torresxpatrick - Tumblr blog

[torresxpatrick]

lucianharmon​:

Sometimes places got a little too crowded for his liking, leading Lou to find the nearest outdoor area and staying there for as long as humanly possible without looking like he was loitering. At least this place had a patio. His thoughts were interrupted by Patrick, however, feeling himself almost getting scared by the other man. He could tell that he was clearly drunk, even if his breath didn’t give it away at this point. He didn’t smoke cigarettes, but he did have a small baggie on him. Don’t worry, he already paid for it. “I have a joint, would that help?” He liked feeling needed, feeling like there was something he could do to help someone. Even if he didn’t really know them. “But uh, you’re gonna have to share it because those things are a little more in limited supply than cigarettes. AKA I only have one. Is that okay?”

⊹

Brow quirked at the other’s words, Patrick nodded almost too eagerly. “Man, it’s yours; I’m happy with just a hit if there’s not much to go around.” And while he would be happy with just a hit, Patrick felt almost electric at the thought of smoking a joint again. It’d been ... fuck, before he even went to prison since he’d tasted the sweet earthiness of a joint and the idea of being able to rip a jay enticed him more than anything else; at least, for now. It was a slippery slope, one hit of a joint leads to -- Patrick wasn’t going to think about it. “You’re my lifesaver, man.” He chuckled and took a sip of the Budweiser in his hand, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, as if he wasn’t about to take yet another step away from his sobriety. 

[torresxpatrick]

adrianhcndrix​:

Patrick is already well down the hole for the evening. The way he sways and stumbles with every movement without even getting out of his seat. It hurt to watch him like this. It hurt to see so much of himself reflected back to him. And he knew that whatever Patrick was feeling right now would only feel ten times worse in the morning after it gets painted over with a hangover and a layer of guilt. 

“You’re already closed out,” he says gently. Adrian’s hands reach out to steady him. “Got your card right here.” His friend at the bar had been nice enough to hand it over without much persuading. “I can’t really be here right now. Not like this. So, do me a favor and let’s get some fresh air and you can come back after if you still feel like it, okay?” The last thing Adrian wants to do is force him, knowing first hand how well that usually works out.

⊹

At Adrian words, Patrick mentally beat himself; how could he ask Adrian, Adrian who had been working at his own sobriety twice as hard as Patrick ever had, to come here? As if he didn’t feel bad enough for breaking his own sobriety, Patrick wasn’t sure he could handle being the catalyst for someone else’s relapse. He frowned and almost immediately nodded, taking a deep breath and patting down the front of his jacket before finding and producing a pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket. 

“Could use a smoke,” he mumbled after ensuring he still had smokes, closing the pack over the four cigarettes left. Patrick reached behind Adrian and clapped a hand on his shoulder to help himself, leaning more than he’d like on the other man as they started towards the exit. When they stepped out of the bar, Patrick inhaled deeply, thankful for the fresh air that Adrian was talking about. “Ah, fuck, man.” He sighed, pushing a hand through his tangled hair; when was the last time he combed his hair? Grief makes you do crazy things, he supposed. Patrick pulled himself from the other and leaned against a cool, brick wall, lighting a cigarette with difficulty. “Did y’tip the bartender? She was nice, she -- she deserves a good tip for puttin’ up with my fuckin’ shit.” Clearly, his priorities are in order. 

[torresxpatrick]

catxmendoza​:

“Dramático.” Cat scoffed playfully at him. “Ay, es posible que puedas lucir el look Mr. Clean. [You might be able to pull of the Mr. Clean look.] No need to martyr yourself.” She enjoyed the shift that the conversation took, far from things like secrets and, god forbid, backstories. The throbbing in her head was starting to die off, the cool breeze on her face and the easy company enough to settle anyone’s unfortunate inebriation. 

By the time they got to the diner, her limbs began to feel heavy. She thanked Patrick for holding open the door, stepping inside and sighing at the warmth. The adrenaline that her propelled her down the street was dying off and was replaced with a lead like feeling in her head. At this point, she was glad to have drunk dialed Patrick. He didn’t have to show up, and the fact that he did showed her that he was a friend, at least. She didn’t have too many people in Olympus that she could call in the middle of the night and while she wasn’t going to make it a habit, she enjoyed his presence anyway. 

