Who: Gale, Jack, and a brief appearance from Leliana at the end. What: Drunken debauchery, Gale blows up part of a park. When: Last night! Where: There's a chance not even the boys know where it even happened, so idk. Rating/Warnings: Low Status: Complete!
So, apparently this had been recalled. This meaning the bottle of fireball whiskey, which Gale was still questioning. He couldn’t decide if it would be good, like, so smooth they didn’t need to cover up the flavor with anything - or if it would be like taking the cinnamon challenge and scorching his tongue off, or like drinking orange juice while simultaneously swallowing a gasoline explosion. He guessed they’d find out in a minute here.
In the park, drinking like bums, because they’d just come from the bar and were already teetering on the edge of ‘three sheets to the wind.’
“Okay, down the hatch...” Gale steeled himself, twisted the cap off the bottle, and took a swig. Then abruptly coughed; it felt like he’d just smoked his first cigarette all over again (it was a habit in the army, not as if he did it all the time now). Tastes like Heaven, but burns like Hell was the catchphrase. The logo. Seemed about right. “Yep, that’s good,” he handed the bottle to his drunken companion, who probably needed it more than he did - or actually, both their dreamworlds were gearing up for some shit, maybe Jack’s more so in the moment since he’d just hit an iceberg and all. That was one hell of a cliffhanger.
Fireball whiskey. Smooth, alright. Smooth like railroad spikes dipped in poison.
“Why are we drinking something that’s been recalled?” It was a valid question, okay, but that also didn’t stop Jack from partaking in this properly advertised poison in a bottle. He was often broke, and because of that he often resorted to the cheaper side of liquor - like the Taaka vodka that was about five bucs in a plastic bottle, you want to talk about your mouth being burned? So this fireball whiskey - the one that got recalled for some unfortunate reason - was like downing something top-shelf.
It tasted like candy. That little red ball wrapped in plastic, the kind of crappy candy that gets thrown into a Halloween bowl mix when all you really want was a Kitkat or Reeces Peanutbutter cup.
Jack didn’t cough. Made a face like he’d swallowed something funny, but it went down and tingled, even if his head was swimmy and buzzed from the previous shenanigans of downing whatever the fuck they could afford.
“I dunno. Tastes fine to me?”
A legit question, but Gale didn’t have an answer. Especially out here, in the dead of night, look at the stars - they shined so brightly, it was actually clear for once. Diamonds on black velvet. “To make sure the recall people didn’t fuck up,” was his brilliant response, there, see, it came to him eventually. This bench was comfortable, and he slumped there, enjoying the peace and the serenity and the sensation of being thisclose to puking.
“Tastes fine to me too.” He stole the bottle back and took another swallow - they’d be sharing, because who cared about germs? Not these two. Jack’s mouth hadn’t been anywhere questionable lately...had it? “Hey, so you melt the iceberg yet, or is it still there?” Just out of idle curiosity and all. Call it friendly concern.
No, his mouth hadn’t been on or in anything suspicious, thank you. Jack was adventurous. Just not that adventurous. “Nope, my superpowers clearly malfunctioned and I’m pretty sure it goes down under from here.” His response was very nonchalant, punctuated with a shrug of his shoulders. The fuck was he supposed to do? Not like they could control what happened, these dreams weren’t lucid that they could puppet their actions in their sleep.
“But you know what?” A second chug from the bottle, some spilling down his mouth, ugh. He cleaned himself with a sleeve before passing it again. “Screw it. If I die, at least I got laid the same night. Sketched the lady naked, had the time of my life - guess there are worst times to go?” Death had been a thought, creeping at the very edge of his mind. Katou woke up almost dead. People died, it was a legitimate thing. Did Wendy know CPR just in case?
Another valid question. He’d have to ask.
Sketching the naked lady, getting laid, yeah, those were all positives. “There are definitely worst times, and worst ways, to go,” Gale agreed. He studied the bottle with its red label, squinting at it like it held all the answers. Fucking thing. Fucking dreams. They pissed him off, he could feel himself changing - it wasn’t a sudden, abrupt shift to a whole other plane of being, not an epiphany, but it was a slow creep. Something within him that bled over, hatred for the Capitol, tainting his vision and making him look at the world awash in shades of red. Seeing unfairness. Seeing death and decadence, excess, greed. It was everywhere.
“You probably won’t want to starve to death, like you would in mine,” he said, shrugging too. “It’s slow and painful. May as well go out getting laid and having the time of your life.” Maybe he died too, who could say. It wasn’t as if President Snow needed a reason to go around having people killed. Not kissing Capitol ass was nearly a surefire way, and Gale had never been one to play nice.
Oh, look, the bright sides of dying under certain circumstances. They were really having this conversation, weren’t they? Any topic of conversation was possible when you were two slosh-faced dudes getting even more sloshed under the stars and cinnamon whiskey going down their throats every couple minutes. Jack was pretty much convinced he wasn’t budging from the bench tonight. This is where he would go to sleep and wake up, he was sure of it.
