Chapter Nine La La Land, dir. by Damien Chazelle #3
himself against the bar, standing slowly. Concern washes over the other man’s face as well, and his friend tries to help Peter
sit down on a stool.
Eli chooses that moment to intervene. “Hey, Peter, buddy. You okay?” he dares to ask.
The Peter he sees is a version of Peter that Eli’s yet to have the chance to meet. His face is bright red, and not because
he’s embarrassed. His mouth is painted in what looks like a permanent smile as he giggles at a joke only he knows the punchline
to.
“Eli!” Peter throws his arms out, wrapping them around Eli and pulling him in so tight that Eli thinks he might suffocate.
“I think your friend here can’t handle his alcohol,” the man Peter was flirting with says.
“I’m fine, I swear.” Peter reaches for... something, Eli can’t really tell, but he knocks over the silver daddy’s glass,
pouring the drink out onto the bar. “Oh, I’m sorry, let me get you some napkins.” Peter reaches for the napkin dispenser on
the bar.
“It’s okay.” The guy reacts quickly, picking up his glass before too much of a mess is made.
“I’m so sorry,” Eli apologizes on Peter’s behalf, taking him by the shoulder. “Come on, stand up slowly,” Eli urges. “What
could’ve happened? You didn’t have that much to drink.”
“If he’s anything like my brother-in-law, he can’t metabolize his alcohol,” the silver-haired daddy says to Eli. “He’s close to black-out after a single drink.”
“Ding-ding-ding!” Peter sings, pointing to the man.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Eli asks.
“You wanted me loosey-goosey,” Peter says proudly, the Georgia of his accent on full display now that he’s good and intoxicated.
“So, I’m loosey-goosey!”
“Oh, Jesus...” Eli tries not to feel guilty as he takes Peter by the hand again. “Okay, let’s get you home.”
“Okay!”
“Do you want help?” the silver-haired daddy asks.
“No—thank you, though. I’m really sorry about this.”
“Get him some water and Tylenol and he’ll be fine.”
Eli loops Peter’s arm over his shoulders, slowly leading the much heavier man through the lounge, avoiding the cutting gazes
of people who want to judge Peter. Jaz asks about Peter as they make it outside, the night getting chillier. She helps Eli
sit Peter at a bench on the corner before she returns to her job with Eli’s promise that they’ll be okay.
“I’m drunk!” Peter giggles.
“Yeah, that much is obvious.” Eli sighs, doing his best to catch his breath.
Peter frowns, his drunken mood suddenly shifting.
“But it’s not your fault,” Eli admits. “I’m really sorry, Peter,” he says, knowing that he’ll want to make another apology
when Peter is more sober. “I didn’t realize this was a problem for you.”
“No, I’m sorry...” Peter says, and there’s no way for him to say the words without sounding like a child who did something
wrong.
“It’s okay,” Eli stands, looking at the drunk man swaying in front of him, wondering what to do. Obviously he has to get Peter home, but how difficult is that going to be if Peter won’t cooperate? “Do you think you can walk back to your apartment?”
“Mm-hmm... not that far,” Peter says, his voice more tender, as if he’s already on the other side of drunkenness where
he’s regretting his decisions.
“Okay, well. Let’s go.” Eli takes Peter’s hand and helps him stand up. They barely make it around the corner before Eli has
to stop because Peter keeps wobbling back and forth.
Eli leaves him for just a moment to buy a bottled water and a bag of Hawaiian rolls at a corner store, grateful that Peter
hasn’t run off by the time he makes it back outside.
“What’s the bread for?” Peter asks, taking the rolls and resting his head against them.
“To soak up some of that whiskey,” Eli tells him. Maybe it’s not the most refined option, but he was in a rush. Plus the shop
had a five-dollar card minimum.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says.
Eli swears he can feel Peter’s pulse, his heart thudding so heavy in his chest.
“It’s okay, Peter.”
“Are you mad at me?” His voice is so pitiful it nearly breaks Eli’s heart.
“No, I’m not mad at you.”
“You promise?”
“I swear, I’m not angry at you, Peter.” Eli rubs circles into Peter’s back. “You’re fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to get serious about fining you for the apologies,” Eli tells him.
Peter pauses at the intersection, not saying a word.
Eli sighs. “Go ahead. It’s your last one.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
Eli double-checks the traffic, deciding to jaywalk to get Peter home faster. “You really can’t metabolize alcohol?”
Peter shakes his head too quickly, appearing to instantly regret it. “No. I can blame my parents for that one. It’s technically an allergy, kind of. Just without the sneezing.”
“So, like a single sip gets you drunk?”
“I’m usually fine with some beer, or things with low alcohol content.” Peter nods, but once again, he does it too quickly.