Cat hummed her reply as she slid in the seat, her cushion feeling like heaven. With the weight off her aching feet and the soft music playing over the diner’s speakers, it didn’t take much for Cat to suddenly feel exhausted. She leaned on her propped arm and listened to him with a half-lidded gaze. Her face scrunched up at his words. “Complicated and messy shouldn’t be anyone’s specialty.” It sounded like a strange sort of masochism. It also alluded to the fact that Patrick was more than meets the eye. Her eyes were beginning to drift shut, but she still managed to blindly grab the coffee creamer. “Yes, and the biggest, greasiest burger they have, por favor.” She sat for a moment, her eyes settling to stare at the table between them as she fought to stay away. She decided the best way to do that was talk. “Did you grow up in Olympus?” Her gaze flittered back to him curiously. “Was it always this shitty?”

⊹

Her mug was full, even before she’d answered his question. Patrick knew one thing about hangovers; coffee made them a little more forgiving. Long nights on the beaches of California had proved that to him time & time again, at least while he still fought the hangovers. At his worst, when life played sandpaper and wore him down into nothingness, it had been easier to chase the high, to drink away the hangover. Sipping water and taking ibuprofen took more out of him than laying back and letting the intoxication take its familiar hold. Why fight a hangover when you’re just gonna get drunk again?

So coffee. And greasy food. Patrick chuckled at her request and ordered for them both when the waitress stopped by. He was quick to fold the menus up, handing them to the waitress then settling back into the booth and taking a small sip of his coffee. Of all the drunk people to be taking care of, Cat? Though, it’s not like he wasn’t grateful for the excuse to leave his apartment; between No Names and his mom’s apartment, there weren’t many other places he found himself at. “Oh, hell no,” he laughed. Another sip of coffee. “I moved here por mi madre. Almost a year ago, now.” Patrick paused then turned his attention back on her. He didn’t want to talk about his mom tonight. “What brought you here? Because, honestly, from what I know about ya, this isn’t your kind of town. You seem like you belong somewhere...  Shit, I dunno, like a big city or something.”

[torresxpatrick]

ryderxaeron​:

There were nights that Holly pretended like she didn’t have to go on her last walk of the night until Ryder was ready for bed. And then she was whining at the door, giving her father the puppy dog eyes that drove him nuts. Tonight was one of those nights. The French bulldog sleeping until 11 PM, and then instantly barking at the door until Ryder put his sneakers back on. For what it was worth though, Holly could tell that he wasn’t having it, so she made the stops short. They were walking back toward the building after doing their usual circle of the park, when the dog’s ears perked up.

Interested in whoever was on the darkened bench across from his building’s front door, Holly dragged her reluctant owner to the site and Ryder froze. Patrick was standing there - or slumping there. Was he drunk? As the traitor dog sniffed around Patrick’s feet, the younger man inspected the bystander. Patrick was definitely drunk - if it wasn’t obvious with how he was moving, Ryder could tell with the way he was clinging to a flask. “Patrick? The fuck?” He knew that Patrick had been at some of Izzy’s meetings. The club member had no idea what the catalyst was for his relapse, but there was a part of him, buried deep, that wanted to help. Plus he was sure that he’d get himself in trouble if he stayed out here much longer. Sighing, Ryder wrapped the loop of Holly’s leash around his wrist and grabbed Patrick’s elbow tightly. “C’mon, let’s go.”

⊹

“The fuck you mean ‘the fuck’ --?” For a moment, just a brief moment, Patrick thought about fighting the other man. He was tired & anger was easy, it came naturally to him. After months of living in a cell, constantly surrounded by men looking for a chink in your armor, Patrick had become accustomed to the fact that anything other than anger or a stoic silence was vulnerability. Anger had flowed through his veins easier than his heroin and it hadn’t taken long before Patrick became known for his temper, fine tuning it as his years in prison progressed. Soon, he wasn’t just angry, he was good at being angry -- and that was the part he hated. 

