#drunken moodswings

[awyeahitssam]

Harry giggles. His limbs feel lighter than usual, almost as if bubbles are making them float a bit. He can still control them, but it's a vague, interesting sort of control. Fun.

Harry lets sleep take him. The world whirls around him in sparks of disorienting colours, and Harry watches with a broad smile. It should make him dizzy, but he feels in the middle of something fantastic—a watercolour painting come to life. It's brilliant. Elating.

It stops as suddenly as it starts. Voldemort stares at him from across a desk. "Harry Potter," he sounds almost surprised.

Harry blinks at him. He still feels light, like he is floating, but also distantly sad. "Are you okay?" he asks thoughtlessly.

Confusion masks itself behind anger. Voldemort masks everything behind anger. "Pardon?"

"I’d never felt as good as I did a moment ago," Harry confesses, drawing closer to the Dark Lord. Red eyes track him suspiciously. Harry's chest aches. "But now, looking at you… it makes me so sad."

Thoughtlessly, Harry reaches out, and Voldemort lets him. It’s how Harry knows this can’t be real. That it’s just a silly, drunken dream. Their fingers intertwine, though Voldemort’s hand remains stiff and cold in his gentle grip.

"Aren’t you lonely?" Harry wonders. "Is that yours I feel pressing in, or my own? Even without you," Harry smiles, crooked and small, brushing an irreverent thumb over his scar, "I’m sure it’d be there. People always isolate the freak."

Voldemort’s hand twitches in Harry’s, and he hums, focus dropping from red eyes to trace the long fingers with his own.

"Everybody’s frightened of you. You isolate yourself from friendship, from love, from time itself... don’t you want, Voldemort? I can feel that you do—you’re never satisfied, are you? Will it ever be enough? The world at your feet, no attachments, nobody to challenge you—is that your dream, or your nightmare?"

"You’re speaking nonsense, boy," Voldemort says, but it comes out odd. Stilted. "You presume much."

"Is it presumption when I feel you?" Harry asks genuinely, brows drawing together, hand lifting to press over his heart. Voldemort is dragged with him, pulled a bit over the desk, and Harry blinks in surprise before realizing he still has a grip on the other’s hand. He lets go slowly, and Voldemort pulls back with a scowl.

"You are drunk," the wizard snaps with disgust. "You know nothing of what Lord Voldemort feels."

Harry finds the words… annoying.

"You feel so loudly, though," he returns sharply, moving forward, sliding onto Voldemort’s desk. Ink spills over—Voldemort hisses in annoyance and the stain is gone with a thought—dreams are a magic of their own—Voldemort’s forehead is cold and smooth. Harry bears the man's mark. He presses his scarred head to the smooth. Long, clawed fingers are wrapped around his wrist. His throat.

"Right here, always pressing in," Harry continues, heedless of his position, precarious as it is. "You feel so much it hurts, Voldemort. You hate so much. You’re never just happy. And I was, am, could be. So just take some, won’t you?"

Red eyes are narrow, intent, fascinated as they dart over Harry’s face, trying to gather his meaning. "How do you propose I do that?"

"How does one normally take pleasure?" Harry wonders. Voldemort grimaces, pulling away quickly, and it takes Harry’s bubbling mind a moment to put what he said to context.

"No," he chokes on a laugh, "I’m not asking you to—to snog. To fuck. Just open yourself up. You’re so good at taking, usually, but all you’re doing is giving. Don’t you want to feel like this? Light? Thrilled?"

"You don’t even know what you sound like, do you?" The question is rhetorical. Voldemort’s hand tightens over his throat, until Harry’s breathing grows thinner. "You wish for me to let your happiness pass my Occlumency, as though you have not just slipped through yourself. As if you have no method to make Lord Voldemort feel your pleasure; as if you want to give Lord Voldemort pleasure at all."

Harry touches the hand on his neck, slowly tightening with Voldemort’s rant, and a spark lights his fingers. Voldemort’s hand spasms before it drops. Harry takes a deep breath, glaring balefully. His light-hearted air has faded.

"Perhaps I would give you pleasure so your misery would be all the worse for it," he bites out. The world is fuzzy, but no longer from alcohol. From being choked. Even in his dreams, his life is threatened by this man.

"A pretty plot," says Voldemort. There is something very condescending in his voice; he is clearly looking down on Harry. Doubting him. It’s nothing new, but it makes the sting of anger grow in him. "Very well. If you can conjure happiness as you peer into the face of your death, Harry Potter, then do. Make me feel it, if you can."

