24. Drunken Daze

Summary: Dave and Jack get drunk to celebrate another Freddy's shutdown, but Jack's guilt won't let him enjoy getting wasted. Hurt no comfort -ish? I don't really know...?

Content and trigger warning for intoxication by alcohol and a brief section where throwing up is described. And also for Dave's accent being borderline unreadable.

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Slightly somewhat very much inspired by 'did you think I wouldn't leave a legacy?' by redpandablues on archiveofourown!! -When is something deemed inspired by? I don't know! Regardless of that, their characterizations are insanely impressive and now engraved in my brain. GO READ LITERALLY ANY AND ALL OF THEIR FICS!!! I COMMAND YOU.

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Whiskey, vodka, a discarded bottle of bacardi, continuously fewer mixers: they were getting filthy drunk. It was supposed to be a revelry, a celebration in honor of shutting down Freddy's once more, a stopover before Vegas. Jack didn't feel festive in the slightest, torn between guilt tugging at his consciousness and the way Dave's lips seemed to glisten because of the alcohol. The only thing that helped was another glass of poison, infiltrating his thoughts with a buzz if only for a second.

Dave didn't seem bothered in the slightest, eagerly poured both of them another glass. To him, this really was a celebration; he'd done it again, one step closer to completing a goal he didn't fully comprehend. Dave, overemotionate as he was, seemed completely void of any remorse towards the children he'd brutally strangled not even a week ago. Even through Jack's buzzed thoughts, he managed to wonder whether it was caused by Dave's own absence of a childhood. Never experienced one and therefore didn't value the concept of it, convinced himself he was doing them a favor.

Jack hated that he agreed to it. Told himself that he wouldn't time and time again after their first encounter, folded the moment he was reunited with Dave. Who was he to blame Dave for feeling remorseless when he agreed to kill so easily, unlike him; Dave had somewhat of a reason. Jack had never considered himself a pushover yet found himself agreeing to anything Dave proposed, which was how he ended up raiding his own liquor cabinet. Their last stop before Vegas, it was too late in the afternoon to go right away according to Dave. He'd carefully hidden the last photo of Dee that stood above his fireplace, hurried in before Dave could see it. She'd have hated to see what became of him.

"Say old sport, ya'd think-"

Yet he kept finding his gaze landing on Dave, leaning back on his couch with his legs spread out and his feet on the coffee table before him. His words were more comprehensive than Jack's, reminiscing about anything and everything that happened the past week. As much as he tried not to pay it any mind, tried to distract himself by looking anywhere that wasn't Dave, he found himself clinging to every word. He looked majestic when he wasn't on edge, relaxed into couch cushions, like he deserved to be.

"-ya'd think that fuckin' virgin would'a saved up e'nuff tickets ta' get himself a hooker by now?"

His accent always got stronger when he was drunk, something Jack was so mesmerized by that he almost failed to register the question regarding Matt. He looked up from his armchair, almost spilled the contents of his glass once he sat up in a slightly less slouched position. Ever since their last Vegas trip, Jack found that he was growing increasingly more agitated whenever Dave mentioned hookers. He didn't want to ponder on why that was for long.

"I'on know, man-"

He really hoped his words were still comprehensible, Dave was the last person who didn't look down on him yet and he was desperate to maintain that dynamic. Pondering the specifics of Matt's mentality, he took another sip that brought a delicious sting to his throat. Their conversations had descended into Dave blurting whatever nonsense came to mind, much to Jack's content. He feared that if this was any more serious he'd pour his heart out right along with the liquor, letting the guilt that was nagging him finally take over. It was getting harder to repress, almost as difficult as what he was beginning to feel for Dave.

"I dun'- I dunno if he 'ven wants ta'-?"