But tonight he wasn’t in prison. Patrick had no reason to hold up any kind of façade around Ryder. Maybe it was years and years ago, but they had been vulnerable around each other; they’d each bared their hearts to the other & Patrick wasn’t sure there was an expiration date on that kind of thing. He mumbled an apology and slugged down the rest of his flask, tossing it haphazardly into the bushes when Ryder reached for him. “Don’t touch me -- please.” His words slurred together and he added the last one as an after thought -- as if he couldn’t imagine anyone but his mother attempting to take care of him. “Don’t need you to take --” hiccup! “ -- take care o’me. I can handle m’self. ” Patrick, despite his state, made sure to hover a couple feet away from Ryder, afraid that his drunken instincts would try to take over and he would lunge for either a punch or a hug. Patrick was more afraid of the latter. “Ryder,” he started, pausing to find his words, “I didn’t mean to come here.” The man sloppily ran a hand through his hair, loosening locks from his ponytail in frustration. “I know ‘m the last motherfucker you wanna see.”

[torresxpatrick]

maelstrcm​:

Mal waited, having the sense to let Patrick keep talking if he wanted to - though he doubted he would, from personal experience; it wasn’t like Mal talked about Rosie to anybody except for Georgia. It was true that talking about such things made for signs of weakness, which was why he’d hardly mentioned in prison the fact that he’d ever even had a daughter. The solemn look on his face began to shift when Patrick brought the topic of conversation back to Georgia again, and he shook his head slightly. “Well. She asked me to move in, which is great, cause I don’t gotta sleep in that shitty motel anymore. Only downside is we ain’t sleeping in the same bed yet. But - y’know, if she wants to take small steps, we can do that. Ain’t gonna be easy, I know that for sure.”

⊹

The man drank in every one of Mal’s words, desperate to hear about someone else’s problems besides his own. Patrick had been living what felt like a soap opera; or maybe just a really sad episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Ever since he moved into this town, it felt like one thing after another. Patrick thought prison was hard, but, if Olympus was consistent with one thing, it was dealing him a bad hand. At least he had No Names. And his cat. And now, Mal; ever the reassuring presence while they were locked up, Patrick was almost thankful that he’d waited until this moment to show back up in his life. He needed a friend, someone who had seen him at his absolute lowest and would go out on a limb for the man -- Mal was that someone. “On the bright-side,” he started, “y’all are back under the same roof.” Patrick nudged the other, winking playfully. “Y’all reliving old times yet? Because, if not -- man, you must’ve really fucked up.” The man chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “Seriously, though, y’think you guys are gonna be good? Long-term, I mean.” 

[torresxpatrick]

izzyrojas​:

❀

Izzy was easily thrown off the handle when it came to Ryder. She was hyper protective of the man, he was her family, plain and simple. She would go to war for the man, no matter the person that stood in contrast to her. Patrick just happened to get the sharp edge of the blade, her razor sharp tongue slicing into him after her poured excuse after excuse into an empty glass, a glass that Izzy would be happy to smash in front of his face. Now, when he’s text her, a familiar boiling wells in her veins, wondering where he’d been. She’s sure that she hasn’t seen him in a meeting in a while and she certainly hadn’t expected a message from him. However, reading the message brings a guilty feeling, knowing the man needed a friend. So, she texts back asking where he is and arrives at the Dive where he’d been not too long later. Izzy’s heels click on the ground, hands on her hips as soon as she stops next to him. “Don’t know if you know this but drugs and booze? Yeah, apparently they don’t raise the dead, no matter how much you take. — I would know,” she tells Patrick, running a hand through her hair. God, she would fucking know. “You okay?”

⊹

“Maybe I’ll be the first one to make it work.” Patrick slurred, a kind of sardonic optimism lacing his words. He sipped his whiskey and let it sit on his tongue until it didn’t sting anymore, swallowing slowly before turning to look at Iz. Truth be told, he never thought he’d see her in a dark bar, blue and red lights casting a purple hue across her face -- after all, weren’t they both on that whole clean & serene kick? Patrick hated that he was the reason she had to step foot in a place like a this, a place where he’d already fallen victim to its familiar, drunken embrace. He was sure her willpower was stronger than his, given his current state, but a nervous guilt racked him as he swirled a near empty drink. Ignoring her question, Patrick sloppily tied his hair back, pushing loose strands from his forehead and pressing the heel of his palms against closed eyes for a moment. “You didn’t have to come.” He mumbled. Patrick turned to look at Izzy, sighing. “I would’ve been fine, I always am.”

[torresxpatrick]

|| closed for will ( @detectivecallahan​ )

It was a bit sad that his days ( and subsequently nights ) have blurred together the way they have. Though it’s not like Patrick had chased any opportunity to break up his monotonous bender -- he kept ending up at the liquor store in the morning, Barry’s in the evenings, and the Dive late into the night, when he had nowhere else to turn for human intimacy. He wasn’t going to think about how the intimacy offered at the Dive was a knock-off of the real thing; it provided him a small joy and there was so little of that in Patrick’s life he’s decided to take what he can get. Beggars can’t be choosers -- or something like that.

