Thirty-six Bottles of Beer on the Floor.
WHO: Aussie bloke and Latvian lad
WHEN: June the first
WHERE: Apartment 403, Centralia Complex
WHAT: Ages ago, a promise was made. Hours ago, that promise was broken. It's time for a drink, mates.
RATING: D for drinking, despair and drunken endeavors
Thirty-six bottles of beer.
They sat so perfectly gleaming on the counter-top. Amber within their tinted glass, goldenrod under the flickering florescence in a clear, well scrubbed tankard. The tang of brewed hops beneath flaring nostrils. The richness flowing down with a slow, slow burn. Alcohol of a minor percentage but alcohol nonetheless and there it was, in his kitchen, passing from hand to refrigerator and hand to lips after he had promised months before that he would never touch the stuff again. If he had been honest with himself then, he would never have agreed to such an impossible pact, he would have known this day was coming and possibly, looked forward to it. But made it he had and broken it he did, once before- now twice.
Raivis took a lengthy, deep gulp, wiped the back of his hand against his mouth, fell heavily into the couch after the last of the beers had been placed delicately into the cold and closed his eyes to the sound of car horns blaring beyond the window.
The drunkard who made his nightly rounds on the street below would be, in fifteen minutes exactly, staggering to his usual haunt beneath 203's balcony. In several less than that, Logan Mortlock would be barging through the front door and within the next passing hour, Raivis intended to achieve a level of intoxication to rival that of Centralia's cheerful lush alongside the stoutest fellow he'd ever met.
If there was one man who would not begrudge him the natural inclination to a drink or dozen, it was his roommate.
He reached for his tankard, raised it in a silent toast with his eyes still shut, and took another gulp.
WHEN: June the first
WHERE: Apartment 403, Centralia Complex
WHAT: Ages ago, a promise was made. Hours ago, that promise was broken. It's time for a drink, mates.
RATING: D for drinking, despair and drunken endeavors
Thirty-six bottles of beer.
They sat so perfectly gleaming on the counter-top. Amber within their tinted glass, goldenrod under the flickering florescence in a clear, well scrubbed tankard. The tang of brewed hops beneath flaring nostrils. The richness flowing down with a slow, slow burn. Alcohol of a minor percentage but alcohol nonetheless and there it was, in his kitchen, passing from hand to refrigerator and hand to lips after he had promised months before that he would never touch the stuff again. If he had been honest with himself then, he would never have agreed to such an impossible pact, he would have known this day was coming and possibly, looked forward to it. But made it he had and broken it he did, once before- now twice.
Raivis took a lengthy, deep gulp, wiped the back of his hand against his mouth, fell heavily into the couch after the last of the beers had been placed delicately into the cold and closed his eyes to the sound of car horns blaring beyond the window.
The drunkard who made his nightly rounds on the street below would be, in fifteen minutes exactly, staggering to his usual haunt beneath 203's balcony. In several less than that, Logan Mortlock would be barging through the front door and within the next passing hour, Raivis intended to achieve a level of intoxication to rival that of Centralia's cheerful lush alongside the stoutest fellow he'd ever met.
If there was one man who would not begrudge him the natural inclination to a drink or dozen, it was his roommate.
He reached for his tankard, raised it in a silent toast with his eyes still shut, and took another gulp.