arcanarumlogs | Let's not kill the karma

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Let's not kill the karma

Who: France and Scotland.
When: The late afternoon and late evening of November 9th.
Where: House 6 in the Navy District.
What: France has finally scheduled a promised date with a hot redhead. Another hot (and hot-headed) redhead is severely displeased. Later, France comes back from his hot date to find Scotland drunk.
Warnings: Angst and arguments, drunkenness, excessive feels, and general nation warnings.

France had called Yoko earlier on her compact, and had finally followed through on a promise he'd made a long time ago - he'd set up a date. He'd outfitted his shop to fulfill the purpose of a hot date spot for the night, and everything was set up perfectly for their dinner - which he had also prepared. Too bad it had to be a rainy night, but Francis had also prepared for that - he'd imagined up a large umbrella, that could definitely hold two people under it.

Now freshly showered and groomed, there was one more thing needed - it was time to decide on his wardrobe. He'd looked through what he'd made for himself, and finally decided upon a beige blazer and matching pants, with a deep indigo button-down. But he had to account for the chill, and so, he had also placed around his neck a scarf - this one had stripes of green, to add another little splash of color, but it had white and beige and brown so that it would match the jacket and pull the ensemble together. Then he had to account for the rain, and so, instead of usual dress shoes, he'd thought up some sturdier leather boots that would withstand the rain.

Once dressed, he looked himself over in his full-length mirror, and nodded approvingly, quickly covering it so that he wouldn't be tempted to stare at it for too long. He'd had to do that with the other mirrors, too - his dresser and the mirrors in his shop also had to be covered when he wasn't actively using them. A small spray of cologne on his neck was all he needed to finish his routine. Finally, Francis imagined up one other item - a bouquet of modest but very pretty roses, pink and white in color. Now that he was perfectly ready, he stepped out of his bedroom, bouquet in one hand and umbrella in the other.

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He was not happy about this. Two days ago he'd actually kissed the man - he'd kissed him, out of nowhere, and then he'd played it off like it was nothing and just to stop him whining about how he couldn't smoke and they'd spoken nothing of it since. Not that he'd expected any different because really, how do you bring something like that into conversation without being horribly, horrendously awkward?

They'd been doing the same thing for years. Dancing around their feelings for each other with neither knowing how the other truly felt for centuries and William had never been so sure that he'd never love anyone but Francis. It was just another reason to hate this place.

When Francis stepped out of his room William was just going into his. He stopped dead the moment his eyes fell on the the other man, green gaze sweeping up from his shoes to his face before abruptly looking away. He'd just been an idiot, hadn't he, to ever think that there might be something between them again. No, he'd had his time with Francis and now it was over and why shouldn't he move on? William should be happy for him, shouldn't he?

Except he wasn't, and this hurt, and he didn't know what to do about it.

"Fran, ye.." Words failed, and he trailed off. "Ye look real bonnie," he muttered, pushing his bedroom door open.

The unfortunate thing about France's situation was that he'd taken Scotland at his word when he had said it was only to let him smoke and to stop his pouting. After all, why should William lie to him? And to France, while that moment had set his heart racing, it had seemed that Scotland had wanted to brush off the incident, and so he'd never brought it up. Though occasionally he still thought back to surprisingly soft lips pressed against his, the familiar taste of smoke still present... but he usually dismissed his thoughts as folly.

And how crude he must have been for thinking such things about an ex! Despite how much he adored Scotland, that was said and done. And the elation he'd felt at their first meeting was quickly turning to a sinking, uneasy feeling that he wasn't sure how to explain. He only felt free of it when he was out, as that feeling of isolation kept creeping in, whenever the two of them avoided each other, went to their separate rooms, only said a few words in greeting to each other and that was it. And it was much easier to ignore the wedge that had been shoved between the two of them the further he distanced himself from it, hence the date that night.

He noticed the green eyes like spotlights upon him, particularly when they turned away so quickly. He felt himself tense, the gnawing feeling coming forth with a much larger force this time. It just made his hands clench harder around the rose stems and handle.

Francis watched as Will quickly tried to escape into the solace of his bedroom, but this had gone on long enough. Whatever he'd done to upset Scotland, it was ripping him up inside, and it wasn't worth another quiet night's silence. Not when he already felt too alone on this island to begin with.

"Écosse." He finally spoke out, standing his ground right where he was, barely moving a muscle. "Wait. Please."