Tonight, though, Patrick wandered down the street, one hand tucked on his jacket to ensure his bottle didn’t fall from the inside pocket, the other splayed in front of him as if balancing himself. He swayed, but only slightly, only liquor running through his veins. If there was thing to be thankful for, he supposed, it was that he hadn’t had the balls to try and score something yet. Patrick didn’t want to disappoint his mom that much; though he wasn’t saying his ‘clean & serene’ tag wasn’t weighing heavy in his other inside pocket, alone after he pulled it from his keychain the other night. He couldn’t handle looking at it every damn day. Riding a drunken train of thought, Patrick’s foot slid against the curb and he stumbled, teetering into the middle of the street before catching his own foot and falling into the road. The bottle slid from his pocket and shattered. He frowned and tried to stand, splaying both hands on the road before him like a toddler might. Patrick hadn’t even realized he fell in front of a car, nor that the driver of said car had been approaching him until they stepped in front of its headlight. He turned his head to look at the other, squinting against the harsh lights. “No worries man, ‘s all good, I guess I was finished with it anyway.” He mumbled, waving vaguely to the broken whiskey bottle shattered by their feet. 

[torresxpatrick]

adrianhcndrix​:

Adrian isn’t sure how he had ended up concerning the sobriety of so many other people. Was it something they came to him for? Or was he collecting them himself, trying to wrap them in plastic and keep them as close to mint condition as he could manage? Beneath the haze of everything that had defined him for so long–he drugs, the drinking, the cruel humor that had covered up layers after layers of self-destructive habits and an ever decreasing desire to be alive–Adrian had found that somewhere in all of that he actually liked taking care of people. The first time he’d tried to get sober he’d felt so alone. The other addicts he knew seemed to hold themselves together with a confidence he could never imagine possessing. And to anyone who wasn’t an addict, there was nothing he could do to change their perception of him as a useless junkie so why try to make amends? 

That loneliness, that brutal shock of a reality unfiltered through all of his vices, had him drinking again only three months out of rehab. So maybe that’s why he kept so close to Andy and Izzy and Patrick. He could keep them from feeling so alone, and in turn, he was never alone either.

It’s his night off when he gets a phone call he never really thought he’d be the one to receive. And for this, he’ll walk his ass to the Dive no matter how much he doesn’t like being there when he’s not working. When he slides in beside Patrick, he can see that he’s already well into the hole. But he offers a smile he hopes is friendly rather than concerned. “I work here,” he raises his voice to be heard over the music. “I told a friend to keep an eye on you until I got here.” He doesn’t need to tell Patrick that he’d asked her to make sure he didn’t leave. No need to raise those alarms just yet. “Let’s go for a walk, yeah?” Now that he’s there, he wants to get him out of the bar as fast as possible. God forbid he figure out which girls are holding and more than willing to part with some of their stash for a few bucks.

⊹

“Right, right.” Patrick chuckled. He found himself leaning for the other man again, a small attempt to find some balance against the dizziness of the liquor. Head lolling, Patrick stared down into the sweet, caramel color of his whiskey and, for just a moment, a bitter saltiness stung his eyes. He felt the tears well up but blinked them away fast, pressing his palm against his eyes. Months of sobriety, months of going to meetings and counseling and whatever the fuck else & what was it all for?

“‘M a grown man, I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” He muttered in response to the other’s comment about a friend keeping an eye on him. Patrick sat up, or tried to, at least, swirling his drink and downing the rest in one, quick gulp. The line between his brow furrowed as he considered having to move for more than however many feet stood between his booth and the bartender. “Where w’going?” His curious words blended together, his south Texas accent peeking from behind the mask of whiskey and adding a hint of a drawl on his vowels. He felt it was still early in the night, he was bound to stumble across something harder than the whiskey and Patrick wasn’t sure he wanted to miss that; some part of him still ached for his early college days. His hand scratched at his neck in uncertainness and his eyes drunkenly drooped. He shrugged. “I’m not tryna close out yet, c’mon man.” 