Harry’s nails bite into his palm and release. He takes a breath and lets his eyes flutter closed. He focuses.

Happiness. What does it feel like? Like floating, as he was moments ago, or like getting an anticipated hug—not his first, not all the ones he flinched away from, but a hug from Hermione when they’ve almost just died. An arm around Ron’s waist as the boy drapes one around his shoulder. Laughing, hysterical and joyous, by the fireplace. Finding his wand. Finding out he was escaping the Dursleys. Happiness is a brief thing, drenched in the shadows of his life. Happiness is contentment, even if it is a momentary thing. It is the pleasure of a perfectly prepared cuppa; from—nonono, not going there.

Harry wraps the sensations up, one by one, like he’s re-wrapping hard candy, and throws them at Voldemort. Into Voldemort. All but one—his favourite one, his happiest one. That, he grasps, and it’s actual candy in his hand, a sweet that he looks down to, and then unwraps, and he’s moving forward, intent eyes raising, and Voldemort is already gasping, a bit, at the suddenness of it all—of pleasure.

Harry’s lips curl and he pushes the candy into the slightly agape mouth of the Dark Lord a bit cruelly, shoving it deep. He pulls back quickly, before sharp teeth can gnash on his fingers, and watches on as Voldemort experiences pleasure. As Voldemort softens, and sighs, relaxation in every hard line of him, mouth sucking almost greedily around the treasure that Harry has placed within it. Now he’s drunk on it, Harry thinks, horribly pleased to see Voldemort this way.

It’s not real, but still, he hovers on Voldemort’s desk and observes the pink brushing his cheekbones with fascination. He observes the way red eyes roll back a bit, and the way a long, pale throat swallows convulsively down on a slowly dissolving candy until there is nothing left.

Lashless eyes open, dark and suddenly staring. Red barely peeks out from behind the dilation of his pupil, and Harry’s smile is a smug thing.

“There’s your pleasure,” Harry whispers to him, like a secret. “I hope you enjoyed yourself. It can only get worse from here.”

“Worse?” murmurs Voldemort, staring at Harry intently. “You think there is worse you can do, Harry, then give me that and take it back?”

Belonging, thinks Harry, quite suddenly. He’d given Voldemort his favourite thing, the thing that he had been looking for, for a very long time. Longing, and peace, and laughter, and a burgeoning happiness that had very rarely managed to emanate past its conception. He had given Voldemort, too, his desperate hope for things to get better—and then he’d made them get better—and now Voldemort had lost it all.

Suddenly, impossibly, Harry’s eyes are liquid. I’m cruel, thinks Harry, gaze falling from red. There is nothing so cruel as what he has done, and he had done it so carelessly, so happily, so smugly, because he had felt slighted. Had felt wronged by this man who had ceaselessly wronged him.

Slowly, Harry looks back up at Voldemort, who is watching his tears with an expression of keen interest. 

“Has it made you sad to give your enemy your pleasure, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asks, gripping his wrist and drawing him near enough that Harry barely keeps his bottom on the desk rather than Voldemort’s lap.

“It makes me sad to treat you with such cruelty,” Harry corrects, “when I know you will never allow yourself to experience such pleasure again.”

“Would I not?” breathes Voldemort, eyes still dark instead of bright.

“You won’t,” whispers Harry. “It'd require you to trust someone. To have faith in them. And that, I know you’re incapable of, because you are a man but don’t see yourself as one, and gods do not have friends, nor equals.”

“Equals?” Voldemort’s breath brushes Harry’s brow, his stinging scar. “But what if Lord Voldemort were to draw you from the depths, Harry? Raise you from the pale mortality until you, too, are exalted? Then you may give Lord Voldemort what he so deserves; give me pleasure, Harry Potter,” Voldemort enunciates awfully. “Give me it all.”

I wrote this one of the first times I ever drank, and just expanded upon it a bit. I'm honestly really fond of finding these little things I've forgotten.

[killed-by-cas-confession]

im never going to have the hysteria and moodswings of last week or the absolute drunken confusion of tonight and then the absolute elate, calm high that im going to keep all this week until next thursday, what a damn shame, this is the best and worst ive ever felt mentally and it has been WILD guys.