Relationships between nations were always a calculated risk, always torrid and fraught with complications and emotions that ran deeper than was originally wished. It was easier, sometimes, to go through a string of one night stands and take pleasure where you could find it than to commit to someone the way that William had done all those hundreds of years ago. It had, for want of a better phrase, ruined him for all others and he'd never found it in him to love another, even after all this time. Oh, certainly, there had been fleeting interests, but one person would always hold his heart and he would never be satisfied with anyone but Francis.

He was noticing it, too. That giddy excitement and eagerness upon being so reunited with his long-time ally sliding away to be replaced with an anxious concern that they would never really be able to be close again. The redhead knew that he shouldn't have kissed him. Even though he had tried to cover it up, to brush it off as if it meant nothing.. he hadn't expected Francis to take that at face value like he had. That he did.. well, that just gave William a whole host of other problems. Had it been wanted? Did Francis even feel that way about him anymore or were all his flirtations and sweet words just him being.. himself?

William hated being so conflicted. Once upon a time he would have known exactly how to judge what was on Francis' mind, but now..? Now, he just didn't know. When the man spoke his name he paused, considered ignoring him, but found that he couldn't. He gripped the door frame and then stepped back, looking over at him wearily.

"Whit dae ye want? Yoo're gonnae be late fur yer date."

While Francis had loved many people over the centuries, he had never been in love with anyone quite in the way he'd loved William. Not just from the duration of their romance, but the little things - he'd never fallen harder, made love harder, tried to make it work harder than he had for Scotland. And he somehow knew that fact, alongside his lingering feelings for the other man, were never going to change. But what had nearly three hundred years of the Vieille Alliance gotten him, in the end? Nothing but a broken heart, a distaste for the Protestant faith, and a dose of reality. Since then he had never seriously considered a lasting future with anyone, especially not any of the nations. Not anymore.

Francis could feel the prickly atmosphere between the two of them instantly setting in and it made his skin crawl. He wasn't sure he should have spoken up, and even when Scotland paused in the doorway, he thought for a moment that he should just say never mind and be on his way. But then, Scotland pulled away from the bedroom door, and looked at him with tired eyes, something that didn't fit with the fiery-haired nation and made Francis think ht was due to him, and not the situation in which they found themselves.

And that look burned. It got to his very core and burned inside him, made that uneasy feeling surge back tenfold. And when William spoke, oh, it felt even worse. It made the bile rise in Francis' throat, made it hard to breathe. Despite the (feigned) apathy in those words, each word dug into him like a hot knife. Immediately, Francis countered with bitter words of his own, cutting off William as quickly as he could.

"Finally, that is more than you have said to me all day! Do you want me gone that badly? Forgive me for asking for a precious second of your time!"

Saying never mind might have been the best option, and certainly better than what actually came out of Francis' mouth. William had been trying to end the conversation cordially, to let the man go out on his date and perhaps, when he came back, they could talk, but it seemed that wasn't going to be a possibility. It couldn't be said that he hadn't tried, and that was more than he'd usually do for anyone, but now.. now he was annoyed.

So, instead of heading into his room, he turned to fully face the other, arms by his sides but shoulders tense and chin tilted up defiantly. He narrowed his eyes, clenched his fists, and looked every inch like he might swing for Francis at any moment.

What he did instead was close the distance between them and stand in front of him - not close enough to be intimidating, surely the French nation would know he would never hurt him like that even if he wanted to - but certainly close enough to feel the sudden aura of tense irritation suddenly surrounding him. Not even England could pull off something quite like this.

"Alrecht, Francis.. Ye hae mah feckin' attention."

But saying never mind would not have solved their problem. Francis had wanted to fix things - at least until William tried to end the conversation - and the fact that Will shut him down was why he had reacted so badly. And now he was regretting it, as he felt Scotland's anger electrifying the room.

But he would not back down, not now. Not when Scotland was advancing toward him. He didn't even take a step back, instead standing his ground, chin also tilting up in defiance, as if trying to make himself look taller, just as angry. It wasn't a threat - no, he would never take this to blows unless someone really insulted him. To be honest his heart was racing from the presence of the other - while France knew Scotland would never hit him, Scotland was still very much intimidating, even though he was trying not to be. But his expression never wavered, his gaze never faltered, his blue eyes piercing and filled with anger.

