This is weird. So fucking weird, but not in a fully bad way for once. He's gotten too comfortable around @teachespain if he's asking random questions that he puts zero thought into. Robby was genuinely curious about how nonalcoholic beers would mix with his dad, who had made drinking Coors his life for the past decades. He'd seen the label on the bottle his dad was drinking and promptly wondered out loud. Nothing more to it. Except his dad is making it into this whole thing.
He loves the old man, don't get him wrong, and he loves how much he tries these days, but it feels like he's destined to keep obsessing over his own thoughts before he tells them. Before, he would think through retorts, aiming to hurt him as hard as possible, to really drive home how much of a failure he was. Nowadays, it has more to do with making sure his dad doesn't panic or start acting like Robby's fragile. He's not.
"This isn't a thing," he finally reassures once his dad quiets down. "I don't care if you drink nonalcoholic beers, Dad." It feels a bit stupid to admit that the thing that got his dad so riled up was only supposed to be an innocent question. It wasn't supposed to be a thing, but Robby made it one because he didn't think things through, just opened his mouth and let the words blurt out.
He leans against the counter, watching Johnny fidget with the bottle label like it's about to give him the answers to life. Robby wants to laugh, but he doesn't, because it wouldn't come out right. It would sound mean, and this isn't one of those times where he wants to jab at him. "Look, I get why it feels weird sometimes. You've been drinking since… forever. You're not just gonna snap your fingers and feel normal overnight. So if this helps, even a little, then who cares if it looks dumb? I’d rather see you holding one of those than the real deal."
He pauses, running a hand over the back of his neck, because talking like this still doesn't come naturally. It feels like stepping out onto thin ice, waiting for it to crack under him. "And no, it doesn't mess with me. I don't see you drinking that and think, oh great, here we go again. I see you actually trying. Which… I didn’' think I’d ever see, honestly."
Robby glances down at the floor, then back at his dad, who's still doing that thing with his jaw, like every word is a fight to keep from spilling out. He knows that look. He's had it himself, more times than he can count. "You don't have to explain it to me, Dad. I know what it's like, trying to unlearn old habits. You're not an idiot for struggling with it. You're just… human."
The words hang heavier than he expected, but for once, he doesn't take them back. Doesn't soften them with sarcasm or hide them under something sharp. He lets them stand there, between them, and maybe for the first time in years, it doesn't feel like there’s a wall in the way.
This isn't about the O’Doul’s anymore, not really. It's about whether Johnny’s trying too hard or not hard enough, about whether Robby's supposed to treat him like glass or like the screw-up dad he used to be. Neither feels right, not anymore.
Robby shrugs, like it's not a big deal, because it isn't, at least not to him. "This isn't a thing," he says again, more certain this time. "I don't care if you drink them, Dad. It's not like… I don't look at you and think you're about to fall off the wagon or whatever. I just asked because I was curious."
He lets that sit for a second, then softens a little. "Honestly? I think it's kinda cool you can still do the whole beer-with-dinner thing without screwing up your sobriety. If it makes you feel normal, then… good. You deserve that."
The words come out a little awkward, but they're true. He doesn’t want his dad second-guessing every choice like the whole world is waiting for him to screw up. "I'm not keeping score, Dad. You don't have to explain it to me. You're doing fine."
