It was good to have direction and distraction alike: both things that Charlie had provided him with. The promise of alcohol and bad movies combined with good company was a peek of sunlight through the tumultuous storm that had become his life. But provided that topics of contention could be avoided, the night promised to be a decent one. A fantastic one when put in comparison with his last few days. He really didn’t want to think about any of that. Even if there was the unexpected gift of a certain sniper’s dogtags worn around the soldier’s neck and subtly beneath his shirt. That could only put a plaster over so much of an injury.
When he made it to his destination, Ares didn’t do much knock as he did shove the door open with his forearm. “Look. I’ve had a shit few days and if I don’t get equally shitfaced tonight, I’m holding you responsible.” The bottles clinked together helplessly when he tossed the bag onto the nearest piece of furniture. “Everything is so fucked up and my only goal is to be even more fucked up than the rest of my life. Capiche?” Despite his usually loud demeanor as present as it ever was, his eyes had a wideness to them that was foreign for the man. It was a sort of desperation and confusion that lent validity to the urgency of his words.
“So I’m thinking we go bottle for bottle and figure out which one of us has the higher tolerance once and for all, right? Gotta know who has that crown.” There was a smile of sorts over his perpetually bruised face and split lips but just like his eyes, it was a terse smile that was nothing less than a dead giveaway regarding his mental condition at the moment. The soldier could only handle so much - which in all honesty was a lot - before reaching a breaking point. A point that had recently been met and forced past to the point that the aftermath still had him rattled in a way that he never had been before.
“So what do you say?”