He caught a little bit of Dave's accent lingering on his own words, and wondered if he heard it too. Regardless of that, Dave let out a laugh that sounded comically like a snort and folded due to the drunken giggles. Jack didn't understand what was so particularly funny about what he said, but found himself smiling at Dave's enthusiasm anyway. It always did seem easier to forgive and forget when he directed his attention to Dave, when he let love take over guilt.

"C'mon sports! Ever'one wants ta' fuck!"

Dave's drink spilled out of its glass when he sat back down, he didn't even notice it as he brought it back to his lips. It wasn't the first thing in Jack's household that Dave had ruined. Yet Jack found himself looking towards him again, couldn't tear his eyes away no matter how much his consciousness tried to make him. A droplet trailed dangerously from Dave's lips to his jaw, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

It was a dangerous game to get drunk around Dave. Blurry fragmented memories from Vegas told him that, left him with more to bury in the grave that rested somewhere in his consciousness. Only when intoxicated did he dare do anything, did anything ever come of them. He wondered if Dave remembered, if he could recall how he tasted, which liquor and drugs lingered on his tongue when they crossed the line. His thoughts were taking a wrong turn.

"What'evah- E'nuff weirdos at Freddy's..."

He had a point with that, and Matt wasn't even close to the worst of it. They were, if anything. Before he could linger on that sentiment, Dave had somehow gotten up on his feet and reached for the whiskey across the table. He poured his own glass first; rude, Jack briefly thought, before holding out his in anticipation. Dave commented on how he still had a little remaining in it, watched how he swallowed it back without any real trouble, and then held it out again

"Yer' one crazy bastard ol' sport..."

Dave laughed mindlessly, Jack wished the liquor could make it forget like it seemed to do for Dave. He could hardly stand, his hand searching for support without any real direction. What once was an intent to stabilize himself on the armrest of Jack's chair ended up with Dave's hand on his thigh, making him flush as another shattered memory came to mind at the sight. Poison gushed into his glass, Dave threatening to fall right on top of him like he secretly wished he would. And then he was on the couch again, glass in hand and bottle on the table.

"Gah! The look on phoney's face ta'day-!"

Dave cheered, raising his glass in the air as if he was giving a toast. Liquid gushed over the rim, landed on the carpet he'd tried his best to maintain, another stain because of Dave. He felt his hand grow tighter around his glass, keeping his eyes off Dave just this once.

"Neva'h thought a phone could'a had so much horror in 'is expression, what'dya say sportsy?!"

Jack could recall that look in an instant, he was certain it'd come to haunt him for years on end. It was a cruel thing to replace someone's head with a phone; the inhumane act of stripping someone from any display of emotions, not to mention what was done to their memories. It wasn't something Jack thought about a lot, not until he recognised his own brother concealed beneath red plastic.

"Wutever you say Dave-"

Jack was surprised his sentence managed to come out without any embarrassing voice cracks that betrayed his shifting mood. It hurt to have to choose between Dave and his family, especially because he knew the choice he'd make didn't comply with what was correct. All the guilt he'd buried beneath a daze of adoration immediately resurfaced as Dave spoke again:

"I mean, the betrayal on 'is face!"

Jack began to wonder if he could still turn back time. Dismantle that accursed foxy animatronic and pry what was left of his brother from its teeth, apologize until his throat went raw. He had made his choice and now he had to live with it, the only thing he could do about it now was take a swig from his glass and hope to forget.

"I ain't blamin' him 'ough! Fucker didn't suspect nuffin', we're just that good ol' sport..."

Dave seemed satisfied with himself, if he looked towards Jack he would've seen a different expression. He wished Dave would stop talking, wished he had the guts to tell him that. He never really did, trailed behind Dave as if it was his only purpose in life. If he really thought about it, maybe it was just that. That thought terrified him, made him consider that there was nothing outside of his relationship with Dave anymore. Maybe that was why he agreed again so easily.

"Henry taught me e'nuff tricks fer' us ta' go unnoticed!"

