it’s 5 o clock somewhere || LyonGlass
Chester didn’t get upset. That was part of his Grand Life Philosophy, which he’d drafted, revised, and perfected when he’d been a wee ten years old. He could still remember that night, lying in bed and looking up at the ceiling, smooth and white as an eggshell. There was nothing to see up there, which at ten years old he recognized as a metaphor for God. It was about that time, see, when kids are thinking more seriously about God. Usually kids reject God in their teens, but Chester was an advanced child. Foster children--especially permanent ones like him-- always grew up ahead of the curve. It was then that he told himself he’d only cry over things that deserved it. And he started to keep a list:
1. He would cry when animals died, dogs especially. 2. He would cry when kicked in the nuts. Because who wouldn’t cry then? 3. He would cry when watching very, very sad romantic dramas. 4. He would cry if he ever met a lad so gorgeous the only physical response was tears of joy. 5. He would cry for dramatic effect.
Nothing on this list included jealous tears or angry tears or heartbroken-over-a-boy tears and never did Chester get jealous or angry or heartbroken over a boy. He was none of those things now. Bas had been mentioning this--other boy, see, for a few days, his name (Magi; a fake bullshit stripper name) dropped into conversation, but Chester was happy for him. Chester knew that a boyfriend for Bas was exactly what both Bastian and he, himself, needed in order to continue down their trajectory of being best friends and growing old together, in houses side-by-side. But he left the house in a rush today, feeling all cranky and stuff, for unrelated reasons. In fact, here was another list, detailing the reasons for his grumpiness:
1. He was out of his favourite breakfast cereal 2. His cutest scarf was in the wash 3. Bastian was being rudely vague about whether or not they would be attending the ice skating event in the main street park together or not, and while Chester was not a jealous person at all, it was just rather annoying, wasn’t it, to make someone wait for you, and if Bastian had other plans, then Chester would have to have other plans, which was no problem whatsoever except for the fact that his cutest, eye-catching scarf was in the wash. 4. Bastian also denied him their morning run so now he had to go all by himself which wasn’t a problem except for numbers 1-3, thank you. 5. On his run, he’d passed this absolutely gorgeous older man who was running in the opposite direction, and his beauty alone could have caused tears (see list number one, number four) but instead just caused Chester to trip on a loose shoelace and scuffed up his elbows and knees.
So yes. Chester was upset. What he needed was a drink.
Normally he’d go to the Hunted Deer, moon a little, pout to Gaston, make fun of him or make him squirm because that would make him feel better about List Two 1-5. But he was closer to Pixie and his knee was bleeding and he just didn’t feel like limping across town. So he limped to Pixie instead. He limped inside. He limped to the bar. He hoisted himself onto a stool and sighed as dramatically as he could.
“I need the cutest bartender here!” he declared (thinking of the tallish, newish, wavy-haired Bastian-ish looking bartender named Berlioz), then saw it was just Simba. “Ugh, Simba, it’s just you. Fine, I’ll take a vodka shot, then make me a spiked Shirley Temple, two cherries--no, three cherries. This is a three cherry day.”