"That is it? That is all you have to say? Well now that I have your attention, Écosse, listen up - I am tired of you brushing me off at every opportunity! I know I angered you somehow, and yet you refuse to tell me what it is! Instead you simply refuse to say anything, and go and hide in your room! Are you this repulsed by my presence here? Or do you simply enjoy forcing me to walk on eggshells? I feel like it is hell on earth whenever I come home! If this is how it is going to be from now on, then I would sooner move out!"

William had never dealt with emotions very well and his own were more difficult than most. He spent so much of his life in an alcohol-induced stupor or out in the Highlands completely isolated from everyone, that when he finally was placed in a situation where he actually needed to understand someone's feelings or to express his own emotions he handled it very poorly.

Now was no different, and even as he felt his heart aching in his chest while Francis' words tore into him he couldn't bring himself to simply tell the truth. I love you, he should have said, taking those delicate hands in his and looking into those angry blue eyes. I've never stopped loving you. It wasn't that easy, though. It was never that easy, and he didn't say that, he didn't touch the other man. His jaw tensed, and he hissed out an irritated sound through his teeth.

"Haud yer weesht. Dornt ye daur feckin' talk tae me loch ye woods mah brither. Ah'll nae tak' yer bullshit an' dramatics, ye ken 'at, sae jist stop it."

He scowled, his expression darkening.

"Fur one, Ah huvnae refused ye anythin', ye huvnae asked. Fur two, Ah'm nae hidin', an' fur three, ye dornt hae a single feckin' clue abit what's in mah heed sae dornt ye daur stain thaur an' spick as if ye still ken me loch ye used tae."

"If I was talking to your brother I would have harsher words, believe me!" Francis couldn't help the frustrated growl that came from his throat. "So what I feel is nothing but dramatics? Excusez-moi, Écosse, did I not just ask you to stop brushing me aside any chance you get?"

But as Scotland continued to speak, France was frozen, not out of fear, but when Scotland was speaking and looking at him so harshly, he instinctively knew to keep quiet and let Scotland speak. His words, particularly how France didn't know him anymore, hit France like a sucker punch to the gut, and the grimace Francis almost gave made it look like it had been so. But it didn't stop him; it only made him angrier in the end. He was not going to dignify Scotland's response by letting him see how much it hurt him, and so, he quickly looked to the side, his body language for all intents and purposes looking like he was seriously debating the merits of whacking Scotland over the head with his umbrella.

"Avoidance is just as bad as refusal, Écosse, and I was not aware I had to ask you for something as simple as this anymore. What next, will I have to beg you for the time of day?" His eyes glanced back up, his head following shortly after, to stare Scotland down again. "How arrogant you are, speaking as if you know me any better. If you knew me at all...!"

The grandfather clock suddenly struck the hour, startling France out of his vicious and unrelenting train of thought. It was only then that Francis paused, stopping himself from saying something he knew he would regret. He'd already said enough to regret this evening; saying more was not going to change that. And it was clear from how heated their argument had gotten that it was not going to get any better. So, Francis stood straight up, his cool soldier instincts kicking in, as he adjusted his suit jacket and straightened his tie. This battle was far from over, but he had a lady waiting for him. However... that didn't mean he couldn't get one last jab in.

"If you will excuse me, monsieur Écosse," He said, with such a formal air that was intended to be a subtle slap to the face, "I am late for my date. Bonne soirée." And so he shifted his hold on the umbrella, and slipped past Scotland, purposely leaving a slight brush of their shoulders as he passed, before heading toward the door."

He didn't stop him from leaving, or even make a move to do so. The formal address had the intended effect, though it was more of a punch in the gut than a slap, and he felt his stomach twist and nausea rise up in his throat as he forced himself not to react. This didn't even have to have happened. If Francis had just left, instead of spoiling for an argument.. what had been the use of that, anyway? Francis had always fought so dirtily when it came to verbal confrontations.

When he heard the front door shut, he punched the wall with all the force he could muster. It left a dent, and it hurt as the skin of his knuckles split and bruised, but it was better than taking it out on something else.

The idea of moving out himself, rather than leaving that decision up to France, was one that occurred to him more than once as he paced about the house trying to calm himself. It was eleven cigarettes later, when his throat was raw and his chest hurt from more than just the smoke, when he remembered that he could imagine anything he wanted and was immediately in possession of a bottle of scotch.