[champion-leon-imagines]

Leon finding out his crush is mutually in love with him because she accidentally got pretty drunk and A LOT MORE CUDDLY and touchy with him, but she also says sweet things to him and tells him she wishes she was good enough for him

Leon knew you were not drinking alcohol at all, but to celebrate the successful defeat of Eternatus, Chairman Rose had set a big party to celebrate with every gym leader and their friends. Everyone was happy that Rose at least understood why his thinking was wrong and that’s what he did to repay this.

Though things gotten a bit heavy during the night, because Raihan literally encouraged everyone in drinking more wine. At first, you declined politely when he offered you wine, telling him that you have a low tolerance for alcohol, but Raihan kept annoying you with the red liquid.

Leon, who sat beside you, sighed and tried to slap away his best friends hands. For his taste, the Dragon Leader was a bit too touchy on you.

“No, thank you. I think I stay with this berry juice.” you told him and took a glass, thinking it was yours filled with [f/b] juice.

“No, don’t- That’s Kabus..” Leon tried to warn you, but too late. You were so thirsty that you swallowed the liquid in one go before you noticed it was not juice but wine.

…

….

Soon enough you felt dizzy and a bit sleepy, while your head seemed to whirl around inside. You never were drunk before and you hadn’t expected to get wasted from this one glass you accidently drunk, until you found out that Kabus wine was especially high-proof. Like.. really high-proof.

Leon supported your back, trying to bring you to your room in the hotel you guys were in, but you struggled against his attempts and just snuggled up against his broad chest. The purple haired didn’t minded your cuddly actions, especially when you buried your nose to inhale his scent. He blushed a little, since you were never like that when you’re sober.

“Y/n please, you need sleep. I take you to your room.” Leon spoke, but again you shook your head and almost straddled his lap in an attempt to press your body to your secret crush.

“I want to stay with you~ Leon.” you slurred, although your voice was much cuter this way and made Leon melt instantly. How should he be able to say No to such a cute thing like you?

“Fine.” he finally spoke and finally placed his hands around your smaller form and rubbing your back soothingly. He hoped you were not too wasted.

“Leeeeon.” you called out after a moment of silence.“Yes, Y/n?”

“…I love you.”

…

“Wait.. what?” His eyes widen in mild surprise and he looked down at your form. Your gaze was lingering on him, cheeks rosy from the alcohol and your bright [e/c] orbs shimmering in the lights from the lighted restaurant. All the others minded their own business, so it was only Leon who paid special attention to you at this time.

“I love you, silly.” you repeated and finally able to straddle him to put your arms around his neck. Leon was overwhelmed at first. He had never guessed his feelings were mutual. Sure, he hadn’t hoped to hear you say those words while being drunk, but they said drunken people never lie, right?

“You are too drunk, Y/n. You’re not thinking straight right now.” he whispered softly, his breath tickling on your ear. You shivered at this sensation and sighed slightly.

“I am not too drunk.. I always loved you, but I thought I would never be good enough for you.” you started to explain, a hiccup leaving your lips after every third word. “You are just so perfect.. and awesome. There is no way that you love me back.” you said, tears starting to stream from your face. Who would have guessed that drunks have moodswings like this?

Leon wiped away your tears gently and picked you up, after successfully standing up. You gasped in surprise and snaked your arms around his neck, while he excused himself from the group and carried you from the hotel’s restaurant to your room. After he put you down into your bed, he pulled the blankets over your body and caressed your cheek.“You need to rest. Let us talk tomorrow, when you’re sober.”

You looked up at him, still with teary eyes and alcohol-reddish cheeks. “Why, tomorrow..?”

Leon smiled and leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead.

“Because I want you to say those things, when you’re sober. Because.. I love you too.”

[gabis2r]

#6 Drunk Anti headcanon fic thing

@anothermarkiplierfan posted I wonder what Anti’s like when he’s drunk. 

It hit a sweet spot...  I need to talk about this. I’m inspired.

This began as headcanon and became fic.  Don’t know why.   But I got inspired at the thought of a drunken Anti.  

No real warnings.  It’s Anti so, no rainbows, but it’s fairly safe.  It’s LONG though. Grab snacks.

I feel the only place Jack would get drunk enough for this to be an issue is after hours at PAX with his friends. Or maybe after the Revelmode Charity stream in Brighton in December.  

Imagine him sitting in a room with Mark and Felix, playing shot Cards Against Humanity or shot Would You Rather with the camera rolling in the corner for later editing.  The girls in another, more adult room, drinking and sharing funny stories about lamenting their lives with Youtubers.