[torresxpatrick]

maelstrcm​:

“Not quite Disney material, but yeah, it’s some romance shit like that.” He wondered how many of his stories about Georgia that Patrick had retained, wondered how they’d shape his opinion of her now he’d put two and two together. Staying quiet as Patrick brought up his mother, Mal’s movement slowed right down to a halt as the kid revealed the real reason he’d wound up here. Nothing like Mal’s own timeline of events, how he ended up drifting into town. Seemed like the poor kid couldn’t catch a break. “Shit, man. I’m sorry.” He looked down at his bottle for a moment, unsure of what to say next, knowing he wasn’t the expert on sympathy, before looking back up to where Patrick was seated beside him. “You probably heard this a million times already, but you let me know if there’s anythin’ I can do, yeah?” And he meant it, too. Mal had looked out for him whilst they were both incarcerated; there was no reason he’d treat him any differently now.

⊹

Patrick briefly imagined Mal and his lady as the couple from Enchanted, chuckling at the idea of his prison pal in the same puffy-sleeved shirt that he would wear in such a situation. In such a time like this, where it felt like the whole world was working against him, he had been trying his best to find little moments of joy, some small instances of laughter amongst all the grey. Mal in a poofy shirt? That should hold him over for a while. The man shrugged at the other’s comment and scrubbed a hand down his face. Mal was right, he had heard it a million times, but coming from someone who he knew cared, it almost felt like it actually meant something. He nodded to the other and took a sip of his drink. “Yeah, man, yeah.” Shrugging, he looked around the bar for a distraction, teetering on the verge of wanting to talk about it but not wanting to show any kind of weakness; prison had instilled some weird habits in him, but the ease with which he was able to hide his emotions was unlike any other. “So,” he started, eager to change the conversation, “Your lady. How’s it being back with her?” Patrick mused for a moment before adding with an inquisitive look, unsure of where Mal had landed back in her life, “Or... Not with her?” 

[torresxpatrick]

catxmendoza​:

♔

Rolling her eyes, Cat pursed her lips to refrain prying further. Had it been her in his shoes, she wouldn’t want to share her secrets either. Though she doubted that Pat’s were as dark as hers were, and far less bloody. “Okay, trato hecho. [Okay, deal.] ” She hummed. Her concerns dissolved to her aching feet and the feeling creeping to her stomach, as if she were on a boat.

“Sí, sí, the hair.” She said, waving her hand to gesture to his head. “There’s a punishment for being lazy.” Cat splayed out her arms slightly and walked one foot in front of the other, as if she were walking a tightrope. A childish habit that was reserved for summer days in her youth, and apparently, a giddy and drunk version of herself. “Mi abuelo had a full head of hair up until the day he died and you want to know why? He took a walk every day.” She slurred, her words becoming a mess of Spanish and English. She failed to mention that her abuelo was also a horrible person. That was something she’d keep to herself.

The Diner wasn’t far, and she was glad for it. Her head was starting to feel like lead on her shoulders. She knew that if she didn’t eat something, though, she was liable to be absolutely useless tomorrow. She eyed him a moment and decided whether or not to tell him. How would that go exactly? My father is in prison, my mother is dead and the only other family I have wants nothing to do with me. “It’s… complicated. And messy.  And it’s easier to deal when I’m like this.” 

⊹

Patrick chuckled, but said nothing. It seemed everyone had something bubbling just under the surface, a secret they all thought was too ... something to divulge. The man wondered how his own life compared to those in this town, if they were more or less salacious than his own. He eyed Catalina with an air of curiosity, wondering what was bubbling under her surface.

An unexpected gift that came with becoming a boxing instructor was his ability to read people -- you tend to punch a bag differently when something else is bugging you. He learned a long time ago that even the coolest and most collected of his client have a mean streak in them in put in the wrong situations. Middle-aged women can throw a fucking punch when they’re in the middle of a nasty divorce -- Patrick was sure Cat would match them, at least once her wrist heals more and he doesn’t chide her about reinjuring it. “I’d rather die than lose my hair, you know that.” Another chuckle escaped his lips and he, again, ran a hand through his locks, as if afraid that his hair may fall from his head any moment. 