Francis would find him on the couch when he got home, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. The bottle in his hand wasn't empty but that didn't really matter, he'd just been filling it again when he'd finished it and he wasn't sure how much he'd drank at this point, just that he felt oddly detached from his body in a way he hadn't experienced before, and he couldn't close his eyes for too long because it made his head spin in a very nauseating manner.

It was an utterly ridiculous way to deal with his problems, but it was the only one he had that he knew worked. Temporarily, at least.

Edited 2012-10-06 18:04 (UTC)

If Francis had known how deeply his words would hurt, he wouldn't have said them. But he was hurt himself and he was agitated and right now he couldn't be bothered to think about Scotland's feelings, subconsciously insisting that William was impervious and nothing could hurt him. After all, Scotland had always been his trump card, had always been his knight in shining armor, so why was this time any different?

Yet it was. And he still felt all choked up inside and it all felt wrong and he didn't know why. But he was intending to have a good time and make Yoko happy in the process and he was not going to let this ruin a perfectly good evening.

It was only when he returned that he truly felt anything remotely sick to his stomach, when he smelled the strongest stench of smoke still hovering in the main room, and saw his "knight" laying on the couch with what could barely be called a bottle of scotch in his hands. While he knew Scotland was a heavy drinker and a heavy smoker typically, this almost seemed surreal.

Francis paused for a moment, before quietly placing his umbrella at the door, making his way past the large dent in the wall and toward the sofa. Once he reached it, he stood there next to him, looking down at him. He wasn't angry, he wasn't much of anything other than unsure. He was fairly certain that he had caused this... but how could he fix it? Could it be fixed? Or had he ruined everything a few hours ago and there was no more chances?

Instinctively, despite all these thoughts, his hand reached out and brushed Scotland's hair off his forehead. It was a worried gesture, but he wasn't sure it was wanted or even needed right now.

"Guillaume..." He spoke softly, his hand still combing through Scotland's hair for now.

He'd stopped thinking a while ago. That was probably for the best, because thinking had only served to make things worse and being detached from everything for a time couldn't be that bad. It was true, he was typically a heavy smoker and a heavy drinker, but the difference between here and home was that he was undoubtedly human here, and he simply couldn't handle it the way he would normally. Not that it had stopped him, even though he'd known that.

Somewhere between Francis walking out and the cessation of his thoughts he'd begun wondering if this was worth it at all. Could he really be happy knowing that he had, at most, another seventy years of life.. with those years spent being slowly turned into something else at the whim of beings that he had no way of overpowering? William knew when the odds were against him, and they were not even close to being in his favour in this place.

Though, he'd long since moved past such thoughts when the French nation returned. Despite how inebriated he was he still remembered that they'd argued, and he didn't expect to be approached, or touched, or for Francis to say his name so gently.

"Fucked things up guid an' proper wi' ye, didne Ah?" he mumbled eventually, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "... Ah'm sorry..."

And all Francis could think was that this was his fault, because of what he'd said. The constant ache he was feeling in his chest was because William wasn't impervious and this had to be all his fault, there was no other explanation. He cursed at himself mentally, his instincts telling him he shouldn't have said anything in the first place.

But that was all past now, and the only thing he really needed to worry about right now was making sure William was at least sleeping this off. The parent inside him was desperate to do something to try and make it all better, even if it didn't actually work. Just something, anything, because he hated seeing Will like this and it only made the ache in his chest more apparent.

"Je suis désolé, aussi..." Francis murmured, pausing only to sit down on the very edge of the seat cushion, next to Will, so that he could be a little closer to the man. Wordlessly, he reached up again to gently comb Will's bangs with his fingers, as his other hand gently rested over Will's, to gently tug at the bottle of scotch and hopefully get it out of his hands. There was no reason for him to drink the rest of the bottle, after all.

William heard him, but it was like hearing him speak from under water. Mentally, he struggled to drag himself up to a level where he might at least be able to process what was being said to him, but there was nothing shown on his face as he did so. Normally, the Scottish redhead was indeed impervious to such things. Insults and criticism bounced off him like it didn't matter.. except when it came to Francis. That man could do the kind of damage that no one else was capable of, and it almost made it worse that he didn't seem to be aware of it.

A tiny frown twitched across his face when his hair was brushed aside and he finally looked over to Francis as if he'd only just noticed that he was there. Sluggishly, he turned his hand over, and carefully laced his fingers with the other man's like it was instinct. He let him take the bottle, not because he was eager to give it up, but because he was in no way capable of holding onto it.

