“I will not continue to watch you make yourself miserable,” said Matthew. “There is no point to it — if you will never see reason or good sense —”
“Because you’re a bastion of reason and good sense?” James snapped. He knew he had a temper, just like his father; his anger spilled past everything else now, tasting of copper and fury. “Matthew you are drunk. For all I know, you mean nothing you are saying right now.”
“I mean all of it,” Matthew protested. “In vino veritas—”
“Don’t you quote Latin at me,” said James. “Even if you were sober, which would be a fine chance, you’ve never taken love seriously enough to lecture me about this. Your passions have been a series of dalliances and ill-conceived attachments. Look at me and tell me there is someone you love more than that bottle in your hand.”
Matthew had gone very white. James realized with a distant dismay that he had broken a pact between them, unspoken, that he would not speak to Matthew about his drinking. That if it remained unmentioned, it might vanish.
Matthew turned then, raising his arm — James stepped forward but Matthew had already violently slammed the bottle against the brick wall. Glass sprayed in all directions; Matthew flinched back. A flying bit of of glass had scratched his face, just beneath his eye.