“This happened once in college. I sipped a friend’s vodka and was throwing up ten minutes later.”
“Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought maybe it would’ve gotten better the older I got?”
“I don’t think that’s how allergies work, Peter.”
“Yeah...”
“Well, it’s my turn to apologize to you,” Eli tells him. “I shouldn’t have pressured you like that.”
“I could’ve said no,” Peter says.
It’s fair, Peter could have said no. But also Eli knows he shouldn’t have defaulted to getting Peter intoxicated just so he could talk to someone.
“Still, I’m sorry, Peter. Do you remember how it was going?” Eli asks. “Before you got wasted?”
“It was fun. He was there with his boyfriend, the other guy.”
“Oh, yikes.”
“It’s okay. They were nice and didn’t mind when I said the guy had a nice butt.”
“You couldn’t even see his butt,” Eli says. “He was sitting down.”
Peter covers his eyes, smiling. “I imagined it.”
Eli can’t help a laugh. “Imagining other guys’ butts, Peter? I’m impressed.”
“You should see what else I can imagine,” Peter says in a low, almost sultry voice. Or what he must believe is a sultry voice.
This time, it’s Eli’s turn to blush, his cheeks stinging against the sharp night. “Oh? Are you flirting with me, Peter Park?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” Peter’s words slur a bit, making it clear that he’s still drunk.
“How did you mean it, then?”
“I... don’t know.” And then, Peter starts to laugh, a soft sound that fills Eli’s ears. Eli decides in that moment that
he likes the sound of Peter’s laugh. There’s so much life in the sound.
The two of them walk for another three blocks, Eli keeping his hand around Peter’s to make sure he doesn’t wander off or stumble
on the sidewalk. Eventually they approach a gated door, and Peter reaches into his pants pocket to pull out his keys, dropping
them almost immediately.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Eli promises, squatting down to get the keys. “What unit are you?”
“I’m the in-law,” Peter says gently, leading Eli through the entrance before they step in front of an incredibly plain-looking
door with a bronze 524 A drilled into the wall beside it. “It’s the silver key.”
“Got it.” Eli finds the correct key, slips it into the lock, and then walks Peter through the door, which leads into a garage.
“Back here,” Peter mumbles. “The bronze key this time.”
Eli slides the key into the lock, waiting for Peter to open the door first. “Do you want me to come in?”
“Oh...” Peter looks around, bracing himself against the doorframe. “Um...”
Eli hands Peter the keys. “I don’t have to, but I’d like to make sure you at least make it to bed.”
“Yeah... come in.” Peter holds the door open wider. “But, um... take your shoes off, please.”
“I’m not a monster, Peter.”
He doesn’t know what he expects when Peter turns on the light, drops his keys on the counter, and stumbles further into the
apartment. Peter had seemed wary about showing Eli anything at all, so he thought that maybe it’d be a complete mess, like
a tornado ripped right through it. Or that maybe Peter was self-conscious because the apartment is beautiful, and he’s feeling
insecure because for some reason men who live on their own shouldn’t have nice apartments?
But no, it’s neither of those things.
There’s... nothing?
It’s a one-bedroom, but barely. There’s a wall separating the living room and bedroom; it’s just that there’s no door to be
seen. The bed is a mattress on a basic metal frame, a simple IKEA table next to it. There’s an L-shaped desk with what looks
to be a pretty decked-out PC on it, as well as one of those budget black laptops, with a red mouse button nipple in the middle
of the keyboard, right next to it with the Zelus logo as the background. A fancy-looking desk chair is parked in front. A
wide television sits on what looks like a coffee table instead of the usual console.
Eli can’t be sure, but among the sticky notes that decorate both of Peter’s monitors, he swears he sees one with a list on
it.
Fargo
Before Sunrise
The King of Comedy
The Devil Wears Prada
And a note next to it reads La La Land .
He can’t help but smile.
There’s no art, no pictures, no plants, no other furniture.
“Oh...” Eli pauses. “It’s... nice?” he says at the same time as Peter says, “Unfurnished?”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a nice place,” Eli reassures him, though he can’t help but wonder how an apartment can truly be this bare after four years in the city.
“You can say it.” Peter sits on the edge of the bed. “I guess I’ve just never cared about furnishing this place. Like who’s
going to...” Peter stops, staring straight at the wall ahead.
“Peter?”
“I think I’m going to vomit.”
“Oh, uh...” Eli steps closer, taking Peter’s hand. “Let’s get you to the bathroom, come on.” He hands Peter the last swallows
of the bottled water, turning on the bathroom light and lifting the toilet seat. “Here, sit down.”
Peter kneels in front of the toilet, bracing himself against the seat.
“I’ll get you more water,” Eli says.
“Thank you.” Peter’s voice is quiet, but in the toilet bowl, it echoes plenty.