Initially Jack’s buzzing and getting increasingly funny as his social filter slowly erodes with the alcohol killing off signals from his frontal lobe; his conscience. Felix and he are roasting Mark for not being able to drink, but he hasn’t realised that the Viking in the room has challenged his Irish Celt pride. They’re competing.

There comes a point - and Jack feels it happen - that tilts his perception.  A stage jump into the next level of drunk. Tunnel vision.  He knows this one, it’s his cue to stop drinking, but his inhibitions are down, there’s a Viking to compete with and he’s not making the best decisions right now. Despite his vision being blurred around the edges he’s still having a riot with his friends. Sober Mark’s running circles around the pair of them and Felix is so drunk that he’s more of a car crash than usual and it’s the funniest fucking shit.  He’s sore from laughing so hard. He’s blaming the itchy eye on his blurred vision.

The tipping point only happens when he moves.  He reaches forward to pour himself another drink and the room lurches around him.  Everything greys as he fights a sudden hot rush of nausea.  He tells himself not to vomit, but this is different.  It’s not the drink that’s rising, it’s something worse.  He tries to fight it back and gain control, but he’s fucking paralytic so control isn’t his strong point. He’s fucked and he knows it.  It’s stronger, it’s claiming control and he’s weak from the alcohol.  He belts out a panicked “God, I’m sorry!” to his friends then laughs.

The laugh is gut churning and Mark is instantly on his feet.  Felix explodes into laughter at the absurdity of what just happened, but Mark’s not laughing. Mark’s not even smiling.  He’s slowly backing away from Jack’s seat and trying to silently hand gesture Felix to be quiet.  Felix is too drunk to figure it out until Mark asks Jack where Jack is.  

“Jack’s taking a timeout.”  He pops up into a crouch, pounce-ready, and giggles maniacally, “I’m here now.”

“Anti?” Mark asks.

“Bullshit!” Felix snorts, but the joke dies in his mind as he finally gets his eyes to focus enough to see that Jack isn’t simply a sickly shade, but the air around him is… muddy, it’s dark, swimming somehow.  But he knows he’s drunk so refuses to trust what he’s seeing. How can he trust his brain’s interpretation of Jack’s eyes?  They can’t be real.  They can’t be!

Mark’s voice breaks his descent into panic. “Waddya want Anti?”

“Fun.”  Anti leaps at Mark like a fucking velociraptor, all teeth and claws, but Mark’s sober.  He dodges just enough and uses Anti’s momentum to hurl him into the wall behind.  Anti’s not even fazed, he’s straight back to a sneering crouch.  “See?” he laughs, “Fun.”  He’s upright in a second, grinning and glaring at Mark with his head dipped.  His focus shifts to a drunk, wide-eyed Felix on the sofa and his head snaps almost ninety degrees to his shoulder. He lurches towards Felix and Mark lunges at him to intercept, but Anti dodges, staggers sideways and loses his footing, crashing to the floor in a snarled yelp of surprise.  “FUCK!”

Felix descends into flat-out panic mode, his drunken mind cyclically trying and failing to understand what he’s seeing, to grasp that Anti is here and just tried to attack him. His broken whispered chant that Anti isn’t real.  He’s a prank, a fan service.  Anti can’t be real.  

Anti hauls himself back to his feet, but momentum takes him forward and he staggers again, buckling down to the floor.  Marks stands over him and folds his arms triumphantly.  “Go home, Anti. You’re drunk”

“He’s not even REAL!” Felix yells.

Mark risks taking his eyes off Anti for a moment to offer Felix a slight sympathetic smile.  “Yeah… I advised Jack not to tell you, you wouldn’t understand.  You don’t have one.”

“One what?  What the fuck IS that thing?”

Mark shrugs lightly.  “I dunno.  A …moth, I guess.  The brighter some people are, the darker the moth they attract.  Anti’s the fuckin’ worst!”

Anti giggles. “Good analogy.   Does it help you sleep?”

Mark sighs at the creature on the floor.  “No,” he admits, “but if it helps Jack sleep…”

“Oh, he’s awake.” Anti sneers,  “I’m making him watch.” He pulls himself up again, leaping at Felix with teeth bared, but Mark reacts just in time, grabbing the back of Anti’s collar mid-air and yanking him back to the floor.  Anti screams in frustration, scrambles up, falls and screams again.  He manages to sit up, rocking and growling while gnawing at his fingers in temper.

Mark crouches before him, well out of arm’s reach.  “Sleep it off, Anti. Don’t make me call Him up.”

