If you're scared I'm on my way / drunk

[clarence a.]

[align=center][div style="width: 45%; text-align: justify; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: times new roman;"]Clarence had never been a heavy drinker, especially not before he joined the Navy. Drinking was a social custom but his mother had never cared much for it and, well, Clarence did just about anything that would make her happy. One thing that made her happy was not seeing her son out drunk with his friends. Besides, he had his little sister to help look after. He couldn't very well do that drunk. After he'd joined the military, though, things changed. There were many long, boring nights aboard the Queen Charlotte and he and his crewmates had to resort to something for entertainment. He didn't get drunk often, but if he did it was only to bring a bit more fun to an otherwise uninteresting game of cards. He was never one for getting overly drunk, but he did indulge in a few drinks here and there. Another purpose they had served was putting him to sleep. it wasn't very restful but it was better than nothing. He'd get exhausted and pass out before he knew what was going on, just the way he liked it. He'd had some fellow soldiers who carried a flask on their belt, but he'd never been the type.

Recently the nightmares that'd been haunting him just felt a bit too overwhelming. He wasn't sure if he'd use alcohol to go to sleep or just to relax, but he felt like he wanted something to drink. Not too much, of course, but just something to ease his mind. Everything was so different and strange; he needed some sense of normalcy. Whisky could provide that. He wasn't actually sure how much he'd be able to drink in this smaller body, if he could even find any alcohol, given how much smaller it was compared to when he'd been a human. Miraculously, he did find some whisky and settled down on the beach of the starpool. As he drank, the large feline seemed to grow more lethargic than anything and, for once, looked relaxed. He wasn't sitting in posture, his eyes were bright or alert. He was finally relaxing, something that likely wouldn't have been possible without the aid of the whisky by his side. Still, he kept true to the promise he gave himself. He drank enough that his head seemed to swim through ink, but not so much he was unaware of himself completely.

[JERSEYBOY]

JERSEY
BOY

[ mentions of drinking ]

The tuxedo tom's drinking habits had been increasing over the course of the last year or so. He had started consuming it at a young age just to spite his step-father and to look adult and cool in front of everyone else. He had eventually turned the spiteful drinking into a habit and now he guzzled everything from whiskey to vodka to cheap beer. Sometimes he'd have a morning glass, and a lot of the time he'd spend his nights casually pouring glasses for himself. Jerseyboy did not down his drinks excessively each and every day, and he did not consider himself a blackout drink or alcoholic, but perhaps he would be if he kept this up.

Tonight, however, he was not drinking alone. In fact, the cat had just climbed out of the Starpool and onto the shore. He shook out his dripping pelt, now as clean as he would get for the next few days. He had figured that it would be relaxing to take a dip in the water and wash off. As he walked along, his gaze locked onto a figure that was currently lazing on the ground, looking quite out of it.

A thought crossed his mind — was this sucker on drugs? Curiously, the tom edged closer to him, and a whiff of the liquor hit his nostrils. "Whoa, is that whiskey on ya'?" Snorted the male. He didn't take him as a drinker, but then again, he didn't know the other too well. Maybe he just got himself drunk just to calm his frayed nerves. "How much you been drinkin', buddy?" Jersey asked, simply just because he wanted to know. "Jesus Christ, you eitha' downed a bottle or you're one helluvah' lightweight." He commented in a mutter. For a big guy like him, it should've been a little more difficult to get him intoxicated.

© MADI

[clarence a.]

[align=center][div style="width: 45%; text-align: justify; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: times new roman;"]Life seemed slower to Clarence in this world where he'd drank far too much whisky. So, when Jerseyboy spoke, the words came through slush but his eyes slowly moved to look towards the other man. That was the one who didn't believe British people were real. How strange. When he asked about the whisky, Clarence found himself slowly nodding, the edges of his vision in a haze. "Mhm." It was deep, simple sound from the back of his throat. Clarence was never much of a conversationalist and it seemed the addition of alcohol, at least tonight, didn't really help with that. At his second questions, the man simply shrugged. Quite frankly, he didn't know how much he'd drank. He hadn't thought it'd been that much but he couldn't really be sure. He wasn't really sure of anything anymore. Whether this place was a hallucination, whether it was dream, whether he was in some kind of asylum, whether he'd really died. He didn't know anything. His life was like this haze of confusion but the alcohol at least made it less distressing. The man was talking about being a lightweight or something, but he didn't really care. Instead, he brought up an entirely separate topic.

"So you don't believe in British people, huh?" The question was quiet and almost seemed as though it could be a joke of some kind. It wasn't especially clear, which would make sense given Clarence's state. "There's an English poet. Richard Barnfield. I like his poems quite a lot, I think. Not many other people care for him, I guess. I don't talk about it a lot. Too many bad associations. But he is a lovely poet," he continued before hesitating and adding just a moment later, "Or was, rather, I suppose. He'd an old one, even by my time. Died in 1620s or so." Clarence seemed to be speaking more for the benefit of himself than for conversation.