“Well,” he started, pulling open the door to the diner and following in after her, appreciative of the warmth the restaurant provided, “I don’t do much walking, but I’m always in that damn ring.” Patrick remarked and nodded to the waitress behind the counter as they walked by her, following the woman’s wave to a booth. He fell into the vinyl seat, eyeing Catalina before chuckling. “Complicated and messy seems to be my specialty.” With a chuckle, Patrick snagged one of the small creamers and watched its contents spill into the mug, preparation for the freshly brewed pot he could smell brewing in the kitchen. He grabbed another one, holding it out to her. “Y’want some coffee too?”

[torresxpatrick]

|| closed for lucian ( @lucianharmon​ )

He saw his hand in front of him, felt it flatten against the cool wood of the door, and shivered as the cold air of the night pushed past him. Patrick found himself stumbling into the small smoking patio behind the bar, patting himself down in search of his cigarettes. If sober, if he could recount how many consecutive days he’d been at this place, trying to find some kind of solace in a liquor pour or a dancer on his lap. If sober, Patrick might concede that there was so no solace to be found in a place like this. But, if sober, Patrick would have to face the reality of everything he’d been trying to avoid; his mom was dead and there wasn’t shit he could do about it.

But Patrick was drunk and he was desperate for a smoke, a hit, something other than the whiskey -- or had he switched to tequila at this point? -- he had been sipping on for the past few hours. He patted down his chest once more before sighing, turning to whoever the nearest to him. Patrick, without any kind of introduction or welcome, stepped closer to the other man and drunkenly clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hey man,” he slurred, “Y’don’t happen to have a spare cigarette on ya?” Patrick let out a sloppy laugh, “Or, shit, anything that lights? Don’t give a fuck at this point.” 

[torresxpatrick]

|| closed for izzy rojas ( @izzyrojas​ )

It’s been over a week. Over a week of sleepless nights, of daily visits to the liquor store, of cashing out singles to go to The Dive. Patrick wasn’t proud of the state that his mother’s death had left him in, but perhaps that was because he couldn’t remember any of it. Since he got the call, Patrick’s been in and out of awareness, whether that be due to whatever substance found its way into his blood stream, or his avoidance of whatever emotions had been bubbling beneath the surface. For fuck’s sake, he hasn’t even cried yet. 

Patrick found himself, yet again, at The Dive, sipping a Jack & coke and eyeing one of the dancers from across the room. It was still too early, he wasn’t drunk enough to justify sitting down for one of the dancers. The man pulled out his phone, the bright light harsh against his face compared to the low, red & blue lights that surrounded him. The contacts on his phone scrolled by as he absentmindedly swiped down, finally landing on a name he hadn’t even considered at first. The last time he & Izzy spoke, Patrick had been chided about Ryder, told to leave him alone, and walked out on. He paused for a moment, choosing to forget the tension that may or may not still be pushing between them and tapped the ‘message’ icon. Izzy had been his friend before Ryder came back into the picture, they’d known each for months from their meetings and right now, Patrick needed a friend. My mom died. It only took him a moment to type out, but the weight of the words weighed heavy on his core. Was this the first time he’d actually said those words, admitted the reality of them to himself? He took a long sip, eyeing his phone anxiously and waiting for her reply to pop across the screen. 

[torresxpatrick]

|| closed for ryder aeron ( @ryderxaeron​ )

Patrick won’t lie -- he was not entirely sure he ended up here. Of all the places in this town, it was Ryder’s apartment building that loomed over him. Drunkenly, he dropped his head back and eyed the top of the building; it was a short building, he could probably count its floors on one hand. It very much reminded Patrick of the dorms he’d spent a year in, back in California, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the similarities between then and now. Despite his stint of sobriety, Patrick somehow found himself trashed & staring up into dark windows, not sure how he got here or how he’ll leave. Back in college, this had been fun for him, deemed as an adventure the next day as he regaled his friends. But now? This was fucking pathetic. He always knew his mother’s death would hit him hard, harder than anything he’d ever had to deal with before, but Patrick had been entirely ignorant to how fragile his sobriety was. It had only taken one phone call for him to drop seventy bucks on bottom shelf liquor & Patrick didn’t want to think about the fact that the ditch in his elbow had started stinging, begging for something reminiscent of old times. Patrick have covered himself in layers -- long sleeve shirt, pull over hoodie, and a thick black Carhartt jacket -- to quell the urge that shouted at him. 