Jack snorted through his nose, rough and pig-like, then leaned to the side to spit out a thick wad of saliva. Like men do, apparently. “Yeah, I’d rather, uh...a quick death. That’d be nice.” Was drowning a quick death? He didn’t know, though it sounded painful. Those waters were icy, he knew that much - swimming in them was probably like getting stabbed my thousands of tiny little icicles. He could see his breath in the air, every time he exhaled. “Like, really fucking nice. What ‘bout you, though? War and shit, you’re not about to die, are you? Did you ‘pull and pray’ in ‘em, yet?”
Budging from the bench was a foreign idea. It actually hadn’t even occurred to Gale, and he was tall enough so that if laid lengthwise, his feet would still dangle off the edge, however, he was sitting up now. In a hoodie, looking questionable, and guzzling fireball whiskey like it was life force. Once you got past how it sort of hit the palate with a sizzle, then it was fine - mostly because you couldn’t really taste it after the burn set in. The recall probably had to do with what this shit did to your intestinal lining...well, anyway.
He also hated to break it to his friend (and Gale didn’t have a lot of friends, let it be known - he was surly and sullen, a hot mess of PTSD, not exactly bestie material), but drowning in a giant ice cube tray was not a quick death. Though he wouldn’t sit here and be depressing about it. They didn’t know what would happen and even if they did, they couldn’t change it. Ergo. Best thing was to deal with it as it happened.
“The war hasn’t started yet, but I think it’s coming...rebellion, you know?” he coughed again. “There are people here who are further ahead so I got spoiled a little. But there, people’re finally starting to stir shit up. And try to overthrow the Capitol. I think it could happen, I mean, you get every District together, get their support, take out the main Peacekeeping force which is in District 2...and it’d be all over for those fuckers.”
As for pulling and praying, he laughed. “My dream self never has, he’s had to keep his family afloat for years. There was never any time.” Plus, that Gale seemed more interested in weapons than sex - but that was probably because he’d never tasted the forbidden fruit. “I guess I’m not as big of a ladykiller as a starving artist would be.” Smirk.
Man. That shit sounded dark. Jack’s dreams was like following a love story meant to have a tragic end, someone cue the violins. Nothing really compared to war, death, famine. Sounded like the apocalypse, actually (what was the fourth one? Whatever, drunk).
“For the people!” A dramatic announcement with the thrust of the bottle up in the air, then some flailing around to find that thing called balance, because that seemed very MIA when you were balls-deep in the waters of complete intoxication. Still, didn’t stop him for another chug, but maybe it’d be his last. The more he drank the less he felt like he could stomach it, which was a sign that would prelude vomit. “Fuck ‘em up, Gale. Someone has to fight. Otherwise nothing gets done.”
A very loud buuuuuuuuuuuuuurp.
“And don’t be jealous,” he said, patting Gale on the shoulder. Well, it felt more like a slap. “I’ll paint you like one of my french girls if you ask nicely.”
How much had they drank anyway? Before coming here, they’d downed shots at the bar, maybe some cheap beer - definitely a lot of cheap beer. That’s why Gale found everything hilarious, and he was actually showing teeth when he grinned, a rare feat for such a grump like him. “For the people,” he echoed, just without the burp - but fanned the air after Jack’s expulsion of gas. That probably killed a few plants in the vicinity, let’s be real. “You and your French girls. Oh, hey!”
Speaking of expulsions, he just had the best idea. “You think we could make a molotov cocktail with this bottle?” That was half-empty, but whatever, they could manage - drinking the whole thing meant certain death (or alcohol poisoning), so why not try for some other uses? “You have a lighter, right?”
Yep. Because drunk.
He did, actually! With a couple of cigarettes left in the box, he’d smoke the majority of them but now that he mentioned the lighter… “Fuck yeah, I do,” Jack chuckled, the sound somehow slurred and raspy, and retrieved the pack and lighter from the confines of his pocket. “Before we possibly burn ourselves - want one?” Did Gale smoke? He knew some people that were ‘drunk smokers,’ meaning a cigarette was only smoked during nights of drunken debauchery.
One was lit for himself anyway, puffpuff, and the exhale of smoke seemed to have eased him even more. Almost turned him into liquid, with how it felt as if he was melting into the bench. Comfortably, buzzy, a good fucking night.
“Suuuuuure...” That was a slur from Gale too, as he took the cigarette and lit up. The cherry-red glow of the end of the (likely roach-tainted) factory vice was like a beacon here in the dark, the night time stillness, and he was feeling pretty good about coming out here to finish off the drunken revelry. Maybe he’d regret it later when he somehow ended up passed out at the start of a morning jogger’s running trail, but whatever, this was pleasant. If they passed out in the park, they’d wake up to the delicious scents of the breakfast food carts or whatever. The one with waffles?
He exhaled a stream of smoke, no coughs this time, but that was different. The tobacco didn’t burn like manufactured red-hot flavored booze. “Here, let me get some grass and shit. This is going to be the best cocktail. I mean, unless we light ourselves on fire.” Cigarette trapped between his lips, he scavenged for stuff to put into the bottle that would make it more of a bomb. The fuse, he could use the tie on his hoodie - perfect.