"Don't- Don't go talking 'bout him right now, please-"

Jack snapped, quicker and more cohesive than he thought he could be. He hated how easily Henry's name emerged from Dave's mouth, all while he found himself choking it back. He hated how highly Dave thought of him, how he seemed to think of all the negative Henry brought upon this world as a gift, a breakthrough. He hated what Henry had done to Dave's consciousness.

"Why wouldn't I old sport? 'S hard to not ta' talk 'bout such an impressive man!"

Now it was Dave's turn for his expression to falter and his movements to halt, looking at Jack with his head tilted to the side. This was going the wrong direction, he needed Dave to stop talking and he needed him to do it right now.

"I don't wanna hear about him."

The first coherent sentence of the night, he wished it could've been spent on something that wasn't as pathetically tragic as that.

"Oh c'mon sports! All we're doin' here, those dead toddl'as, all for his dream! Yer' helpin' me ta' make it come true, ya' know that right sportsy?"

He was right. Jack hated that he was right. There was no separating Dave from Henry, no matter how much he wanted there to be. He was slowly letting himself become what Henry had designed Dave to be, his attachment to all there was before Dave was beginning to falter. His eyes found the fireplace, couldn't look at Dave any longer, threatened to tear up because he didn't see his sister smiling back at him anymore.

"I'm doin' this for you, Dave."

The whole room had shifted. It always seemed to do that too easily when he was intoxicated, the littlest change in tone could send him reeling into a completely different direction. Dave seemed largely oblivious to Jack's demeanor, leaning back while shrugging his shoulders and putting his glass to his lips again.

"Eh, same thing ol' sport-"

They should stop drinking, stop talking right now, it was the only way Jack saw this have a good ending. He brought the glass to his lips and downed what was left of his whiskey. He wouldn't have responded if he was sober; too confrontational, but he found himself speaking again:

"It ain't the same, he ruined ya'- You could'a been somethin' Dave, for fuck's sake!"

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees with his head buried in his hands. He couldn't look at the absence of that photo, the last one he hadn't put away up until today. The anger in his voice was so evident that Dave picked up on it too, straightening his posture.

"I woulda've been nothin' if it weren't fer' him, old sport, he saved me!"

Dave genuinely believed that there was good in Henry, Jack often wondered if that made him worse or better than him. In his eyes, Henry was a saint and his murders were justified because of greater cause; Jack killed because he wanted to, because he needed to be around Dave to feel even remotely alive. Even though he had a choice, he decided to follow Dave's path. He knew he couldn't go on like this forever, kept drawing a metaphorical line where all this stopped existing, but he found himself postponing it further into the future time and time again.

"Stop pretendin' you don't see! Ya've gatta know!"

Jack stood up, as if to emphasize his statement. A dangerous move as he almost immediately felt his balance falter, doubling down and just barely managing to support himself on the coffee table. Dave followed, an angry expression shifting to one of concern. For how much of a genius Dave could be, Jack was convinced that he must've understood more about Henry than he let on. His body was littered in scars that weren't limited to a springlock accident, for Fredbear's sake.

"Sportsy- Sports, I think ya' should lay off the whiskey fer' a moment-"

Jack was already reaching for another bottle, hardly noticed that he was doing so until Dave grabbed his wrist. The same hand that cradled him so lovingly, that he'd intertwined fingers with several times, that'd held his wrist like this before when he allowed himself to be pressed into love-laced sheets. Only the liquor would make him forget that memory. One of those bottles had to have answers in the bottom of it, he just needed to keep searching.

"Ya' can't fuckin' tell me what to do!"

He swatted Dave's hand away, nearly fell over again as he did all the while still trying to grab hold of any bottle. He was beyond reason at this point, all the liquor had made his emotions intertwine in such an overwhelming, anxiety inducing, manner that it was the only thing that consumed him. The blood on his hands, the knowledge that he was becoming what he swore to destroy. Dave most of all.

"I'm tryna' help ya' sportsy, jus'- Sit down!"

