Who: Cormac and Alicia What: Leaning on each other for support When: Tuesday mid-afternoon. Where: Gryffindor Tower, bathroom. Rating: Pg-13 for probable language
Cormac was not a well man. He was determined to prove Angelina wrong. He didn't have a drinking problem, he'd stopped last night, just to prove a point. He just liked to unwind, and hell considering that the world came to a bloody end he didn't think that it was that bad. Hell, almost everyone around here drank. It was the main source of entertainment around here it seemed some days. He did not have a problem. It helped him think, it helped him deal with the fact that not only was his family gone, but he was now in a place of some-what authority and charged with keeping people safe, all of that pressure. Drink until things made sense again, wasn't that his family's motto? Especially because he wasn't supposed to talk about his problems. "It's not what men do." his father once told him. Men don't pout, men don't complain, men just deal with it, move on, like machines almost. It was expected of him. He was supposed to be above all of this, better. He had to be strong for those who weren't. He had to be so strong that not a single crack showed, so that people like Alicia could let go a little bit, begin the healing. But not him. No. Not for Cormac. Cormac had to be the one to keep it all together when everyone else fell apart. What the fuck made him that much better than everyone else that he couldn't just let go? Why had he been the one to live when he'd at least been able to go out and have some fun with his life, rather than his niece, Addy, who was barely four had to lose hers? He wasn't going to go for his flask. He thought about it. But he might need it later tonight, just to keep his hands from shaking as he worked with the boys. He had to appear to be his usual self, and a few hits weren't going to change that right? That didn't mean that he had a problem.
Cormac heaved into the toilet again, emptying what he hoped was the last of what was in his stomach. He had no idea how long he had been in there, hours, minutes, he had no idea. All he knew was he had barely slept that night, tossing and turning, fighting a wave of nausea. After a few minutes of coughing he sat back and put his head against the wall, one of his long legs stretched out, the other near his chest. He couldn't sit still, he switched his legs positions again, and rested his head on one of his knees. Fuck. He saw the door open and he had to squint his eyes against the light entering his dark bathroom, only furthering his headache he'd opened his eyes to. He groaned and was about to say something before returning to his praying position to the poreclin god. Fuck. He was not okay, he thought as he grabbed some toilet paper, wiped his mouth and flushed...again. "What wrong?" he asked hoarsely as he shut his eyes and leaned back against the cool tile. As if he wasn't here, puking his guts out, trying to get his heart rate under control, and feeling like a bus had run him over. No, people needed him. Now was the time to man up and just do it.