy coming home to antagonize him.
Mulling over the thought, he realized that Randal hadn’t even momentarily left the store to check on him or see where he'd gone. So much for loyalty. It pissed Dante off even further as he replayed the series of events in his head. He'd gone through a good portion of the case of Budweiser now and felt like the epitome of a loser, wilting like the plants on his porch he’d been too negligent to water. The whole world surely thought he was a loser, they'd probably known all along. Even the few real friends he had at this point thought he’d failed at life, or at least the alcohol was making it easier for him to convince himself. If the universe already deemed him a loser, why not just give in and be the best loser he could be?
He chuckled to himself and popped a cap off another bottle, sighing at the notion. Only forty minutes since he’d been home and he already felt decently buzzed. Granted, he’d been drinking more than he usually would and at a much faster pace at that, but he felt more relaxed than he’d been all day and that was all that mattered. The blood had dried on his arm and as he held a cold beer against the side of his face, the black eye didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it did earlier.
Laughter drifted from the TV, some corny sitcom Dante was only half paying attention to. He twisted the cap off the tall bottle of whiskey and took a swig, grimacing while simultaneously relishing the swig that trickled down his throat with a satisfying burn. A bit oaky for his taste, but it was good—God knew he deserved it.
On the TV screen, a point of drama was unfolding in the show and Dante found himself leaning forward curiously, reaching for the remote and turning up the volume to understand just what the hell the characters were babbling about. Which was why he almost didn't hear when the front door slammed, followed by the clattering clink of keys in the kitchen.
“So, are ya done being a big baby now?”
Randal’s tone was condescending as ever and Dante rolled his eyes, childishly turning up the volume another notch.
“‘M not speaking to you,” Dante mumbled, taking another swig from the whiskey while frowning at the TV. He mentally kicked himself for even responding to the instigating comment and he regretted not sticking with the silent treatment from the get-go.
“Not speakin' to me,” Randal chided from the kitchen. “What’re you, twelve?”
Dante took a deep breath, in then out. He closed his eyes and sipped from the whiskey again, watching a colorful crowd of characters dance around on the screen. Hopefully, if he ignored the guy for long enough he’d get tired and just give up.
“Since when do you get all wound up like that, anyways?” Randal interrogated, and Dante heard another beer crack open in the kitchen. “If this is about earlier, that guy’s just some loser who probably peaked in high school like the rest of those cocksnots. Who gives a fuck what he thinks?”
The fridge door slammed and Dante didn't respond. A moment later, Randal was walking around the couch and Dante wanted nothing more than to disappear. He remembered that, of course, ignoring him wouldn’t work. Randal hated being ignored.
“Hey.”
Dante looked up when he felt a tap on the side of his shoulder.
“Jesus, what the fuck happened?” Randal stared incredulously, and Dante realized it must've been his black eye that earned the reaction. It probably looked worse than it felt.
“Dante,” Randal repeated, taking a seat on the adjacent couch cushion. It was comical, for some reason—this concern coming from Randal right now, the confusion on his face, and Dante tried to stifle a scoff from somewhere inside.
“I got my ass kicked,” Dante deadpanned for a moment, setting the bottle back down on the table. “Up shits creek without a paddle.”
“Yeah, I can see that. By who?”
“The guy from the store. That… cocksnot.”
Randal was frowning, and if Dante looked close enough, he could almost see the gears in his head turning as he came to his half-baked conclusion.
“I went after him, Randal,” Dante stated obviously, lolling his head to the side and switching his gaze back to the TV. “I guess I thought I could take the guy."
“Well, that was fuckin' stupid,” Randal said flatly. Dante noticed the way he grimaced and acknowledged the dried blood on his arm with a pointed look. He wanted to be irritated at the criticism because, of course, it had been stupid, but he was drunk and tired and if he was being honest with himself, he really didn’t mind the Randal Graves-esque sympathy. So he let it slide.
“That guy was fuckin' huge,” Randal added gingerly, placing his own beer down on the table and pushing it away a bit. "I'm talkin' Barbarian level jacked, here."
Dante nodded, raising his hand to his eye and ghosting over the bruise with his fingertips. “He got a few hits in.”
“Yeah, a few."
“Rub it in, why don't you,” Dante snapped, suddenly turning his attention back to the smartass. “The whole time, I’m- I’m just standing there, getting bitched out by this guy and you.”
