#nothing like trying to read a bottle label while you're smearing blood all over it

[wiisagi-maiingan]

And I've said this before but for people who don't think an organzied first aid kit is necessary if you've got a medicine cabinet or some other mishmash of medical supplies, I can say from firsthand experience that it REALLY sucks to try digging through a random assortment of bottles and boxes looking for the one specific thing you need while you're bleeding everywhere and your vision is a bit blurry.

[intruality-overlord]

Why Are We (Best) Friends?

Warnings: Excessive swearing, alcoholism, mentions of drugs, drug use, suggestive humor, implied sexual content (no smut), some gore descriptions. Generally, Remus stuff.

Taglist: @blogging-time @veraisnotfine @littlestr @jessibbb @ibroken-butterflyi @hi-its-tutty @idkanameatall

(For these first couple chapters I have tagged people I thought might be interested in reading this. Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list!)

Chapter One: Cookie Mix

May 2nd, 2017.

To say Patton was hammered, would be the biggest understatement ever conceived. Twelve bottles of cider had him misplace his share of the brain cell. He didn't have the cognitive ability to think the others seeing him like this would not be ideal, or any residual, instinctual fear in his bloodstream. Did he even have any blood at this point? His veins burned just like his throat while guzzling that bitter, bittersweet liquid conscience tranquilizer.

(Patton's liver fucking hates him.)

Welp, you can blame Patton's legs for listening to Patton. They shouldn't have enabled his poorly timed cookie cravings. And you can also blame the wall that foolishly did the job of keeping him upright, which Patton's spine had boycotted knowing the consequences of their actions.

And at least it was... somewhere around ten at night, Patton thought, so most had gone to bed by now. That was what the clock said last time he checked it, anyway... which was yesterday, by now.

He wandered into the kitchen and made a beeline for the cookie jar. (Beeline in the more accurate, literal sense that you couldn't tell where he was going until he got there—basically, not a straight line. How dare assume Patton could ever do anything straight). It was empty.

Patton would be damned if he didn't get his fucking cookies.

So what was the next best thing? He'd bake himself his own goddamn cookies.

Riffling through the kitchen cabinets, Patton came across a paper bag totally-not-suspiciously labeled "Cookie Mix.tm" and he grabbed it. Pft, duh, what else do you make cookies out of? The bag contained a white powder reminiscent of flour, and in Patton's mind, exactly what he suspected cookie mix looked like. Hmm... some milk and an egg would probably also help. Also, a bowl would be helpful.

Actually, nah, fuck bowls.

Just as Patton was about to put his... globulous creation the relative consistency of wet sand into the oven (or what his drunken mind referred to as "the hot box"), eggshell garnish and all, Remus just so happened to strut into the kitchen. He had been coincidentally drawn to the kitchen by his own cravings in search of his secret stash. Remus believed that the best place to hide your loot is in plain sight where people don't think to question it. Hidden things are only suspicious because of the fact they are hidden, so if they weren't hidden... To his credit, it had worked so far.

Until today.

"Oh, fuck."

Patton spun around at the sound of Remus's voice, losing his balance in the process. Not to worry, he slipped and thudded against Remus's chest, clinging to his sash and smearing white powder all over him. "Reeemuuss!" Patton greeted weirdly excitedly. Patton immediately forgot about the cookies. Out of sight, out of mind. Instead he just stared at Remus for a moment. "You... you rat, ratty Luigi man," he slurred, "nah, ra' sound mean. You more li'e... li'e a mouse. Mousey mouse knock off plumber mouse man."

"Are you okay?" Remus asked, his words coloured by disbelief and it's little brother who's unfortunately going through a midlife crisis, gleeful shock. One does not always come across the beacon of goodness with a higher concentration of alcohol than water making up their body. It was like waking up to a human sized salmon next to you, apparently named Malinda. Which then proceeds to slap you across the face with a slippery fin before splashing away screaming, "We're getting a divorce! You always eat all my spaghetti!" and when you wake for real, you don't even know how to begin phrasing that into a question google would understand. (Remus would know.) This was quality blackmail. Good thing Remus stumbled across Patton and not Deceit.

"Hehe... I've no idea wha' words are righ' now," was all Patton said as he giggled. Green sash clutched tightly, Patton was still staring at him. His weight leaned more and more into Remus. Remus thought it was like staring into the button eyes of a doll behind a thin pane of glass: Innocent until you remember it's Annabelle that you're staring at. He just kept staring, and staring. Remus might've thought Patton was trying to mind read. Maybe he was.

As the heart, Patton encompasses all of Thomas's feelings, including curiosity. Logan also played a big part in Thomas's curiosity, but he didn't have both kinds of curiosity, only the standard. Patton on the other hand, also experienced all of Thomas's morbid curiosity. Morbid curiosity, that feeling that stops you from looking away from a decaying carcass even though you really want to. That urge that keeps your eyes locked on that video of a parasite pulsating in that poor snail's eyestalks, or a zombie ant. (A feeling that the others severely discouraged Patton to entertain— not that he blamed them.)

(Many like to believe they'd never dare be so fascinated by the macabre and the gruesome. This is called denial.)

This always made it very hard for Patton to look away from Remus. It made him cling to every word Remus stringed into a sentence, no matter how obscene— especially actually. His morbid curiosity enticed him to Remus like a lamp to a moth— Wait— water to a duck's back— No—... Patton was very drunk. Don't expect him to be able to come up with similes and sayings.

A loopy, arguably deranged smile smiled stretched Patton's cheeks. "Your sash matches your eyes," he gasped deliriously. Patton booped him on the nose, then mindlessly twirled the curled ends of Remus's mustache (and it was nice in a queer way, as Remus was very willing to admit since his brother took every drop of dignity they had with him when they split). "An' your mustache loo' li'e mouse whis'ers— no! A lil' ca'erpilla'," he giggled. Then promptly passed out.

(Remus sighed, knowing he'd have to clean up Patton's mess for both their sakes. He hoped to whatever entity or entities held power over the universe that Patton hadn't eaten the... "dough" like he normally would have. By the looks of it, Patton could hardly handle one addiction as it was.)

(}ï{)

Patton regretted nothing. Mostly because he didn't remember anything to regret.

Until a few days later when Remus realised he couldn't take the pressing guilt of knowing his secret and told Patton what happened. They became fast friends from then on. Don't ask them exactly how they don't fucking know. This story is as much of an explanation you'll get.

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