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Peter's brain has always been wrong in one way or another. Too violent, too calm, everything, nothing, obsession, apathy. He could blame the alcohol for it, but it was something fundementally wired wrong in his brain.
Perhaps the twyrine made it worse. Maybe it made it better. He didn't really want to know either way.
The twyrine was nice, oh, how it spiraled and blurred his vision, how his eyelids became heavy, how all those emotions constantly wanting to bubble up dampened. It was almost peaceful, being drunk. Sometimes.
Other times, it only made things worse. Nights spent sobbing uncontrollably, hurling things at the wall, hitting himself, cutting himself, his thighs and wrists littered in scars and scabs alike.
His worse days were the ones spent bleeding into a bathtub, downing bottle after bottle, spiraling deeper and deeper into self pity and wallowing in this inate misery that seemed to haunt him, god, did it haunt him. Deeper and deeper, further and further he dug his grave until—
Nothing. Days spent in a blissful nothing, it's like his brain wanted to forget it. The only evidence of a binge was the new bottles that littered his floor, and the blood splatters in his bathtub.
It was quite a pathetic way to live, secluded, isolated, only talking to his brother and Anna. At least he had them.
Tonight, however, he was alone. Desperately, horrifically alone. The moon barely lit his room through his small windows, the only reliable light being his candles. He sat in his bathtub, cold, ceramic and uncomfortable. In his hand, a bottle of twyrine, half empty. Quietly, he placed the bottle down and laid his head on the side of the ceramic.
His stomach hurt. He could usually handle his alcohol, but something about tonight was different. He drank more than usual, the spiraling, miserable thoughts in his mind louder than they usually were. He could hear every single movement outside, everything hummed and buzzed, he felt like he needed to rip his own skin off and worse of all, was the migrane.
Nausea was controllable, two fingers down his throat and a bucket could usually alliverate it. The clamminess was normal, if not a bit unpleasant. The migrane though? Nothing could be done about that, except maybe take medication he did not have. The closest he could get to feeling okay was maybe sleeping, but he couldn't sleep with this nausea.
Waking up to a puddle of vomit seemed uncomfortable, let alone choking on it and dying (though, he wasn't fully opposed to it), but it would be rather unsightly and he rather just sleep. It didn't help he was miserably cold, his temperature was surely dropping. Or perhaps he was getting a fever, either way, it was yet another sign of his oh-so-familiar alcohol poisoning.
He's done this a couple of times before, but usually he had Andrey around. Ah, this time, he was alone. The shakiness in his hands would make the process of vomiting obnoxious, and it would make putting on a record slightly difficult.
But he hated the sound of vomit hitting a bucket, and he rather have music accompanying it to drown it out. He was particular about this, yes, but it was a rather particular situation. Nonetheless, he'd work with it.
With shaking legs, Peter barely stood up. He was careful to climb out of the bathtub, cringing at the texture of wood on his bare feet as it touched the floor. He could handle it. As he wobbled his way to the record player, he felt his stomach turn with every step. Every wobbly movement led to him suppressing his gag. Present day Peter would thank himself later, Future Peter would be eternally grateful he didn't hurl all over the wooden floor.
With shaking hands, he put on the first disc he could find, and with a blurry vision he started the music.
Then, without hesitation, he made a run to the bucket he kept nearby, having done this enough times to know better. He stuck two fingers into his throat, and gagged. Once, twice, before he felt the acid in his stomach come back up.
Vomiting was never pleasant, much less when you have to force yourself to. But he could sleep once this was all over, and the vomiting wasn't the worst thing ever. The tears running down his cheeks and the snot clogging his nose were worse, it felt bad crying. He just wanted to rest.
The vomit in his bucket reminded him otherwise. Present Peter was thankful he saved Future Peter a bath and laundry run. He took a quick interlude to tie his long hair back before he went back to being bent over the bucket, the scent of twyrine and bread-vomit was overwhelming, but the music helped and his nausea was fading already.
Just a few more minutes of this he could sleep.
And when he would wake in the morning, the cycle would begin anew.
Again and again— soberity was hell, being drunken and miserable was hell. He rather be calm 40% of the time in hell than 0%, anyways.
Peter lurched over the bucket and hurled once more, the tears running down his cheeks as he uncontrollably sobbed. Oh well, it would pass.
And he could do it all over again in a week.