Ratbags and Scallywags [bxb]

Chapter 20

A/N: His friends, you guessed it! Another not really edited, but sorta half-assed, brief Grammarly-run-through-it type of edited chapter. But I'll get there for sure. It should be readable at least, and if not, just yell at me and complain heaps. Enjoy!

*

It didn't take much to convince me.

Taking our first taste of whiskey together, we shot them back simultaneously, coughing and spluttering from the burn down our throats. The pain in my lips dulled after the second shot, allowing them to press together properly and form proper, coherent words.

Alcohol was a miracle cure, albeit a temporary one.

All American Rejects played on his computer. We leaned against the side of his bed; legs stretched out across the floor. We chatted, knocking more drinks back until the burning sensation reduced to a smooth warm trickle down our throats. We'd been sharing some casual banter for a while now, enjoying a cruisy, relaxed atmosphere.

"How're you talking better than before?" Aubrey asked, dropping his head against my shoulder. "What's this magic?"

"My lips don't hurt anymore," I answered with a cheesy, tipsy giggle. "I can put my lips together now."

Even as I said that, just the letter p out of my mouth formed the sound of a bubble popping more than anything else. Still, at least now my words were legible. It was nice to see Aubrey out from the corner of my eye, smiling and bobbing his head along to the music.

I'd been conscious of Aubrey's concussion from the start. I made him promise that he'd be responsible and things easy. Before we started, I forced him to have two glasses of water with a full meal, reminding him to take sips of water in between, too. My foolproof argument had been, "If you die from this then I'll kill you." But he laughed each time I made the point, shaking his head with either secondary embarrassment or mild amusement.

We quietly hummed along to the music, occasionally following along with a few lines of lyrics. "Next shot?" I asked, to which he affirmatively, wholeheartedly agreed.

We reached for the whiskey bottle at the same time, currently stationed at knee-level between both of our legs. Aubrey's hand missed the mark, brushing past it quick enough that it knocked sideways. My hand caught it just in time, keeping it upright while grinning at him. "You're drunk already," I joked.

He shook his head, drooping his top lip solemnly. "Not drunk, just part blind."

I reflexively snorted.

He reached for the bottle more slowly this time. He grabbed my glass to pour me the first drink. As he held it out in front of him, I watched him squint, carefully focusing as he poured. The dark liquid poured directly beside the glass, pouring straight onto his pants.

Jumping with a start, he spilled some more over himself. This time, the liquid seeped into his shirt. I watched it cling to his skin while the room filled with a coconutty, oaky aroma with hints of butter and cream. And yes, I got descriptions of aged whiskey from poetry.

"Okay," he whispered, looking over at me. "Maybe a little drunk. There's no way I'd miss that sober."

I chuckled. Not because he missed, but because of his sheepish and embarrassed expression. I hoped he knew the difference.

"It's fine," I said, patting his hand assuredly. "Take a shower. It's barely after three so your parents won't be back forever."

He nodded and handed the bottle over to me. "Pour yourself another shot," he said as he got to his feet. "I'm leaving my hearing aid out here."