goshdarnspam | (no subject)

[ He doesn't answer immediately, apparently content to keep destroying his lungs. Neither does he notice (or seem to care) about Mitch's discomfort. ]

Guess it is.

Shit, I guess if I had a problem with it, I could've not run again, huh? It's all a part of the job.

[ He's totally feigning ignorance here. Stop it Bradbury :( ]

Hey, I don't have a problem with it either. Most people learn how to share by the second grade.

Who the fuck said anything about sharing? [ Wait... ]

I don't think anyone needs a piece of me.

Nothing. Slip of the tongue. [ Bradbury smiles, lazy and self-deprecating, and he doesn't bother to respond to the second. ]

[ Wow Bro. He makes a face, turning to lean against the rail, tipping his head back to inhale without holding his cigarette in his hands. ]

Yeah, sounds like it.

Hey, Mitch?

[ He swings a look at him, not quite sure if he wants to ask what, but... ]

What is it?

[ He doesn't turn to look, and his voice is remarkably steady and sure of itself despite the alcohol slurring his consonants: ]

I'm probably in love with you.

[ It hits him like a brick, and he looks like a caged animal for all of two seconds, before he flicks the cigarette over the edge of the rung, exhaling with a sigh of frustration. ]

You're fucking drunk. Why don't you sober up, pal? You know how alcohol goes to your head.

[ There's a moment when Bradbury turns his head and looks, really looks at Mitch, like he might do - something.

Instead, he just flicks his cigarette away and scrubs a hand over his face before jamming his hands in his pockets and turning away. ]

Yeah, probably. What the fuck do they put in that pink fruity shit, huh?

Apparently fruity shit, what else? [ He asks it, crossing his arms, before deciding that was a bad idea. He turns around to grip the rung of the guardrail. White-knuckled. Yeah, just keep walking. Please. ]

Black coffee helps, by the way.

[ He fucked up, he thinks, he blew it; there goes the only friendship that's ever counted in years. Should've known better than to drink so much, but he didn't think he'd run into Mitch before he got a chance to sober up.

Who the fuck is stupid enough to fall in love with their best friend and then tell him about it, anyway?

Bradbury's such a fuck-up.

He doesn't trust himself to speak, so he swallows down the lump in his throat and raises a hand in a half-hearted wave Mitch isn't gonna see. He isn't heading back inside, though, stumbling for the relative quiet of the car where he can hate himself in peace. ]

[ He doesn't watch, but when he doesn't hear the door close, when he can't notice the sound, he turns a little, watching him for just a moment.

Shit.

But the car doesn't sound like a good idea, but at least there he can listen to hear if Bradbury's going to do something stupid, like turn the fucking car on. He's just going to stay there, and light another cigarette, because that's the solution to this. He can pretend this didn't happen. (Again.) ]

[ He really is considering just driving the damn thing off the bridge, but he can't summon the coordination right now, and even drunk, he knows, that's just... beyond pathetic. Also, Mitch wouldn't be able to get home. So he tugs off his jacket, rolls down the window for fresh air, and turns on the radio instead.

He starts laughing, when the song registers, though he loses track of when the laughter maybe turns into something else.

Fucking Meat Loaf. ]

[ He just smokes his cigarette away, trying to pretend he isn't thinking about it. Shit, he doesn't fucking know what to do right now. He barely notices the cigarette ashing without a flick, because he just keeps holding on to the rail.

Eventually, he grabs the cigarette to flick it, before shoving his hands in his pockets a bit rougher than he really needed to do it to.

Eventually, he made it to the car, after grabbing a coffee, and grabbing one for his friend. He tapped on the driver's window, holding a cup out to him. ]

[ Somehow, Bradbury's dozed off, but the party or function must be over by the time Mitch taps at the window, because why else would he be there, right? Hopefully, it's dark enough that he doesn't look as much of a wreck as he feels. ]

Thanks. [ Or sounds, for that matter. He clears his throat and grabs the coffee like it's a lifeline. ]

S'it done already? [ Shit, he doesn't think he's sober enough to drive yet. ]

Edited 2012-10-09 03:48 (UTC)

Yeah, it's done.

[ He hands him the cup, leaning against the edge of the car, gripping his own coffee like it's the only thing he's got to hold on to.

It really is. ]

How you feeling, champ? Better?

[ In another world, maybe, Bradbury's brave enough to look Mitch in the eye and tell him, no, actually, you should know exactly how I feel, because I was stupid enough to let you know.

In this one, he just sinks back into his seat, shutting his eyes and tipping the coffee up to his mouth while he groans. ]

I feel like shit. Is it possible to get a hangover in - [ He blearily checks his watch. ] - two hours?

Edited 2012-10-09 04:10 (UTC)

I think that depends on how much you drank, pal.

[ Because it's easier to pretend this didn't happen than anything else. And don't think I didn't see that tag there.

He leans against the car, not giving a shit about the filth. ]

You had way too much. Do we need someone to take the car?

Probably. I can drive, but we'd be in trouble if I got pulled over.

[ Everything's normal. Everything's fine. Shit he admits to himself in the privacy of his head when he's spent too much time alone doesn't matter.

Maybe if he tells himself that enough, he'll believe it. ]

Just ... call a cab home, pal. I'll get the car back in the morning. [ Also, spending time in an enclosed space with Mitch pretending everything is okay seems just about the worst idea right now. ]

[ He should leave him. He really should. Just. Go home, and pretend this didn't happen. That's the safe, the logical thing to do. He could have a cab swing by, and get him, and none would be the wiser. But... even if he can't say it, because goddammit, he can barely admit it to himself without the threat of death over his head (or a drunken night that he knows Rick won't remember because he's painfully incoherent as it is) he just can't leave him.

Maybe it's his way of showing him that he cares, after a fashion. He can't speak it, he can never admit to it, but he can do something small for his friend. Because it's a way of showing it, without actually... showing him. Subtle in his actions, and forever veiled behind a wall of subtext, he puts his hand on the car door. ]

UNLOCK. Come on. You're in a worse place than I am, let's get you home first.

[ Mitchell Hundred is the most terrible excuse for a human being Bradbury knows.

He decides this is a fact, with uncharacteristic vindictiveness and a startling clarity for the current concentration of alcohol in his blood. His hand rests on the edge of the open window, as if that might somehow keep Mitch from actually opening the door; if he does so now, in fact, Bradbury's likely to fall right out. The radio's still going softly in the background - all my instincts, they return, and the grand facade, so soon will burn - but he doesn't pay it any attention. ]

You don't need to do this. [ Stating a fact, or a question, or maybe just reminding Mitch what they are. He leans against the door a little. It's a cold night out. Mitch should be home. ]

Edited 2012-10-09 06:09 (UTC)

I know.

[ He opens the door, giving him a look. One of those, "you're drunk and being stupid" looks. ]

Come on, you're not sleeping in the car, you might fucking blow chunks in it.

[ Wow, that's not exactly sexy, is it? He shook his head, tugging on the door. ]

[ He starts to roll his eyes, winces, and stops.

Thanks, asshole. [ But he lets Mitch get the door open (though they'll have to roll up the window, he thinks distantly, well, Mitch can just tell the damn car to lock itself, can't he?) and manages not to fall out. The coffee cup and his suit jacket get left behind, and he hauls himself to his feet, then leans against the car waiting for the vertigo to wear off.

Other people are lucky enough to lose any sense of what's going on when they're intoxicated; Bradbury wishes he was one of them. ]

Satisfied?

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