Toy Soldiers: Testing His Limits (PG)
Summary: Being an experiment upon strictly scientific lines involving a young teenage boy and alcohol.
Notes: For prompt 60, "drink".
TESTING HIS LIMITS
*
Roller skating inside the house: yelled at and made to scrub the kitchen floor, because the wheels left streaks on the linoleum. That wasn't why Billy didn't do it again, though: it was because even Dad's new apartment had wall to wall carpeting, and you couldn't get up any kind of speed on carpet.
Ugly old vase broken, accidentally on purpose: yelled at and made to pay for a new one out of his allowance. He didn't get to pick the new one. Mom didn't even tell Dad it happened, at least not in front of him. Maybe that meant things were better. He wasn't gonna hold his breath and see.
Two weeks of after-school detention for cussing out Mrs. Koutoujian in front of another teacher: yelled at twice, once at school by Mr. Willis, who gave him that bullshit punishment ("time to think", yeah, right), and once by Dad when Billy got home. It was so fucking stupid. He'd soaped the lockers and cut class and snuck into the teacher's lounge and nobody even noticed, but swear a few times because your fossilized teacher gave you an 'F' for not writing neat enough, and there he was stuck after school for an hour and a half every day. He didn't know if Dad had told Mom or not, but he'd seen the brochures for boarding schools lying around on his dad's desk, and come in on a couple conversations that cut off way too quickly.
Tonight, though, Dad had a date. At least Billy was pretty sure it was a date and not a late meeting: he was all dressed up in a nice suit and a fancy tie, and looked in the mirror every time he walked past it instead of just once. Billy made sure to slouch a little lower on the couch.
"You're sure you'll be okay," Dad said one more time.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Billy said, without looking away from the TV. Some old movie had come on, men in cowboy hats glaring at each other. No horses or guns yet. He watched Dad out of the corner of his eye.
"All right, then." Dad adjusted his tie again, then turned away from the mirror firmly. "Don't stay up too late. Our reservation is for 7:30. I've left the restaurant number by the phone in case of emergencies."
"I know, Dad."
"Okay." Dad went around the couch, and Billy couldn't see him any more, even sidelong, but Billy could hear the jingle of keys and a door opening. "Good night!"
Billy waved back, and listened to the door shut. Five, ten, twenty, thirty…yeah, there went Dad's car out of the garage, and off onto the road. Gone.
He didn't get up. Not yet. He didn't want to wreck this by going too fast. Dad could've forgotten something and turn around for it -- okay, it would be the first time ever, but it could happen. Billy kept his eyes fixed on the TV. Fifteen minutes -- no, not long enough, not if Dad's reservation was for 7:30. Half an hour sounded better. What movie was this, anyway? He sat up and looked around for the TV Guide.
After 30 minutes of trying to figure out who the hero was, and why he talked more to his horse than to the girl, and where the hell the remote had gone now, Billy abandoned the movie and got up. He didn't bother with shoes, just walked sock-foot into the kitchen and opened up the cupboard, frowning into it. Dixie cups? He wouldn't have to wash shit afterwards, but they'd be evidence in the trash if Dad noticed something later. Glasses could be washed, dried, and put back.
He grabbed a glass. He could still hear the movie, grunts and things breaking -- some kind of fight scene, whatever. Dining room next, and the liquor cabinet.
Dad kept the wine in the upper part, which had some kind of weird cross-hatched shelves to hold the bottles. He wasn't going to mess with those. He'd had wine before, and it tasted nasty. Besides, there wasn't any bottle open, and he wasn't gonna open a bottle just to prove he'd been right. He wanted the stuff in the lower part of the cabinet. Not the mixers -- the good stuff.
He sat down, cross-legged, and leaned forward to peer in. What all did Dad have in here? Vodka. Rum. Tequila -- wait, since when did Dad drink tequila? Wasn't it Mom who liked margaritas? Scotch. Whiskey. Cognac. Crème de menthe, which there was no fucking way he was going to try on its own. Peach schnapps -- okay, that he knew was left over from Mom.
He grabbed the cognac bottle and poured a little bit into the glass he'd brought. Not too much. He was probably gonna wind up at least a little drunk, but he didn't want to get so drunk he couldn't remember what the different drinks tasted like. "Bottoms up," he muttered, and took his first swallow.
He nearly spat it back out again: holy shit that stuff burned! He'd thought cognac was "smooth," Jesus Christ. One more swallow, and he could already feel his face getting flushed. At least he could taste it more this time. Not like wine, but he didn't know what else to compare it to.
What next…rum, maybe. That was closest. Did anybody actually drink rum by itself any more? Aw, shit, wait, there was still a little cognac left in his glass. Billy hesitated a second, then pushed to his feet and went into the kitchen to rinse out the glass quick. He couldn't tell what something tasted like if it was blending it. Okay, so he was sucking so far at telling what the stuff tasted like anyway, but it was the principle of the thing.
He poured in a little less rum than he had cognac, and took a sip. He didn't choke this time, so that counted for something, but it still burned. Another swallow to finish it off, and this time he tried swishing it around in his mouth. Somehow he'd thought it would be sweeter.
He rinsed out the glass again, then picked up the vodka. This was the really hard stuff.
No taste at all that he could tell, just the burn, worse than both the previous two combined. He couldn't even get up to get water, but doubled over, coughing. Fuck, fuck, fuck, never doing that again --
No. He got his breath under control again, sat back up, and took another swallow of vodka, holding it in his mouth for a minute again. It prickled against the back of his throat, kinda, but the burn didn't hit until he swallowed. Better. His face was still all flushed, but that would be gone by the time Dad got home.
One more swallow of vodka for luck, and then he was gonna put everything away. No point in rushing things. He could save the rest of his taste-test for another night. Besides, he still had to find out the remote. On the TV, someone was singing.