Now Dave was on his feet too, or atleast Jack thought he was; the whole room swam around them and he couldn't quite seem to distinguish any movement in particular. He tried pushing Jack back into his chair, hands on his shoulders, but he didn't budge.

"What, Henry told you that too-?! I'm tryna' help ya'?"

He tried to mimic Dave's accent and failed horribly, it seemed he was only able to do it when he didn't want to. All the floodgates were loose, Jack's mixed bag of repressed emotions were starting to lean heavily towards anger, moreso directed towards Henry than Dave. Much to his dismay, Dave looked at him with what could only be described as offense. He was still trying to get Jack to sit down, hadn't braced himself for the shove that sent him tumbling back onto the couch.

"He did nothin' for ya, Dave! He taught you how to kill, made you inta' a machine, that's- That's all he ever did!"

Dave remained motionless, stared at Jack with an expression he couldn't read through his clouded vision. He just needed him to say something, anything, mutter an agreement or dismissal, it didn't matter which one anymore. Nothing mattered when he was drunk in such a manner, a blessing when it meant he got to lean into Dave without worry, a curse when it meant that Dave eyed him as if he would hurt him. He looked intimidated, like Jack truly was the monster he thought himself to be. If he killed so mercilessly, what really was retaining him from doing the same to Dave? The thought scared him more than he'd like to admit.

"Where's this comin' from?"

Dave asked, a tremor in his voice. He'd upset him. The one person who didn't make him feel guilty, never made him rethink his questionable choices in life, now tugged at his heart with more power than ever before. And then all the anger dissipated, replaced by an equally horrific cesspool guilt and sorry.

"Davey- You can't- Ya' can't keep chasin' a dream that's not yours-"

Dave's accent was back on Jack's words again, he hated that it wasn't something he could control. Jack crashed on the couch beside him, watched with tears threatening behind his eyes as Dave almost immediately scooted away from him. Once again, Jack was reminded that his actions had consequences which couldn't be reversed whenever he wanted them to be. Maybe if he tried hard enough he'd get another chance.

"M' sorry- I'm not mad, promise- You jus'- Y'should live a life of your own-"

He couldn't read Dave's expression anymore, could hardly decipher whether it was because of the liquor or tears flooding his vision. He couldn't remember when he'd last cried, the fact that Dave was the one to do that to him terrified him more than it surprised him.

"Stop trying. I'll help ya', I promise I will if you just- Give up on his dream..."

Jack tried, desperately, pleading over and over until a sob interrupted his words. He reached a hand towards Dave, tried to find anything that could be seen as a comforting gesture, but ended fruitlessly planting his hand on the couch cushions behind him. He wondered if Dave had ever cried to Henry like this, if there was a moment where he did indeed understand, if he was headed the same path as Dave: a result of Henry even beyond his death. The thought made him gag, although the alcohol was most definitely at play as well.

"Why would I?"

Dave asked with such a stoic voice that Jack felt dubious that it was even a question. Jack knew the answer: because he was the perfect example of a family ruined by him, torn apart and mercilessly killed for no real purpose outside of Henry's borderline sadistic research. He couldn't say that, it'd make everything he had built with Dave go to waste, he couldn't live like that. And really, why would Dave; this was the only purpose he had known all his life.

"Because there is no good endin'! Not for ya', not for me- Not for us."

He was full on sobbing now, jerked away from Dave when he saw the way he looked at him. No more apologies could cut it as he sat on the opposite end of the couch, hands to his face without care of the makeup that smudged them.

"There is sportsy- I know there is, ya've just got ta' trust me..."

Somewhere in the distance he felt Dave put a hand to his shoulder, it only made Jack hurt more to know that he was still trying to comfort him despite everything he'd said previously. He just kept repeating that there wasn't one, that he was sorry and that he'd help Dave build a life if only he put in the effort. It all blurred into one anyway, Dave could hardly make sense of it. Through the jumble of words, though, he could decipher that there was more at play than just Jack's apparent dislike towards Henry's dream.

