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Whiskey.

An all too familiar stench. The same one that lingers on his breath as he leans in for a drunken kiss. I place my hands on his shoulders and push him away. He falters, reflexes shot.

"At it again?" I say, more a statement then a question. He grins sloppily, shaking his head yes as he plops down on the couch next to me.

A moment passes before he turns to me with a look of drunken seriousness, "You know what I love about you Mal?"

"What?" I ask in return, not bothering to hide the boredom in my tone.

"You're so," he starts, exaggerating the oh, "nice."

"Thank you Patrick." I reply with the same bored tone.

"No, I mean it Mal. Nicest person. Ever. On the whole planet." He says waving his hands about to signify the whole world.

"I know," I say moving to stand. "Lets get you some coffee."

He nods, standing shakily on his own two legs. Only leaning against me slightly for support as we make our way into the kitchen. "Can't let 'em catch me drunk again. Huh Mal?"

"No Patrick. We can't"

This scene plays out on a regular basis. And when he's sober in a few hours, he'll apologize for that attempted kiss. Sometimes I think Patrick wishes I weren't his case worker.

The lines blur sometimes. Between who Patrick is when he's sober, who is when he's drunk, and who he is when he pretends to be either.

The lines blur too, sometimes, between the appropriateness of our relationship. Which is why I begged Dr. Jenn to allow me to leave him. Not that I wanted to, he needed me. That much I was sure of. But the fact that I needed him just as much scared me.

The first time he kissed me, there was no alcohol involved. It was down stairs, during my first month here. He was playing. Completely absorbed in his music, I stood at the end of the stairs in awe of him. It was the first time I'd ever heard him sing.

----------

"I've got sunshine, on a cloudy day,"

The melody carried throughout the whole house. Up the basement stairs into the kitchen where I stood washing the dishes from lunch. Last plate clean, I set it down before venturing to the source of the music. I'd been told he was talented. But the voice of an angel, I hadn't expected.

"When its cold outside, I got the month of may,"

He finished the verse, the piano trailed of behind his voice. A moment of silence hung over us. Though he hadn't seen me, he knew I was there. Even above music the man could here the slightest creak in those old stairs. This was his place. A sanctuary, his mother had called it.

"Sorry for intruding." I said, taking a step closer to where he was seated on the bench. His fingers lingered over the keys, he nodded.

"It was beautiful by the way." Another step closer.

He nods again, "Thank you."

Another step closer, and this time I chance taking a seat beside him. His fingers move from over the keys, and slowly his head turns to face me.

"Why are you here Mali?" He asked quietly, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

At this time I'd only seen him drunk once, and this was just as the bulimia began to be a serious issue. Looking at him, there before me at the piano I couldn't imagine the boy I'd met days before. That boy had seems raw. Hurt and hidden.

But this one, the one whom I'd just heard singing, was not him. This boy was rough yes, but only at the edges. He was more sure of himself. At least sure of his talents.

I closed my eyes, letting go of a deep sigh, "We both know why I'm here Patrick."

"Because I like to drink. Because no one seems to think I'm well enough on to know what is good for me. But what they don't get - what you don't get - what no one fucking gets is that I know that. I know I'm not right. I know I'm fucked up."

I shook my head at him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "No Patrick. I don't think that."

"You don't, huh? Then why are you here?"

Exhale. "I'm here because they want me to be. I'm not here to make you better. I can't do that, even if I wanted to. Only you can."

He nodded, his eyes landing on mine. It was in that moment that life seemed to slow to snail pace. I could see him leaning in. I knew that was going to happen. And I didn't stop it. He kissed me. And what's worse is that I didn't mind. And wrong as it should have felt, it didn't.

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"Mali?" He asks, idly stirring the coffee in his cup. He's sobering up now.

"Hmm?" I hum in response.

"I love you." He admits quietly, the words sting like lemon juice on a fresh cut.

"I know Patrick." Clinical.

I have to be.

I can't risk this.

I can't risk square one.

Though I'm not sure how far off from it we've made it thus far. He nods, slowly he stands making his way to the fortress downstairs. The music floats up moments after he disappears. Sometimes, when he plays those sad melancholy songs, I wish I'd never had to take that kiss back.

Maybe we'd bother be better for it.