He fingered the flask tucked on the inside of his jacket, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Bars were closed, liquor stores were closed; he’d have to save what he had left, at least until the morning. Patrick frowned at the thought and shrugged, slipping the metal flask from the confines of his clothing and twisting off the cap; though not without difficulty. He stumbled as his attention shifted to the task at hand, apparently unable to stay vertical and open a cap at the same time. A bench caught him and Patrick groaned as its harsh metal bars dug into his body. “Better than the fucking concrete,” he mumbled, slouching against the bench’s back. For a moment, Patrick closed his eyes, letting the cool air of the evening surround him. What he wouldn’t give for the cool air to be his mother, wrapping her familiar arms around his neck and pulling his down, as if he wasn’t damn near 2 feet taller than she. Patrick sighed & shook the thought from his mind, unable to process the fact that he would never again hug his mother, the fact that his desire for some form of familiarity was probably why he ended up outside his high school boyfriend’s apartments. The cool brick of the wall met the back of his head as he dropped it back again, raising the flask to his lips & barely minding when someone turned the corner down the way. Maybe, he thought, they’d have something to drink. 

[torresxpatrick]

|| closed for adrian ( @adrianhcndrix​ )

So this is what it’s like to not have a mother. Patrick had been picturing these days since the words “I have cancer” had first left Rosalia’s lips. He had still been in the halfway house, in the hopeful start of his days of sobriety, imagining that his days following his mother’s death would be full of grief and sadness, but never a bottle in his hand. Patrick hated that he stumbled into the bar so many hours earlier, already hammered from the bottle of Jack he didn’t remember purchasing the night prior. Wasn’t he supposed to be better than this? It was hour ten at The Dive, or maybe hour eleven?, when his thumbs stumbled over his phone screen, blurry letters trying to scream some common sense in the man.

Somehow, he had the mind to call someone, though, of all the people, it had to be Adrian? Adrian, who was working so hard on his own sobriety? Adrian, who had only ever seen Patrick at his best? Patrick didn’t recall texting the other man, the memory lost behind one of many strippers he’d met that evening; but, as if reality came crashing down on him all at once, there was a familiar face approaching him, laced with an expression that Patrick couldn’t quite make out behind the haze of liquor and low lights. “Adrian, shit man,” he leaned forward haphazardly and pushed himself up -- with the help of the table, draping a heavy arm over the other’s shoulders while holding tight to the single scotch on ice in his other hand. “How’d you find me?” He asked with a chuckle, as if this town had an abundance of strip clubs he could have been at. 

[torresxpatrick]

catxmendoza​:

♔

Catalina narrowed her eyes curiously at his response. “Are you implying you’re not? Do tell, tipo.” Granted, the only time she ever spent with Pat was in the gym, and even then most of their conversations were geared towards all things boxing. Which was why she was still surprised that he had shown up. She didn’t expect kindness in people in general, so when it was offered to her she didn’t usually know how to deal with it. Showing up in the dead of night to help their inebriated boxing student was definitely what she considered above the call of duty. A part of her felt the need to apologize, but that part was buried beneath cheap vodka.

She tutted and shook her head in disapproval. “See, that’s a shame. What are you gonna do when you can’t box anymore? You’re gonna be one of those bald viejos [old men] who talk shit from ringside and walk with a cane.” Catalina ran a couple times a week, nothing too serious, but it helped keep the edge of worry at bay whenever it got too bad. That, and she liked to be prepared. Sooner or later, she would have to run- whether it be physically or metaphorically. The trick was to be faster than whoever was chasing after her. Pat didn’t need to know that though.

Cat took to blindly searching in her bag once more for her joint, eyeing Pat as he suggested the diner. Fattening and greasy sure sounded good at the moment, and she probably needed something just like that on her stomach to save her from a nasty hangover. “Eso suena bien. [That sounds good.] I’ll pay since I dragged you out here. Tell me though, what were you doing up so late?” She raised her brows suggestively, a teasing smile on her face. “Did I interrupt something fun?”

⊹

Patrick considered it for a second. To be fair, Cat didn’t seem to be in an entirely proper state of mind, he was almost sure that whatever secrets he spilled tonight would be forgotten by the morning. He almost wanted to, but thought better of it. She was only his client from the gym, a mutually beneficial relationship where they both get to release some aggression in a healthy way and hone their skills. “Maybe next time you land a hit that I can’t dodge, I’ll consider it.” He chuckled.