"Old sport, ya've gatta tell me what's wrong..."

He gently rubbed Jack's arm, really tried to make him feel at ease through this horrid trip. They'd seen each other in fragile states before, Vegas consisted of plentiful bad nights where they'd find themselves rubbing the other's back while they threw up everything in their rotten stomach. It wasn't new, but seeing Jack this emotional was; what Jack said next was.

"I love you, Dave!"

Silence, calmth before a storm. He finally dared to remove his hands from his face, showing the traces of tears intertwined with makeup to Dave, revealing what was beneath the foundation. Jack tried desperately to decipher his expression, tried to discover what he wasn't saying through the creases on his face and the wrinkles between his eyebrows that furrowed together.

"Yer' drunk."

He declared in disbelief. The storm hit, Jack felt it in the way his eyes seemed to burn even more than before. Dave didn't believe him, he couldn't blame him with the way he behaved regularly. His hand still rested on Jack's arm, he dreaded the moment Dave would break the contact.

"I'd love ya' if I was sober-"

He pleaded, grabbed onto Dave's hand with his own before he got the chance to retreat. And he meant it, it had always been there, concealed beneath carefully constructed emotional barriers that refrained him from ever saying it out loud. It hurt him that he never got to show it to Dave.

"We need'a get ya' into bed old sport-"

"It's true-! I love you everyday, ya' just make it so damn hard for me to say so-"

Jack feared that all his efforts to make this evident to Dave would simply fall flat under the pretense that it was alcohol enhancing his stubborn nature, that Dave would never believe him and that he wouldn't be able to repeat himself by morning.

"Please, sportsy... If ya' love me, you'll let me put you ta' bed- We'll talk tomorrow-"

Now Dave was crying too, he hadn't noticed when he started doing that. It was astounding that love could hurt so much. He thought it over for a moment, let both the visual and his words sink into what was left functioning in his brain. One realization crossed his mind:

"Ya' haven't said it back-"

He whispered, like he was afraid his words would hurt more if he spoke any louder. Dave looked at him with pity first, then disbelief. Jack watched through blurry eyes as he stood up, positioned himself before him and tugged on his hand.

"C'mon- Ya' know I love you too, yer' not bein' reasonable-"

Dave sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. It had to have been miserable, to only ever be verbally loved when copious amounts of alcohol were involved. He could never tell how much of it Jack truly meant, and how much could be assigned to the liquor at play. Jack understood this all too well, beginning the notion of standing up with a sob and a groan. It was the least he could do for Dave after everything.

"See-? There ya' go..."

Dave helped pull him back to his feet, let him sulk against his side as Jack's balance immediately slipped away from him. Sometimes he wished Dave would just scream, get so unreasonably angry that Jack would never want to see him again. He never did, he always helped. He was the only one who always helped. Dave looked at him with concern where there should have been disgust, helped him maneuver around the coffee table he absolutely would've tripped on if it weren't for his guidance.

He couldn't forgive himself for letting himself get this tremendously wasted. He'd convinced himself that Dave was keeping up with his pace, a justification for the speed at which he drank. Yet Dave seemed far more sober as he led him through his living room, even despite their substantial difference in body mass that should've worked in Jack's favor. Dave told him to focus ahead of him, fixate on one point, which was exactly what he tried to do as he wrecked his brains with a million ways to apologize.

He tried to focus, he really did, but his vision swam. It was getting increasingly harder to breathe, shallow breaths that only seemed to contribute to the clammy sweat that pooled everywhere along his body. He felt simultaneously hot and cold, shivering all throughout. They'd almost made it through the hallway when he stopped dead in his tracks, put his free hand against the wall to stabilize himself, and tried to tell Dave to step away.

