lostcarnival | no bourbon, no scotch, no beer

Entry tags:

no bourbon, no scotch, no beer

Who: the idiot brigade aka Lambert & Strange
Where: Strange's trailer
When: backdated to late on Day 77
What: errybody in the trailer got tipsy
Warnings: alcohol use

( continued from here )

[ Taking the White Gull, Strange carefully puts two small drops of the alcohol into his mug of wine. His hands are steady, like he's used to doling out entirely small doses of liquids. Really, he doesn't believe this is as potent as Lambert says it is. After all, the other man can drink it and he...well, he's Lambert so who knows what sort of witcher nonsense makes you resistant to weird alcohols. Still, he can always add more later if need be.

As he finishes adding in the White Gull, Strange caps the flask and sets it on a nearby, hella cluttered table. Moments later, he raises his mug as well. ]

To your new appointment.

[ Might as well make an ATTEMPT at a toast. Strange downs a healthy serving of his wine...then just starts coughing a bit because wow, even with just two drops that stuff is surprisingly potent. ]

Good Lord.

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[ Forget manfully holding up Strange like a true friend; Lambert is going to take advantage of the way he slumps to grab a fistful of the back of his shirt and haul his goddamn ass over to that (thankfully open) window and shove Strange's head through the frame and into the cool night air. They're friends, but they are not quite puke on each other friends just yet. ]

Better?

[ Strange doesn't answer Lambert. Instead, the sudden lurching mixed with the cool night air (good Lord, how long had they been talking?) mixed with the fact that his queasiness is just getting worse means that it's jostled up Strange enough that he answers Lambert's questions with the lovely sound of him puking out of a window.

He's kind of better? ]

[ Most of Lambert's energy is devoted to holding Strange in place so he remains upright enough to ensure the contents of his stomach go out the window, instead of say, dribbling sadly all over himself when he melts to the floor. Unfortunately, this also means he isn't really in a position to help pull any of that long, fucking messy hair out of Strange's face, so he's on his own there.

He waits, patiently, until those violent sounds peter out to as pathetic as they'll get before he tugs Strange back in. ]

[ Yeah, he straight up gets a little bit of vomit in his hair, get a haircut ya madman.

Eventually the disgusting vomit noises stop and Strange just limply hangs out of the window before Lambert yanks him back in. #winning. Strange's normal sort of awful is compounded by the fact that he's now a pukey, grumpy sort of awful as well. He has hit the stage of drinking that is pure 'oh god, I regret this.' ]

Your White Gull is horrid, [ he can't help but complain, like a small child just now realizing the consequences of their actions. ]

[ Gross, Strange. Lambert, on the other hand, is still pleasantly buzzed, so all he does is laugh at his pain. ]

Can't say I didn't warn you. Just imagine how much worse it could be. [ Except don't, because that's terrible. ]

[ As he should be doing, straight up make fun of this loser and the fact that (at least with White Gull) he's the sloppiest drunk around. ]

Be nice or the next time I vomit, it will be all over your shoes.

[ It's Strange trying to be teasing but wow, he's not certain he can stand upright. And his head's spinning. And he feels weird. And his mouth tastes like puke. And his head's fuzzy, how can someone's head be fuzzy but also spinning, this White Gull was stronger than he thought.

So, when he looks over at Lambert, it's with an expression that's two parts grumpy, one part DOWNRIGHT PATHETIC. ]

Can you get me a glass of water?

It's still your trailer. [ Is Lambert's complacent, utterly unconcerned response. You're going to have to try harder than that, Strange. Besides, compared to monster ichor and gods know what else exist in the entrails of the beasts he's killed in the past, vomit mostly composed of bile and alcohol is honestly the least offensive thing he could be covered in.

Still, all right, he guesses the nice thing to do would be to keep Strange from being incapacitated all day tomorrow. That sad, pathetic look is going to be enough to get him to roll his eyes and prop Strange back up against the wall, checking to make sure he won't be in immediate danger of sliding down. ]

Try not to fall over. [ With that caring advice dispensed, he's off to retrieve water for the magician, the faucet running merrily as Lambert gulps the last of one mug's contents (hey, waste not, want not) to rinse it out and refill it with water. Strange will find it shortly shoved under his nose, though Lambert's own flagging coordination means he'll get a bit splashed on his front, oops. ]

[ Strange takes the glass, hands brushing up against Lambert's as he does so. But then, he pauses. There's certain things which he had written off or ignored while sober that drunk-Strange is latching onto now. One of them is this: Lambert feels weird. When he makes skin to skin contact with the man, Strange feels an odd tingling sensation that he really has no idea how to describe.

