[Evans & Peel: Jack & Holly]
The music was cool. Holly recognized it immediately as Harry James and Helen Forrest. His mom had liked the song, and those songs always bubbled up most predominantly in Holly's mind. Apparently, this even applied when he was wasted, but he didn't actually, like, realize that recollection at a time like this was way diminished. He knew he was feeling better than he should, and he kinda got that there would eventually be a deluge of shit feels, but they weren't there right now. He was feeling okay, with the miserable behind a plastic-bottle wall, and Holly wasn't hurting. He wasn't, like, projecting miserable, either. He was projecting kinda confused, but okay, and he hadn't looked around to see if Noah was there, but that was some kinda deliberate self-preservation, even if his self-preservation skills were seriously running on low tonight. But he was thinking about not looking, so that was a thing that was happening.
But, Jack! "Hey, Jack!" he said, and it was a little too loud, but the music in the dark place kinda drowned it out some. He pointed upward, as if he was pointing in the direction of unseen, but omnipresent speakers. "Harry James and Helen Forrest. This was number one on the charts in..., um...," The numbers were being difficult, and he was still kinda deadpan as he tried to summon them to his lips. "'43. 1943," he nodded. He didn't look smug for remembering. It was a fact offered for its own merit, and he slid up on the stood with little wobble.
Elbows on the bar, he looked at Jack. "Grape or grain?" he echoed, trying to make sense of the question. He wanted to answer appropriately, but his only experience with booze was secondhand, so... "Oh..., um, grain?" But Jack was already waving it off kinda. "Grape is wine, right? Not wine. I want to remain completely intoxicated. I'm meeting someone later, and I wanted to be way wasted," he said honestly. Holly was, as a rule, a pretty private guy, but blame circumstance and alcohol for his presently loose lips. "This is a nice place you got here," he looked around with minimal focus in his dark eyes. "Do you drink a lot? I don't drink a lot." He thought he'd already told Jack that, maybe. "How did you know I was a guy? No one ever knows I'm a guy. Did I say something?" He'd probably said something. Maybe this Jack knew him, but he doubted it. Maybe Jack knew probably-dead him. That was much more likely. Maybe dead-him liked to come drink at dark bars. The place was kinda romantic, in this old-school way. Retro, like the record store. His mind whirled.