Why did he need a drink? Because he was panicking. Ten months in the jungle had given him his first taste without the stalwart ghost of his deceased brother around him, but somewhere in between falling heads over heels for Dave and acclimating to life as a soldier, he hadn’t had much time to ease slowly into the idea that Ben simply wasn’t there. But he remembered the panic he’d felt exactly when he’d realized that he really wasn’t there, and not just hiding from the horrors of military life and war. It had been the same throat-squeezing, brain-breaking and heart pumping sensation he was feeling right now.
He was already a lot lonelier than when he’d started this whole ridiculous and entirely fucked up adventure. "I really, really [...]" He swallowed the rest of his words, and instead, drew in a deep breath. What the hell did Diego even drink? Mimosas? Fruity cocktails? Or was he just a whiskey man, hold the ice? Quietly sizing up his brother, he quickly decided against it. "Beer? Can we find beer? You’re a beer man, right?"
"I lost Ben." He blurted it out, unaware that phrasing it like that implied that was his fault, but it certainly felt like it. "I just got him back." He’d been sober for two days. Just a drop in the bucket compared to the lifetime of sobriety he was supposed to chase, and nothing compared to sixteen years he'd spent otherwise. Only two days since he’d suddenly been able to see Ben again. Goddamn, playing it off like nothing had happened [...] Dammit, dammit, he needed to focus. "It’s not [...] heaven. Too colorful." He was aware of at least that, or a weird Blossom knock-off would be riding a bike around these parts. "And we’re not in-country." If he never had to hold an M-16 again, it still would be too soon. "Five messed up?"
After all, he had the track record. He snapped his fingers. Cigarettes. He was going to need cigarettes as well.