The man sucked on his cigarette and shrugged, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burned his insides. He let it out with a cough, prompted by her prediction. Truth be told, for the longest time he hadn’t been able to imagine a life past thirty; who’s to say that wasn’t in his future? “You think I’m gonna lose my hair?” He ran a hand through his long locks and feigned horrible offense, as if that was his worst possible future. “Not the hair, anything but the hair.”

Fingers lifted the cigarette to his lips again and eyed her, suppressing another laugh. Something fun? God, he wished. It’s been too long since he found himself tumbling around someone else’s sheets but Patrick couldn’t help remembering the last time he allowed himself to live a loose lifestyle. He was sure he wasn’t fragile enough to let one thing lead to another, but his days of casual sex had been interlaced with his addiction; Patrick was hesitant to engage in anything that was reminiscent of those times. “Ahhh,” He sighed, “Nothin’ like that. And you? I can’t imagine you’re getting this drunk for no reason.”

[torresxpatrick]

maelstrcm​:

“I don’t know. Some kind of fate, our paths are intertwined kind of bullshit.” Whatever had made it happen, Mal was thankful for it. “Guess the universe decided that she and I had to annoy eachother for a while longer.” He arched a brow as Patrick ordered his drink, though he said nothing; everybody had their vices, but clearly, alcohol was not Patrick’s. The time Mal had spent in prison had probably been his longest stint of sobriety since he’d first had a drink as a young teen, but unlike Patrick, he’d wasted no time in getting back to having a beer in his hand the second he was out. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s my girl. I’m still learnin’ about what I missed out on whilst I was locked up, but her studio and whatever other shit she’s doing really seems to have taken off.” Not once had he stopped to be jealous of her success without him; Mal only felt pride, and… well, maybe a little jealous, only of the people who’d been able to freely get to know her as Georgia Jereau. “You got anybody in town? Secret spouse I don’t know about?”

⊹

“That meant to be kinda shit,” Patrick conceded with a hearty laugh. He’d heard many a story of Mal’s Georgia, enough that he was almost ashamed he hadn’t realized that Patrick had sat down with her at The Dive, if only for a few minutes of chit chat. Patrick sipped on his drink and nodded at Mal’s words, knowing the feeling of catching up all too well. Even when he left prison, he was stuck in a kind of limbo at the halfway house, not able to live completely independently but enough that it felt just short of something. His own shortcomings came from his mother, from missing the last years of life before her cancer took over and she was no longer the woman he knew. Watching someone you love fall ill is difficult, but having it thrust upon you after years and years of absence may even be harder. “None of that shit, man.” Patrick chuckled lightly, knowing damn well he hasn’t allowed himself any kind of emotional vulnerability in years. “My mom moved out here. She’s not doing too great so I followed.” He shrugged and provided an answer to a question Mal had not yet asked. “Cancer. It’s pretty far along.”

[torresxpatrick]

everettscott​:

“I’ve done some training in the past. Self-defense and kickboxing mainly. But, the only thing I’ve been keeping up with over the last couple of years is cardio.” It had been hard when she was basically homeless and always strapped for cash. But she always made due in some way, which meant running and sit-ups instead of major strength training. Nor was she able to do any fight work, which she felt she’d need in a town full of criminals at war with each other. “I figured it would be good to get a refresher, this town seems a little rough and I just moved here so…” Everett shrugged and smiled at the man. “I’m Everett, by the way. You can call me Eve, Ev, or Ever though. If it’s easier for you.” She liked to keep the options open, as long as it wasn’t offensive she didn’t care what people called her.

⊹

“Hey, that’s the first step. Everyone hates me when I tell them that not shit is gonna get done if you can’t keep up. Cardio is a bitch, but it’s important.” Patrick chuckled, happy to find someone who wasn’t starting from a clean slate. Half the struggle of working in this town was that no one wanted to put in the work to be a good fighter, they all just wanted to be a good fighter. Patrick had been fighting for well over 10 years -- fuck, almost 15 at this point -- and still found himself bested by his opponents. Talent doesn’t happen overnight, but clients that walk in with an understanding of that are few and far between. He chuckled at her comment about the town, brow quirking curiously. “You’re not the first person to come in here with that.” He commented, handing a clipboard over the counter with a couple pieces of paper. “My name’s Patrick, you can call me Patrick.” Another chuckle. “ ‘S just some liability shit right there, gotta sign before I can let you go any further. Basically saying you won’t sue us if you take a bad hit.”