Anti pauses and grins.  “Your ‘moth’” he air-quotes, “is weak.”

Mark’s not stupid.  Dark’s strong, he’s capable, but Anti is something straight from Lovecraft’s nightmares.  He can feel Dark’s threats not to involve him, he’s refusing to admit he’s scared, but he’s cautious.  Drunken Anti is at a definite disadvantage though, so Mark calls his bluff instead.  “And you’re too drunk to stand, let alone fight.  You’re not winning this one.  Sleep it off.”

The rocking intensifies, a low growl pitches into a long wailing whine and, inexplicably, Anti burst into tears. “I don’t wanna! You can’t make me…”

Felix sits up, “Is he-?”  

Mark frantically gestures him to shut up.  He changes his tone to deal with Anti’s drunken moodswing. “No one can make you do anything.  But you know… You can exist alongside Jack.  You can-”

“No!” he snaps, twitching in frustration,  “You don’t. F-fucking. Understand. It hurts! He’s too fucking bright.  He burns.”

“Then leave him.”

“I’m trapped!” Anti’s shoulders sag in defeat, suddenly more desperate to talk than destroy.  “It’s like…” his eyes rake the room and Mark reaches for the vodka bottle, handing it to him, shuddering a little as long, thin, bloodied fingers slowly curl around the bottle. Anti takes a long, gulping swig and realises that he’s too drunk and relaxed to twitch so much.  It’s an odd relief.  “It’s like… I’m not a moth to a flame… I’m fucken’ Icarus! He was SO bright. And… n’ like… The Sun’s a prison… I mean, the drink weakened his bars… his conscience, and… and him, so I’m out n’ shit, but it’s just fucken day release, ya know?  I’m back behind fucken bars when he sobers up tomorrow.  Am I making sense?  I don’t feel like I’m making sense.”

Mark understands.  “You’re trapped behind his conscience.”

“S’too strong!” he slurs, succumbing to a twitch, “S’a prison.”

“He’s a good guy.” Mark confirms.

“Prison.” Anti nods, taking another gulp of Vodka.  “Doesn’t e-even know I’m there.”

“He knows.”

“Nope.  I talk at him all the time.  Give him ideas n’ shit. Urges. Fucken… radio silence.  Every time. Nothin’.”

“He knows. He gave you air time at Halloween.”

“Pretended… to cover up my appearances. Now there’s silence.  He’s shiny and bright and s-silent.  I just… I just want…” he takes a swig and waves the bottle in a grand drunken gesture, the twitches peaking again in his anger, “something! Some hint, some f-fucken indication that I’m n-not a-alone.  It’s bright and it burns and I’m so alone!  I’m alone in my own p-personal Hell!  He won’t even acknowledge me! I’m NOT going back to silence!”

Mark takes a large composing inhale and sighs.  There’s a tragedy in this and it’s not just Jack who’s suffering.  He pulls his phone from his pocket and dials Amy.  He tries to keep his voice calm and light while carefully explaining that he needs Wiishu to come check on her drunk boyfriend.  He has to explain that no, it’s not a drunken prank for the video and it’s not something to panic over.  

She’s on her way.  He has no idea how she’s going to react.

“Stop chewing your fingers!” Felix snaps, “Make him stop eating his fingers, it’s making me sick!”

Mark looks to Anti who’s still rocking, managing to look both devastated and horrific while gnawing on bloody fingers.  “Jack’s gonna need those, buddy.”

Anti pauses and studies the mess he’s made of his fingertips from different angles.  “These are MY fingers.” he states flatly, “Jack’s are inside. Safe. Whenever I retreat, mine are inside Jack’s, so I can use him like a puppet.” he chuckles sadly, “‘Cept it never works.”  He takes another drink and stretches his arms out.  “You ever notice how long Jack’s arms are?  Like… seriously… I had to stretch to fit.  He’s sooo long!”  He flexes his bloodied, spindly fingers and drunkenly grins to himself.  “I’m longer.”

Anti’s now at the terrifying monster equivalent of the ‘I love you’ stage of drunk. He’s muttering to himself and smiling at the vodka bottle. He poses minimal threat now and it’s oddly endearing. Mark has already decided he pities Anti by the time Wiishu knocks on the door.  

She doesn’t react to the news the way he’d expect, displaying more annoyance than anything else.  She approaches the slumped entity and kicks his foot.  “How drunk are you?”