"Ye dornt need tae be sorry. Thes was aw mah faut." He sighed heavily, shaking his head just a little. "Ah shooldnae hae pushed ye. Need tae.. learn when tae jist lit things gang, aye?"

Well, wasn't aware of it. But now, Francis was more than aware of what part he'd played in this, and he was swearing to himself he'd never do it again. It hurt to see Will like this, to smell the strong stench of scotch on his breath. But he couldn't allow himself to be caught up in the damage he'd caused when he could still prevent any more from happening.

As soon as he felt the bottle slip from Will's hand, he took it away, quickly setting it down and far to the side so that it would be out of the way and it would no longer be tempting. It didn't seem like Will was giving much resistance, but Francis wanted to be cautious. Will had already had plenty for a hangover the next morning.

But as he felt their fingers lace together, his train of thought screeched to a halt; as William began speaking, he could feel his eyes growing misty. "Non, Guillaume... you did nothing wrong." He leaned forward and quietly pressed a kiss to Will's forehead, barely able to keep from crying. His voice was weak as he continued. "I was the one who should not have said anything. I was the one who first yelled. I'm the one to blame here, chéri."

He pulled away just long enough to look into Scotland's eyes, not caring if he looked as if he were about to cry. He couldn't just sit there and let Scotland blame himself for something that wasn't his fault. "Désolé, Guillaume."

Everything felt as if it hurt and the amount of alcohol in his system did nothing to dull it. Vaguely, he was aware that Francis looked as if he was about to cry but he couldn't be sure if that was something that was really happening or only his level of intoxication playing tricks on him. Maybe it was just a family trait, maybe it was just William himself but he had a long-standing habit of blaming himself for things when it came to these kinds of situations.. and none more so than when it came to this particular man.

It didn't matter anymore, did it?

"Aye, it's alrecht." Carefully, he sat up, and it took far longer than it should have with his mind working several muscle movements ahead of his body. The shift made his head spin, yet somehow he felt better for it. "Ngh. Feel loch Ah boonced doon frae th' top ay Ben Nevis."

He let out a slow sigh to steady himself, then looked up at Francis, his gaze wavering and slightly unfocused, but he was trying so hard to keep his attention on the other man's face. "'Ey.. Dornt start cryin', noo, luv. Ah've tauld ye hoo Ah feel abit yer cryin'."

Francis shifted away as William sat up, one hand still holding Will's from before, the other coming up to wipe at his eyes. But his hand didn't stay there for long. Immediately after, Francis reached out to Will, in case he needed his hand to sit up.

"Well then perhaps you should not have had so much to drink," Francis said a bit bitterly, chiding Scotland for the mess they were in, even if it was only halfheartedly. "You have more sense than this, Écosse. It is a miracle you are as big and wide as you are, or you may have passed out, or your heart might have stopped. We are not immortals anymore, Guillaume."

With a bit of a sigh, France gave up his scolding, and he carefully untangled his hand from Will's, if only to close his eyes and imagine a glass of water. It wasn't going to completely fix the whiskey, but it was certainly going to help somewhat in the morning, when this was all over. Meanwhile, he was listening to what Scotland was saying, his eyes opening again when Scotland was finished. "You told me I am beautiful when I cry. Drink this, s'il te plaît?" And he held up the glass, close to Scotland, where he could obviously see it.

"Aye, aiblins Ah shooldnae," he conceded, but he wasn't going to make himself regret the amount that he'd drank because while he'd been drinking it, it had been helping, in a strange kind of way. The reminder that neither of them are immortals anymore wasn't a welcome one and he scowled a little, despite how much effort it took to arrange his facial muscles into that expression. It cleared quickly, and he glanced away, wincing slightly as the room tilted.

The water went ignored until Francis spoke, then he sighed and took it. Drunk, Francis, but not blind.. thankfully. With how much he'd drank it wouldn't have been surprising if he'd fried his sight. He took a small sip and grimaced, then rested the glass against his knee and looked up at the other man.

"Nae," he muttered, bringing his free hand up to cup one side of Francis' face. "Yoo're aye beautiful, luv. Ye aye hae bin." He let his hand drop, then, and leaned carefully against the back of the couch. "An' it'll be th' feckin' death ay me."

