[ And that's it. Between being laughed at churlishly and the dogged expectation that had been pasted on Ray's face, he's flipped over from teasing to playful grumpiness, and he grouses: ] I'm not a lightweight.
[ But his neck has turned pink up to his chin, and there's patches of color under his eyes and his ears are all but glowing. Maybe he doesn't know what the term means. Now that it's down, the rum feels warm and pleasant - Fraser feels warm and pleasant - and as expected all thoughts of being alone are well and truly parted--but that's more down to the distraction than taking a magic pill.
Licking the taste of it from his own lips, he returns the favor, watching Ray drink the vodka fluidly, and he shifts very slightly on the bed. There's...something. There's something about the way that little bottle is held up, Ray's mouth curling around the thread of the rim, his long throat exposed and rolling as he swallows, that is...
No. ]
How do you do that?
[ It might have been a request, or a rhetorical question. In either case Fraser rifled through the bottles until he found another bottle of vodka, which he supposed because Ray had drunk it so easily might be somehow easier to inhale. His curious gaze stayed on Ray though, and there was a youthful quality to his questioning gaze. Something innocent and unworldly. It flicked briefly away as he began to speak, then drifted back. ]
My parents only kept one bottle of alcohol in the house at any one time, and it was for the use of guests. Brandy--practicality always first, of course, for first aid and warmth. Two days after my mother died, Buck Frobisher took the bottle off the shelf and emptied it into the snow.
When I was thirteen - and it must be noted that I was a rather contrary thirteen year old--practically a ruffian - I picked the lock on my grandfather's liquor cabinet. I had to practice the skill somewhere, and there was hardly a surfeit of locks to work with. In any event, when I had broken in I considered the bottles inside as an exciting new challenge. So as not to disturb the levels I took only the smallest sip of each before replacing them.
My grandfather, however, was not to be fooled. Perhaps my clumsy use of the picklock was what gave me away, in any event he marched me to the liquor cabinet and sat me down in front of it--and the next thing I remember, other than how angry he was, was being violently ill. I spent the next two days asleep, and the next month apologizing.
[ In short he was traumatized, and the result - t-total Fraser - was the man that sat before him today. ] I was drunk only one time following that, but not on hard liquor. [ But that was another story, and much less distant in its personal elements as a tale of childish folly, and Fraser was eying the second bottle, bringing it up to his lips. ]
no subject
[ But his neck has turned pink up to his chin, and there's patches of color under his eyes and his ears are all but glowing. Maybe he doesn't know what the term means. Now that it's down, the rum feels warm and pleasant - Fraser feels warm and pleasant - and as expected all thoughts of being alone are well and truly parted--but that's more down to the distraction than taking a magic pill.
Licking the taste of it from his own lips, he returns the favor, watching Ray drink the vodka fluidly, and he shifts very slightly on the bed. There's...something. There's something about the way that little bottle is held up, Ray's mouth curling around the thread of the rim, his long throat exposed and rolling as he swallows, that is...
No. ]
How do you do that?
[ It might have been a request, or a rhetorical question. In either case Fraser rifled through the bottles until he found another bottle of vodka, which he supposed because Ray had drunk it so easily might be somehow easier to inhale. His curious gaze stayed on Ray though, and there was a youthful quality to his questioning gaze. Something innocent and unworldly. It flicked briefly away as he began to speak, then drifted back. ]
My parents only kept one bottle of alcohol in the house at any one time, and it was for the use of guests. Brandy--practicality always first, of course, for first aid and warmth. Two days after my mother died, Buck Frobisher took the bottle off the shelf and emptied it into the snow.
When I was thirteen - and it must be noted that I was a rather contrary thirteen year old--practically a ruffian - I picked the lock on my grandfather's liquor cabinet. I had to practice the skill somewhere, and there was hardly a surfeit of locks to work with. In any event, when I had broken in I considered the bottles inside as an exciting new challenge. So as not to disturb the levels I took only the smallest sip of each before replacing them.
My grandfather, however, was not to be fooled. Perhaps my clumsy use of the picklock was what gave me away, in any event he marched me to the liquor cabinet and sat me down in front of it--and the next thing I remember, other than how angry he was, was being violently ill. I spent the next two days asleep, and the next month apologizing.
[ In short he was traumatized, and the result - t-total Fraser - was the man that sat before him today. ] I was drunk only one time following that, but not on hard liquor. [ But that was another story, and much less distant in its personal elements as a tale of childish folly, and Fraser was eying the second bottle, bringing it up to his lips. ]