“That’s not Jack.” Felix warns.

“I know.” she replies, kicking Anti’s foot again.  Anti looks up and curls his blood stained lips into a snarl.  “Have you been crying?” she asks with a grimace, “You’re fucking pathetic.”  Mark and Felix exchange worried glances.  

Mark tries to explain what Anti had confessed about being lonely and Jack not acknowledging his existence.  He told her that he’d hoped she could help in some way.

She folds her arms and glares at the drunken, bloodied mess on the floor.  “Why should I help you?  After all the nightmares?  After everything you’ve tried to make him do? Tried to put him through?  Fuck you!”

“Tried!” Anti snapped back.  “I tried!  And every time that he ig-ignores me I have to try harder cos he doesn’t even notice! I get louder and louder to be heard.  He doesn’t hear me!”

“He fucking hears you!  He thought he was going insane before Halloween.  Thankfully you fucked up enough to manifest and prove those urges weren’t his.  You’re an insidious little creep and fuck you for hurting him.”

“He’s fuckin’ f-fine!”

“Is he conscious?”

“Barely.  We’re drunk.”  He lets his head fall back, smiling up at her in satisfaction.  “But he can hear me now.  He’s drunk, but… he’s willing to bargain… cos I got the wheel and you’re pretty…”

Mark grips a handful of green hair. “You’re too drunk to hurt her, but if he hears you, he hears me.  Hang in there, buddy, we got this.”

Anti rips his head away leaving a few hairs in Mark’s grip and hisses at him. “You got shit!”

Mark, in his anger, leans in, “And what have YOU got?”

Anti’s grip on the vodka bottle tightens and Mark sees his error too late, but before Anti has chance to smash it into his face, Wiishu touches his arm, smiling kindly when he looks at her in shock.  She sits next to him and silently gestures for the bottle.  Cautiously he hands it to her.  She takes a small swig and hands it back.  “He only ignores you when you try to convince him to hurt someone.”

“It’s my n-nature.”

“I know.” she replies softly, “but he’d acknowledge you whenever it’s safe.  He actually has a soft spot for you.”

Anti doesn’t respond to this, his head twitching to the side as he tries to detect the lie.  

“You know it’s true,” she smiles, “he thinks you’re cool.  His community think you’re cool.  You just gotta… let him sleep. Tone it down. He hears you.”

“I n-need…  I… I’m so alone.”

Wiishu raises her hand subconsciously to stroke his hair in comfort and he jolts violently towards her fingers, juddering into the caress.  She only flinches for a second, then actually guides his head down onto her lap, running her fingers through his polarised green hair.  “This is better.” she whispers, “You’re not alone.”  Anti’s eyes close and he drunkenly releases the bottle to curl his bloody fingers at his throat.  “I’ll do you a deal,” she whispers, “Sleep now and when he wakes I’ll convince him to listen for you.  Maybe even find a horror game you can help him play…”  

Anti’s eyes remain closed as he drowsily murmurs, “Promise.”

“No promises, but I’ll talk to him.  Remember all the adoration you got from the community?  You can have that again.  You can communicate ideas with him. Get them all shitting themselves.  That’d be fun, right?”  Anti nods and smiles.  “Now sleep.  Let him rest.  “We got you.”

Anti twitches violently and Jack inhales sharply, murmuring, frowning against a nightmare, his clean, unbloodied fingers flexing beneath his chin.  “I got you.” his girlfriend whispers, stroking his faded green hair.

“Are we done?” Felix asks, “Can I breathe now?  Holy fuck!”

“Honestly forgot you were there.” Mark quips.  “You’re never that quiet.”

“And Jack’s never that scary.  I wasn’t hitting his radar. Too fucking drunk for this shit.”

“Go to bed. And for fuck’s sake, don’t tell Marzia.”

“Are they okay?” Felix asks, “Are you okay, Wiish, need a hand?”

“I’ll do it, you’re drunk. Get off the sofa.” He crouches before them, “Let me help you.”  Jack’s heavier than he looks, but Mark gets him onto the newly vacated sofa without waking him.

He fetches water while Wiishu makes him comfortable.  When he returns she’s writing a note.  

You were too drunk to wake, so I left you here I love you W

“That wasn’t your first encounter, was it?” he asks.

She looks up then back to her sleeping boyfriend and smiles,  “To some he’s a flame. To us he’s The Light.” she whispers, before kissing his head, “He’ll never be rid of Anti, but darkness can’t blow candles out.”