"Non, you shouldn't have." He was quick to keep chiding, but it was only because it felt like Scotland was just brushing it off. However, France could tell that somewhere in their unspoken understandings between each other, he'd broken some rule for what not to talk about or bring up. But it had to be said. The last thing he needed was to see Scotland dead because of something he'd done out of desperation. But, he was thankful Scotland had relented, and so he quickly dropped the subject.

The single sip of water did little to appease Francis' nagging worry, but he couldn't force it. He just had to keep watching Will and make sure that he drank it at some point. He didn't envy the hangover the Scotsman was going to have in the morning. "You should keep drinking that," he murmured, the scolding tone from before being replaced only with soft remorse.

The hand pressing against his cheek was making all of his emotions well up again, and the thoughts associated with them, so in response France gently rested his hand on top, as he listened to what Scotland had to say. He felt the warmth from the other's hand and heard those pretty but so genuine words and it was all he could do not to tear up again. Even after how cruel France had been just a few hours ago, Scotland was being so sweet to him.

But soon, the hand was pulled away, and Francis was unsure how to respond to Scotland now. So, he didn't. Not with words, anyway. This was when he gently leaned over Scotland, pressing his lips once more to Scotland's forehead through crimson locks. It took France a while to pull away, and when he did, hands unsurely went into his lap. His eyes averted to the floor, suddenly pretending that his shoes were remarkably interesting.

"Dornt sooch me, Francis." And he didn't drink any more, because there are more important things to attend to right now. As if he could be cruel to this man, even if he had said such harsh things. No one in the world meant more to him than Francis, and that was something that hadn't changed for many years.

He closed his eyes at the kiss to his forehead and let out a slow sigh. The world span behind his eyelids but he fought of the nausea and after a few moments carefully opened them again. Really shouldn't have had so much to drink, but he could handle it, or so he would keep telling himself, and he wasn't about to curl up and die.

The water went utterly ignored now, set aside as he took both of Francis' hands in his and then lifted one to touch the other man's cheek, cupping it to coax him into lifting his head. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn't have the words for any of it.

So, he did the next best thing, and pressed a warm kiss to the other man's lips.

He didn't pay much attention to his hands being held - and honestly, he didn't even really register it. But when the hand cupped his face, and tilted it upward, Will had Francis' rapt attention. He thought perhaps Will had something to say, like chiding him again for almost crying.

What he didn't expect was for the other man to kiss him just then.

It was so sudden, he hadn't expected it, especially with how the evening had went in general. But with how soft the other was being, France couldn't help but give in for a few moments. After all, this was his dearest ex-lover that he was kissing. And a small, sick part of him liked it. Despite the whiskey-breath and the slightly sloppier nature of Scotland's kiss than normal, it still sent shivers through him.

But, sadly, Francis' brain was quick to catch up and remind him why this was so wrong. While Will probably wanted this on some level, it wasn't really him - the alcohol was controlling Scotland now. So, Francis was quick to protest.

"Mmnon..."

"Non!" He was quick to pull his head away, turning his head away, as his palms went flat against Will's chest and pushing away. Tilting back slightly, he was able to lock his elbows, keeping Will an arm's distance away.

After a few moments to catch his breath, which was so readily stolen from him by the kiss, France turned his head to look at Scotland again. He didn't look angry, just sad and a little nervous.

"Will, you're drunk--" He winced a little as he caught a whiff of Scotland's breath. "-- very drunk."

The next day, he was going to kick himself for doing that, and also wonder how he ever got the nerve, even with how drunk he was. Though, he wasn't so far gone that he didn't understand Francis' reaction, even if he felt a bit stung by it. He didn't make a move to shift closer or pull the French nation nearer, but he wrapped his fingers around the man's arms and grasped gently, watching him as he spoke.

"Aye.. Aye, Ah'm drunk." He wouldn't deny it, but that didn't make his feelings any less valid. It didn't, he wouldn't let Francis think that. Yet, he couldn't shake the idea that anything he said from now would be taken with a grain of salt thanks to his level of inebriation.

With that in mind, he let go of the other man and all but lurched to his feet, using the furniture and walls for support as he made his way to the kitchen, straight to the sink, where he fumbled the cold tap on and splashed his face with the icy water. It shocked him, nausea rising up to be quickly swallowed down as he leaned against the counter.

Very drunk, yes.. but he had his ways of sobering up.

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