-end-
Notes: For prompt 60, "drink".
TESTING HIS LIMITS
*
Roller skating inside the house: yelled at and made to scrub the kitchen floor, because the wheels left streaks on the linoleum. That wasn't why Billy didn't do it again, though: it was because even Dad's new apartment had wall to wall carpeting, and you couldn't get up any kind of speed on carpet.
Ugly old vase broken, accidentally on purpose: yelled at and made to pay for a new one out of his allowance. He didn't get to pick the new one. Mom didn't even tell Dad it happened, at least not in front of him. Maybe that meant things were better. He wasn't gonna hold his breath and see.
Two weeks of after-school detention for cussing out Mrs. Koutoujian in front of another teacher: yelled at twice, once at school by Mr. Willis, who gave him that bullshit punishment ("time to think", yeah, right), and once by Dad when Billy got home. It was so fucking stupid. He'd soaped the lockers and cut class and snuck into the teacher's lounge and nobody even noticed, but swear a few times because your fossilized teacher gave you an 'F' for not writing neat enough, and there he was stuck after school for an hour and a half every day. He didn't know if Dad had told Mom or not, but he'd seen the brochures for boarding schools lying around on his dad's desk, and come in on a couple conversations that cut off way too quickly.
Tonight, though, Dad had a date. At least Billy was pretty sure it was a date and not a late meeting: he was all dressed up in a nice suit and a fancy tie, and looked in the mirror every time he walked past it instead of just once. Billy made sure to slouch a little lower on the couch.
"You're sure you'll be okay," Dad said one more time.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Billy said, without looking away from the TV. Some old movie had come on, men in cowboy hats glaring at each other. No horses or guns yet. He watched Dad out of the corner of his eye.
"All right, then." Dad adjusted his tie again, then turned away from the mirror firmly. "Don't stay up too late. Our reservation is for 7:30. I've left the restaurant number by the phone in case of emergencies."
"I know, Dad."
"Okay." Dad went around the couch, and Billy couldn't see him any more, even sidelong, but Billy could hear the jingle of keys and a door opening. "Good night!"
Billy waved back, and listened to the door shut. Five, ten, twenty, thirty…yeah, there went Dad's car out of the garage, and off onto the road. Gone.
He didn't get up. Not yet. He didn't want to wreck this by going too fast. Dad could've forgotten something and turn around for it -- okay, it would be the first time ever, but it could happen. Billy kept his eyes fixed on the TV. Fifteen minutes -- no, not long enough, not if Dad's reservation was for 7:30. Half an hour sounded better. What movie was this, anyway? He sat up and looked around for the TV Guide.
After 30 minutes of trying to figure out who the hero was, and why he talked more to his horse than to the girl, and where the hell the remote had gone now, Billy abandoned the movie and got up. He didn't bother with shoes, just walked sock-foot into the kitchen and opened up the cupboard, frowning into it. Dixie cups? He wouldn't have to wash shit afterwards, but they'd be evidence in the trash if Dad noticed something later. Glasses could be washed, dried, and put back.
He grabbed a glass. He could still hear the movie, grunts and things breaking -- some kind of fight scene, whatever. Dining room next, and the liquor cabinet.
Dad kept the wine in the upper part, which had some kind of weird cross-hatched shelves to hold the bottles. He wasn't going to mess with those. He'd had wine before, and it tasted nasty. Besides, there wasn't any bottle open, and he wasn't gonna open a bottle just to prove he'd been right. He wanted the stuff in the lower part of the cabinet. Not the mixers -- the good stuff.
He sat down, cross-legged, and leaned forward to peer in. What all did Dad have in here? Vodka. Rum. Tequila -- wait, since when did Dad drink tequila? Wasn't it Mom who liked margaritas? Scotch. Whiskey. Cognac. Crème de menthe, which there was no fucking way he was going to try on its own. Peach schnapps -- okay, that he knew was left over from Mom.
He grabbed the cognac bottle and poured a little bit into the glass he'd brought. Not too much. He was probably gonna wind up at least a little drunk, but he didn't want to get so drunk he couldn't remember what the different drinks tasted like. "Bottoms up," he muttered, and took his first swallow.
He nearly spat it back out again: holy shit that stuff burned! He'd thought cognac was "smooth," Jesus Christ. One more swallow, and he could already feel his face getting flushed. At least he could taste it more this time. Not like wine, but he didn't know what else to compare it to.
What next…rum, maybe. That was closest. Did anybody actually drink rum by itself any more? Aw, shit, wait, there was still a little cognac left in his glass. Billy hesitated a second, then pushed to his feet and went into the kitchen to rinse out the glass quick. He couldn't tell what something tasted like if it was blending it. Okay, so he was sucking so far at telling what the stuff tasted like anyway, but it was the principle of the thing.
He poured in a little less rum than he had cognac, and took a sip. He didn't choke this time, so that counted for something, but it still burned. Another swallow to finish it off, and this time he tried swishing it around in his mouth. Somehow he'd thought it would be sweeter.
He rinsed out the glass again, then picked up the vodka. This was the really hard stuff.
No taste at all that he could tell, just the burn, worse than both the previous two combined. He couldn't even get up to get water, but doubled over, coughing. Fuck, fuck, fuck, never doing that again --
No. He got his breath under control again, sat back up, and took another swallow of vodka, holding it in his mouth for a minute again. It prickled against the back of his throat, kinda, but the burn didn't hit until he swallowed. Better. His face was still all flushed, but that would be gone by the time Dad got home.
One more swallow of vodka for luck, and then he was gonna put everything away. No point in rushing things. He could save the rest of his taste-test for another night. Besides, he still had to find out the remote. On the TV, someone was singing.
-end-