wasting away again in margaritaville

[paterelohim]

Who: Chuck Shurley, Griffin
When: Thursday night
Where: some bar somewhere
Summary: Fred's dead, Anna's gone. The men need to feel their feelings.
Warnings: mention of death, drinking, language

The only answer to anything like this was drinking. Naturally. It was Chuck's only real coping mechanism anymore- not that it distinguished from how he normally spent his day, with something hard mixed into his morning coffee and his lunch soda and everything in between. But this was different, he was engaging in that ages-old practice of drinking to forget the pain. Chuck had no illusions that it could make him feel better- but blacking out would give him a night without memory of the pain. Waking up in a drunk tank would distract him.

Hey, at least he was realistic.

However, the essential problem to his situation was that the source of most of the trauma was home. Fred's blood was still in the cracks and fiber of the coffee table, no matter how long he'd spent today scrubbing it out. So he was forced to go elsewhere, to some shitty bar in some ugly part of the city where nobody would look for him.

Comments

[paterelohim]

Chuck settled into silence quickly enough as well, letting the seconds lapse on into weighted, dragging minutes. He drank like a man who had been training for this for years- someone so at home at the bottom of a bottle that you could easily imagine him fusing to the stool and never leaving.

It wasn't far from the truth.

"You know what? We're too sober." Great way to break the silence. "We need a drinking game."

Game being thinly-veiled code for an incredibly efficient way to get drunk fast.

[classdismissed]

Griffin, surprisingly, nodded in concordance. "Agreed," he said. It had been his intention coming out tonight. And it was only Chuck, after all. He could take Chuck drunk and blindfolded. He looked over at the older man blankly. "I'll take your cues then, since you're the expert."