[Ray notices that pinkness creeping into Fraser's skin, like the warmth of the alcohol spreading about him with quick effect. It's likely the strength of the burn just as much as any drunkeness, but it's amusing all the same, keeping that smile lingering as he eyes the other up. Ray knows it'll be a good few minutes yet until anything starts taking proper effect, but he can't judge his friend's tolerances based on one shot alone.
The question, rhetorical or not, still gets a shrug, modest as if it's something he's proud of. This is one of the very few things he can do better than Fraser, so he figures he's allowed to have some pride in himself for it, and Fraser doesn't seem to be judging. In fact, he's got that look. The innocent Canadian look he's so damn good at adopting, all naivety and confusion like he's still learning about the world beyond the tundra, even now. It's cute. Good. Makes Ray feel like he's of some use, even if it is only when it comes to alcohol.
The story keeps Ray quiet, listening with his head tilted as he idly deposits the empty bottle aside. There's something melancholy about listening to Fraser speak of his family, especially his mother, and Ray doesn't interrupt. Only speaking at the very end to voice his opinion.]
No wonder you don't drink. Hey-- [Sharply, as though trying to grab Fraser's attention just before the drink is taken.]
Toss it to the back of yer throat and swallow it straight down. That's what me and my buddies used to do. Used to sit in the park after school and drink 'til sunset. Sometimes one of us would steal from our dad's stash. Other times we'd get Cliff- this hulk of a kid, never got IDed- to get us our stuff. Just the cheap shit, y'know? Like beer, hard cider or the type of spirits that tasted like paint stripper. Those were the sort y'didn't want lingerin' in your mouth any longer than they had to, heh.
I remember one time I got home late and, I dunno, I musta stank of the stuff, cause wow, my dad just started layin' into me. Shoutin' about how dumb I was and whatta waste and and and y'know he coulda shouted at me all night and I wouldn't have cared, but then he said what a disappointment I was and... and I guess that hit harder than any fist ever could. And he was right. I knew it right then that I'd done shit with my life while I'd been sittin' around drinkin'. What sorta son does that?
[And in short, Ray was also traumatised. Mostly by much of his and his father's arguments, but also alcohol. He still drank the stuff though, even if it wasn't usually to excess.]
no subject
The question, rhetorical or not, still gets a shrug, modest as if it's something he's proud of. This is one of the very few things he can do better than Fraser, so he figures he's allowed to have some pride in himself for it, and Fraser doesn't seem to be judging. In fact, he's got that look. The innocent Canadian look he's so damn good at adopting, all naivety and confusion like he's still learning about the world beyond the tundra, even now. It's cute. Good. Makes Ray feel like he's of some use, even if it is only when it comes to alcohol.
The story keeps Ray quiet, listening with his head tilted as he idly deposits the empty bottle aside. There's something melancholy about listening to Fraser speak of his family, especially his mother, and Ray doesn't interrupt. Only speaking at the very end to voice his opinion.]
No wonder you don't drink. Hey-- [Sharply, as though trying to grab Fraser's attention just before the drink is taken.]
Toss it to the back of yer throat and swallow it straight down. That's what me and my buddies used to do. Used to sit in the park after school and drink 'til sunset. Sometimes one of us would steal from our dad's stash. Other times we'd get Cliff- this hulk of a kid, never got IDed- to get us our stuff. Just the cheap shit, y'know? Like beer, hard cider or the type of spirits that tasted like paint stripper. Those were the sort y'didn't want lingerin' in your mouth any longer than they had to, heh.
I remember one time I got home late and, I dunno, I musta stank of the stuff, cause wow, my dad just started layin' into me. Shoutin' about how dumb I was and whatta waste and and and y'know he coulda shouted at me all night and I wouldn't have cared, but then he said what a disappointment I was and... and I guess that hit harder than any fist ever could. And he was right. I knew it right then that I'd done shit with my life while I'd been sittin' around drinkin'. What sorta son does that?
[And in short, Ray was also traumatised. Mostly by much of his and his father's arguments, but also alcohol. He still drank the stuff though, even if it wasn't usually to excess.]