A wave of vomit came rushing from his throat, a watery substance that consisted purely of liquor, crashing against his floorboards. It burned in his mouth, stung more than anything he'd had that evening, sent him doubling down. He emptied all the contents of his stomach until even the scarce meal from the afternoon lay scattered before him, until he could only dry heave and spit out wads of saliva. With it came a sense of relief, a sense of clarity: the realization that he would never get this out of his floorboards.

"Fuck. Sorry-"

He said to Dave, still with his head bent to the floor. The man had taken a step back once Jack started barfing, one hand still on his shoulder as if scared he'd fall over. Jack thought he just might. Despite everything, Dave was beside him again in an instant and helped him around the puddle of fluid, urging him into his room. It was moments like these that showed Dave really did care, it was a real shame that Jack hardly remembered them.

"M' sorry- I really am-"

Was all that was left for Jack to mutter when Dave sat him down on the edge of his bed. His words had already been too much, he'd already overstepped every line he'd drawn for himself when he stumbled out of work that afternoon. He should've known better by now, this had happened so many times before that Jack should realize the effects alcohol had on him. He considered that, maybe, that was the exact reason why he kept doing it.

Liquor watered down the barrier between his mouth and his thoughts; revealed feelings which he tried so hard to repress. He kept drinking in the hopes that he would let something slip, that he could bring change which he never would sober, that he could mean something. He never had the courage to tell Dave the things he did drunk, often feared that Dave didn't realize he was being genuine because of it.

"S' alright sportsy, jus'- Take yer' shirt off, 's got barf on it..."

He sat beside Jack, helped him peel his soiled shirt off his torso with the necessary difficulty of a man wasted to bits. The anger had dissipated, his outburst left him feeling utterly exhausted, slouching against Dave's side. He couldn't change the past, his deeds couldn't be undone; all there was left was an apology.

"M' sorry-"

"Stop sayin' that old sport- Every'ne gets like this, 's okay..."

He wrapped an arm carefully around Jack's shoulders, uncaring for the orange makeup that stained his shirt. Not being particularly clear minded himself, he could only resort to what he thought Jack needed in this very moment.

"I won't- I won't do it ever again, promise..."

Jack said, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. Dave, gently as ever, urged him to lay down. Jack settled into place easily enough, allowed the sheets to be pulled up to his shoulders with a heavy breath. He couldn't figure out how he'd ever deserved such care.

"C'mon, ya' gatta lay on yer' side... I don't want'cha chokin' on your own vomit-"

Jack obliged with a grumble, tucked his hand beneath his head where it rested on the pillow. At this state, it was easier to simply oblige by the orders given than to think for himself, he hardly could by now if he wanted to. With his free hand he reached for Dave's wrist, weakly clung onto it with the little energy he had left.

"Please stay-"

He whispered, knowing that the tone in which he spoke would no longer matter, he'd said too much for Dave to take him seriously by now. Thankfully, Dave sat on the edge of his bed and intertwined his hand with Jack's, squeezing it as a sign of reassurance. He'd stay no matter what; whereas that statement typically terrified Jack, he now found himself relishing in it. It wasn't long before the alcohol got to him and made him drift off, or plainly knock out, there wasn't much of a difference in his state of undeath.

The morning after would be the same anyway: he'd wake up with a killer headache and a gap in his memory that had some fragments scattered across it which he couldn't quite make sense of. Aside from the nausea he immediately felt rushing to his throat, today was no different. Jack briefly asked himself where he was before his room came into sight, and he realized what had led him here. Even though he couldn't recall having gone to bed, he had the strong feeling that Dave was somehow missing from the scene.

Jack's journey towards his living room took a diversion to the bathroom as he felt a wave of bile threaten to boil up in his throat at the smell that polluted his hallway. It reeked of vomit, a prominent stench despite the fact he couldn't find any evidence of the source. If he hadn't been focused on reaching the toilet bowl as soon as possible, he would've heard Dave rummage distantly in his kitchen. What hadn't gotten out of his system the night before certainly did when Jack crashed to the floor and hung his head over his toilet, letting everything exit the same way it'd entered.