Dante felt the anger returning and crossed his arms with a scowl. “You did nothing, man! Since when do you, of all people-”
“Well, Jesus Christ! How was I supposed to know you were gonna run off and swing at the guy?” Randal’s hands dramatically gestured towards the ceiling with an exasperated shrug and Dante was beyond irritated that his friend seemed to miss the point.
“You know what?” Dante shook his head. “Forget it, you’re a fucking asshole.”
He looked up, suddenly confused when Randal got off the couch, only to hear the fridge open and close. Randal came back with an ice pack and tossed it to Dante, who was barely coordinated enough to catch it between his hands. He looked skeptical before gently placing it over his eye.
“So you don’t go blind,” Randal casually fell back onto the couch. Dante watched as he draped an arm over the edge and gazed at the TV screen. A moment went by where Randal half-assed watched the show and Dante still felt a bit irritated, not wanting to thank him but still muttering a quiet thanks under his breath anyways.
“Yeah, well I just figured you probably don’t wanna go into work tomorrow looking like a fucked up Frankenstein,” He shrugged, tilting his head with a devious look. “Might scare off the valued customers.”
“Sure, that’s why,” Dante rolled his eyes but felt his lower lip curl upward. “Since when did you become the concerned one?”
“Since when did you ask me stupid questions?" Randal retorted. "Oh yeah, since always.”
Dante shook his head while gazing at the commercials on TV. They could banter all night like this, but he still wanted an answer more than anything. It was late anyway, and with as much as he'd had to drink, he knew he’d need to get some sleep soon if he planned on going to work tomorrow without a hangover. So he muted the TV and stared blankly ahead for a moment before turning to Randal with a curious look.
“Why didn’t you say anything, man?”
A still moment went by where Randal didn't say anything, then he just sighed like he had better things to do than give some confounded explanation.
“Since I know you’re not gonna stop askin' me, fine—I thought it’d be a waste of time, is all. You didn’t seem too bugged by it. Thought you were trying to be the bigger man or something.”
Dante stared back incredulously. Oh, the irony.
“Look,” Randal said impatiently. “If I would’ve known you were gonna take that shit personally, I would’ve kicked that asshole outta the store in a second. I didn’t think you were that worked up over it, man.” He paused. “I mean, what did you want me to do, throw a pot of coffee at the guy?”
“Maybe,” Dante said sheepishly, glancing to the side for a moment before hearing Randal quietly snicker.
“Yeah, I’ll remember that next time.”
They chuckled for a moment, watching the corny show play out on the screen with no sound. Dante’s eye wasn't bothering him too much, he figured the ice was helping to reduce the swelling. But his forearm burned and he was beginning to feel a painful tenderness in his knees, probably bruised from falling during the fight— if he could even call it that.
He placed the softened ice pack on the arm of the couch and instinctively reached for the whiskey to help stave off the pain for a little longer, but he felt the bottle being pulled out of his hand before he could get the cap off.
“Easy Whitney, think you’ve had enough there,” Randal stood up and swiped the bottle with a sense of deliberate responsibility that Dante couldn’t seem to place. Dante stood up quickly in suit, almost too quickly as he felt himself grow lightheaded for a moment, and gaped at his friend in protest.
“I’m a grown man, Randal,” he quickly objected. “I think I can tell when I’ve had enough.”
Upon hearing his own words aloud, Dante covered his mouth with his hand and paused with a cringe. “Oh, God. That sounded so cliche, didn’t it.”
“Yep,” Randal confirmed with a snicker, putting the whiskey back in the cabinet and throwing the empty beer bottles in the trash. “Straight outta Intervention.”
“You’re probably right though,” Dante admitted tiredly, yawning loudly with a stretch. “I gotta get some sleep.”
He was already heading towards his room and trudging through the kitchen when he heard Randal call from the living room—“And wash your arm man, that shit’ll get infected.”
Dante huffed lightly and turned around, raising his eyebrows at Randal who only stared back skeptically. “Oh Randal,” He clasped his hands over his chest ever so dramatically, swooning backward with all the sarcasm he could muster. “More sympathy from such a careless bastard, please.”
Then came the inevitable “Oh, fuck you.” And satisfied with that ornery response, Dante headed to his bedroom with a small smile, ready for a good night’s sleep and a chance to finally get some rest.