Drunk admissions (be good or bad) to Troy
Send me a prompt and a character or ship and I’ll write a drabble based on what’s sent in.
◕ ⊱ There were two kinds of drinking. Drinking to help make a good time even better, and drinking to forget. The former, Lieven did in the presence of his crew. Not very often, of course; usually only when they had something to celebrate. The latter, however, he did by himself in his private cabin. While being around others often made forgetting a whole lot easier, he knew too well what he got like when truly drunk—it was, he figured, better for everyone if he kept that to himself.
Troy however had somehow managed to wedge himself carefully between these two types of his captain’s drinking. Lieven couldn’t for the life of him remember how it had begun, nor in hindsight say how it managed to last, but it worked out somehow, so he let it be. Now they occasionally met in Lieven’s cabin to drink until they passed out. More often than not, those nights would be full of rumbling laughter, silly challenges they made up for each other, and an overall complete lack of common sense.
This was not one of those nights.
Lieven is gazing out to the stars with unseeing eyes, fingertips pressed to the glass. There’s no bottle in his hand; he has already done his drinking for the night. Yet through his dark and muddy thoughts, he still remembers. “I waited for oblivion,” he says, his voice hoarse and uneasy after disuse, “but oblivion would not come.”
For a moment he’s back there again, watching them die for days and days. His throat constricts. He turns back to Troy, shadows drawing deep lines in his face. For an awful moment Troy looks both terribly young and terribly old. Lieven’s fingers are still icy cold against the glass, but he fears that if he moves now, something will have to break. A bottle or a bone or perhaps something else entirely. (He thinks about his bed, thinks about drowning in it, tossing and turning until he’s strangled by the sheets.)
(So far he has always woken up in the morning, though.)
“It’s not just that they died, right?” His face twists when he hears the tremor in his own voice. It takes him several attempts, but eventually he manages to wrench his lips into a smile so sharp it hurts. By then he’s not looking at Troy anymore. He barely even remembers the lad’s there in the first place. “It’s that I killed ‘em.”
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