(Untitled)

[kingshit_lloyd]

[takes place after this]Lloyd didn't know how long he stayed down, and he didn't give much of a shit, either. His mind was so blank he could have easily passed out without even noticing... or maybe he had, who the hell knew. But eventually, the freaky apathy began to wear off, like a limb starting to regain circulation, and he dragged himself to

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[number97a413]

Drinking is supposed to lower inhibitions or some shit, but Miguel isn't sure he had many to begin with. Certainly none about slapping an arm around Lloyd's shoulders the second he spots him again, having lost him somewhere between the fake marriages and jumping over bonfires.

He was smart enough not to try that, because inhibitions or no, drinking definitely lowers motor skills. Like properly judging manly, friendly embraces and not ending up plastered against Lloyd's side with an arm around his neck, breathing a drunk and cheerful hey man against the side of his face. There's a bottle of something foul and clear and local in his other hand, and he takes another swig from it, because whatever else it does, he hasn't felt that usual undercurrent of nerves since he started drinking it.

[kingshit_lloyd]

Lloyd froze, tensing from neck to toes, and the only thing that kept him from shoving the guy right off was the realization that it was just Miguel, being a drunken idiot.

He inhaled, getting more alcohol fumes than oxygen.

"You want to watch where you put your fuckin' hands, amigo?" he asked sharply, only dimly aware that he was overreacting. It wasn't like he hadn't been in Miguel's position dozens of times, and he would have found it funny if his sense of humor hadn't been recently driven over by a steamroller named Randall Flagg. At the moment, any kind of closeness made him feel like a fucking ant brigade was crawling under his skin.

[number97a413]

His hand itself isn't actually touching Lloyd, so the question confuses him more than it hurts. Maybe he meant elbows, Miguel thinks stupidly, drawing away until he just has a hand on Lloyd's shoulder, half just to steady himself as he takes another swig from the bottle. The paint on Lloyd's torso is smeared a bit, transferred to Miguel's skin where he'd pressed too close. "I think that grass skirt was a bad idea, amigo," his own pronunciation flawless despite any slur, "The bugs in it all crawled up your ass."

[kingshit_lloyd]

Lloyd jerked his shoulder away from Miguel's grasp, turning to him with a wild look in his eyes. "A bad idea is you gettin' in my fuckin' face," he hissed. "The fuck is your problem, huh?"

Every inch of him felt like a spring ready to uncoil at the slightest contact, and even though some part of him knew full fucking well that the problem was entirely his - that Miguel had fuck all to do with any of it - his vision was too slanted and full of red for him to pay much attention to it.