Once there really was nothing left within him to throw up, he turned to the sink and washed his face. The mirror showed a disgruntled expression with makeup smudged, deep bags beneath his eyes and a frown that he couldn't seem to erase. He would've resorted to showering if this was any other day, but something told him that he needed to go searching for Dave. That was how he found himself in the kitchen, only becoming somewhat aware of the fact that he was merely wearing his pants from the day before once Dave noticed him.

"Old sport! Good afternoon to ya'."

He greeted, turning his back to where he was rummaging in the kitchen cabinets. Something about his tone seemed off, Jack could tell, although he quickly assigned it to a mutual hangover as he hopped to sit on the counter.

"Afternoon-? What time is it?"

His voice came out groggy, throat feeling raw upon speaking. He looked towards the kitchen window and concluded that the rain which clattered outside had led him to believe that it was earlier than it really was. Everything seemed darker than it should've been, aligning perfectly with his current state.

"About... Half past one, I'm guessin'- I'm makin' panini's, y'want one?"

There was definitely something off with Dave from the way he would hardly look at him, keeping his eyes fixed on the panini that was slowly being warmed up. Dave always looked at him, followed in his shadow everywhere he went in the restaurant.

"I don't think my body would let me eat anything even if I wanted to, no thanks-"

Jack retorted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had no idea where to start, tried to recall what he could've said or done. Henry's name had come up, it was one of the last things he'd registered before his mind went blank.

"More fer' me old sport!"

Dave's enthusiastic tone of voice seemed more exaggerated than usual, though Jack considered that it was entirely possible that it'd always been that way. Dave's fabricated persona always seemed to flare when something was wrong, it was his own way of concealing what neither of them were saying aloud. Jack took a moment to look around, noticed that everything was surprisingly tidy and clean for what he could only assume was once a mess beyond comprehension. He considered that Dave had also cleaned the source of that rancid stench that occupied his hallway, he couldn't even begin to comprehend how to thank him for that.

"Hey, um- Did something happen, tonight?"

It wouldn't have been the first time he let himself go too far under the influence. He remembered waking up in Dave's arms with a stinging discomfort that wasn't limited to his head all too clearly, that odd sticky sensation never seemed to leave his thoughts.

"Nah, not that I remember old sport- Ya' went a little too hard on the whiskey, spat some bullshit and threw up, but that ain't anythin' groundbreaking."

Yet he couldn't shake the feeling, watching as Dave retrieved his panini and plopped it on a plate. There were so many things he could've said to warrant this reaction, but having to uncover all those possibilities meant that he had to touch upon emotions concealed behind sobriety. And he wasn't particularly good at that.

"Say, sportsy, ya' think yer' sober enough for Vegas...?"

Dave asked, chewing down on his -slightly burnt- panini with a smile dancing across his lips. It was the first genuine enjoyment Jack had heard in his voice up until now, and it was contagious as he found himself grinning too.

"Fuckin' hell, you've really got no limit, do ya'?"

Dave shook his head with a spark in his eye. Vegas could be another chance to forget, an opportunity to further drown himself in liquor with the hopes that it would get rid of his everlasting guilt. He knew better than that, yet found himself enticed by the enthusiastic look on Dave's face. Maybe, if he really tried, he could change his mind this time around.

"Alright, screw it, we're going! But you're driving."

And so the cycle continued.

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[5644 words]

This is how I cope with tryna' go sober UH-GAIN. If I ever tell ya' I'm "building a healthy relationship with alcohol" again you're all required to slap me in the fuckin' face.

I'm probably ganna have a crashout with my mummy today so if I vanish I've gotten my shit taken away, stay safe gang <3

ALSO holy shit OVER 100K WORDS IN THIS BOOK?! CRAZY.