It's not a bad weird. It's just weird.

So, Strange doesn't take the water. Instead, he grasps one hand on Lambert's hand and the other on his wrist, concentrating hard on the witcher's hand as he sloshes even more water on himself. Does this weird tingling feeling have a limit? What's the cause of this in the first place? Does Lambert know this is a thing? ]

[ Lambert, not particularly expecting to suddenly have his arm grabbed so abruptly, just ends up squinting at Strange. It's the sort of thing one expects to be followed by an explanation -- even a drunken one -- but when one isn't forthcoming, the witcher's frown just deepens. ]

What is it? [ He has yet to catch on to just how dumb a reasoning Strange has for what he's doing right now, but he's grabbing his hand and his wrist and looking at him in a really weird way and that's just plain disconcerting.

Given that the sensation only goes one way, and sorceresses aren't in the habit of sharing how they feel about anything with Lambert, nope, he's completely clueless about this. On Strange's end, the tingling warmth intensifies up to a certain point, thanks to his inebriation, but eventually just plateaus. It's a distraction from the nausea, in any case. ]

[ Congrats Lambert, you get to learn fun things about witcherness and by fun I mean real friggen weird. Because Strange just still grasps Lambert's hand, concentrating to try and make certain that yes, that warm, tingly feeling is coming from Lambert and not a product of the alcohol. The witcher straight up feels weird. ]

You feel odd, [ said as if it's explanation enough. ] You feel...warm? And tingly. Like how a limb prickles when the blood's flowing back into it. Has this always happened?

[ it is so dumb a reasoning. But he feels a little bit better so we're just not gonna let go of Lambert's hand for a bit. ]

You're not making any sense, Strange.

[ Lambert laughs, because hey, dude's crazy. Chalk it up to madness and leave it at that. He'll lets him hang on to his arm because it seems like too much effort to reclaim it at the moment, but he shakes his head. ]

I've got no idea what you're talking about.

[ Strange may be drunk and he may be crazy but he still can tell when he's being laughed at and not believed. He gives Lambert a glare while...still not letting go of his arm, this is getting a little bit ridiculous. He's making perfect sense, thank you very much. It's not his fault this is hard to explain to begin with. ]

I know what I feel. Is this another part of your witcher nonsense?

[ If you don't want to get laughed at, don't say weird things, Strange. That's pretty much a given! At the question, though, Lambert ... shrugs, illustratively. ]

Maybe? There's a lot of witcher nonsense. [ Seriously: a lot. And Lambert doesn't necessarily know all of it. At this point, though, he's going to start trying to pry his arm out of Strange's grip, assuming he lets him. Once the contact's gone, the sensation stops almost immediately. ]

[ As Lambert wriggles out of Strange's grip, Strange takes this opportunity to take the (now half-full) glass of water. Tentatively he sips at it, as the nausea slowly comes back. This whole thing is far too weird and far too annoying for his tastes.
Stupid witchers. ]

We'll have to run tests later, [ he states, with all the authority that his drunken self can muster, before Strange starts to fall slightly to one side. Might be best to shove him either on the floor or in a bed. ]

Sure, whatever you say.

[ Lambert likes you, Strange, but he doesn't like you enough to wrestle your dumb ass into your bunk when you have all the grace of a dead grave hag. The witcher snickers, catching Strange by the front of his shirt and propping him upright again. ]

Drink all your water, then you can pass out.

[ Dutifully, Strange drinks the rest of the water. Thankfully, he doesn't chug it (because even he knows that would make things worse) but he doesn't take his time drinking it either. ]

There. Anything else?

[ Because with how wobbly Strange is, the likelihood that he'll actually stay upright for much longer is slim to none. And this is how Strange ends up passed out on the floor and waking up with a crick in his spine. ]

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no bourbon, no scotch, no beer

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and then kytha discovers an amazingly dumb piece of witcher lore

restrain yourself from throwing yourself at his feet, strange

excuse you, he's not a half-assedly written video game woman tyvm

this is true and also his shirt stays closed way too much for him to be one of those

this is a serious period drama not some fluffy bodice ripper

certain segments of fandom would disagree

yeah but certain segments of fandom would need to care about the bodice wearers in the first place

woo hoo internalized misogyny

it's a helluva drug