Be it far from him to turn down a bar-hopping buddy any other night, which is why as far as tomorrows went, maybe—just maybe—Theo is far enough out of his mind to hope for one. ( Think about it: your friends are, what, seven years old? ) Meanwhile, here’s to a night of scrunching back this guy’s hair from the toilet bowl.
In a way, though, it’s adorable: the cheery aria that lines his prattling. It would inveigle anyone’s heartstrings to give Lee the liquor he wanted, and damn it—it’s not that he can’t let loose ( right now he would love nothing more ), but he knows that tonight, there’s nobody else who can be The Responsible One. Being defied snaps the wear out of heavy eyes; panic alighting, he downs his glass in one go before tailing after his guest. “Live a lit—… … holy shit, hold on! This isn’t a pub! No… no taxi? Another drink—? And who the fuck is Allen?!”
朱雀 tested, TVB approved: it’s a fiasco befitting of one of his sitcoms.
“Wa-wait, wait! Are you hungry?!” Fingers manage to hook one of the blonde’s shirt cuffs, “You’re hungry, right? Wasn’t that your stomach just now? Eat…–” A faint wince punctuates the male’s outburst, confessing he has sprung forth before the alcohol has settled. But, no matter–he rattles off the warning, and traces a cross over his breast. Maybe he’s past rational conversation, he thinks. Maybe it’s time to barter a bit, he thinks. His clutch to fine cloth slackens, only for two firm palms to plant atop the other’s broad shoulders.
“… Eat first, okay? And I’ll make dumplings or some shit,” he promises, eyes lit behind thick lenses. “Then if you’re a good boy, I’ll make you a better drink. But I’m not dicking around, bro! Y'gotta be really, really good! Okay?!”
Sloping skywards, dipping downwards, his balance is akin to the most turbulent of cacophonies; simply put, Lee’s a sopping mess, but at least he’s grinning, grinning, grinning for lack of any other emotion at the moment. He’s having a fucking blast. Anything more substantial has been firmly sealed away with pungent, alcohol-laden fumes being the final turn of the key, and that’s how he wants tonight to stay.
So no, he isn’t gonna wonder why he’s such a piece of shit, or why he’s so damn annoying while this bro deserves far better than a tripped-out teen stumbling ‘round his house. He’s drunk. Inebriated. Liberated from such mundane worries. Instead, he thinks about how this is seriously a nice house — life goals, even. Slap a pretty face in the picture frames and Lee’s own disgusting mug next to it and voila, there, a happy family.
Not that it’ll ever be the right pretty face. That’s the point he winds up fixating on as he grunts, pushes the thought out of his mind ( fuck, how much more’ll he have to down to get rid of all of it? ) and latches grimy fingers to leather upholstery; yeah, it’s definitely time for another drink. The effects of earlier in the night are already starting to fade, although his ravenous appetite has only grown in size.
“Fine, fine. A house then,” he says casually, tone making it evident that he still sees no problem whatsoever with waltzing around like he owns the place. Words are tied together, running back and through and over each other as he cheerily slurs the next bit: “Fuuuuckallen. Fuck Allen. ‘Cept not literally, but dude, dudebro, my homebro, my soul brutha, Allen doesn’t matter — you’re my new best friend!”
The more he talks, the easier it gets. “Drinks on me, seriously! I ain’t dickin’ around.” He’s pushing back against the guy’s hold now, struggling to rise. “I’m pretty baller, y’know. I’ll pay for the dumplings, all you can eat, so lemme up... !” This time he uses his legs too, muscles straining for the promise of further intoxication ( bottled happiness, more like ), and begins to whine. “C’mooooon!”