“But if we’re on fire, just roll around on the ground. Should be okay. Can’t be any worse than the gas chamber in basic training.”
“Wait, wait,” Jack urgently called, and grabbed the bottle before he stuffed it with a whole load of gross shit. One last, final chug, the shot that made him feel like he was on the verge of blowing chunks out of his mouth - that’s how you do a drunk night, successfully. Now with his fill satisfied, he surrendered the damn thing and took another drag, cinnamon and peppermint leaving a burning trail on his tongue. “Alright, dude.” Puffpuff, exhale. “All fucking yours.”
He kind of veered onto his side, falling onto the bench almost if he hadn’t propped his elbow for support. An awkward sitting-down-but-laying-down position, eyes droopy and hazy. “Set me on fire and I’m telling Wendy. She’ll--she’ll beat you with crazy household supplies.” Yes, he’d hide behind his British mother hen, Wendy was intimidating as fuck when you pissed her off. Like one of ‘em Catholic nuns or something, but cuter. “I’m too pretty to be disfigured, Gale, I’ll take it personally!”
Jack got in his last swig of boozy red hots, and Gale did too, putting his cigarette out after burning it to about the very end. Thanks for the memories, fireball whiskey. Into the bottle the right tinder and stuff went, things to add to the oomph of the explosion. Then he stuffed the makeshift fuse into the bottle last, after soaking it with booze. “Crazy household supplies?” he chuckled. “Is that a thing that usually happens? But I promise I won’t set you on fire. It’s just...fireworks.”
They’d light up the night sky. It’d be beautiful.
He held out the bottle, molotov cocktail now completed. “Here, you can have the honors. Light her up and I’ll toss her.”
Fireworks. Alright, legit. Sounded good enough, Gale wouldn’t lead him astray, right? Nah, Gale was fucking swell and this entire thing sounded like a fucking awesome thing to do. Out came the lighter then, a few tries to get the fire going - he needed a new bic, damn. “Happy New Year’s, man.”
It was April. Better late than never?
Finally, the flame came and he lit it, and then Jack quickly pocketed it to cover his head. He hadn’t even tossed it yet, but… “MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN! Fucking toss that thing FAR, I don’t want to die!”
“Happy New Year, 2015 is gonna be the shit,” so said drunk Gale, who cracked up laughing as Jack nearly blew a gasket and whaaaaaaaaat, this molotov cocktail was completely safe, there was no danger of them dying! At least not tonight. That was a depressing - oh, fuck, the fuse was burning.
With a very eloquent, “For Spaaaaaaarta!” Gale ran and tossed the bomb up, running back, where their very awesome boom-boom would explode into a cluster of rocks and shit, whatever, there was nothing there except a whole lotta nothing. He wasn’t going to kill any trees. Maybe make a smoking crater in the ground, but depleting sources of oxygen wasn’t cool, man.
KA-BOOM
It smelled like...cinnamon.
“Oh, hell, it’s...pretty,” he squinted gravestone eyes. “I’m so drunk, I dunno about you.” Was there another bench to sit on? Damn. Probably not. He just attempted to fold his limbs down and just ended up on the ground.
Holy shit, did that just happen? Was that an explosion? Sure, a small one, but it was still a fucking explosion and did they-- “Did we just blow up half the park?” He was asking such valid questions tonight, wasn’t he? Clearly this was the most severe one. The most important, because it did smell like cinnamon and burnt ass. Jack’s cigarette hung from his mouth, mostly gone with ash hanging off the edge, up until the breeze hit and ash spread with it.
Wow.
“Dude. Dude.” He gaped, scrubbing a hand over his face, and he tried to get up but his legs were too wobbly and Jack just went plop, back onto the bench where he probably wouldn’t move from at all. Ever. “Yeah. I’m drunk. Are we going to get arrested? I’ve never been to jail - I’d suck as someone’s bitch.” Goddamn, he needed another smoke, so he spit out the dead nicotine stick and fished for another. Lit up, addictive therapy that caused cancer of the lungs. It felt nice.
Definitely cinnamon and burnt ass, that was a thing. Gale was still laughing, however, so the smell didn’t singe his nasal cavities too much for the time being. He was just on the ground, watching the sky, which was spinning like a top, the stars all...discombobulated. How had that happened? Nature was so weird sometimes.
“Nah, I’ll make sure we don’t get arrested,” he promised his friend. “I actually....does your British nanny know you’re here?” Ffffuck, that suddenly was like a cement block on his foot. Or the plans. The plans! The plans of sleeping in a park! Not unless they could be assured that Jack wasn’t going to have a search party after him.
But after that fiery cocktail, he was kind of sleepy.
“Uhhhh…” Good question. Had he told Wendy he’d be out up until the asscrack of dawn? He couldn’t remember. Though she’d likely freak if he didn’t return home tonight, probably pace a hole in the living room for concern, so he wiggled his phone out of his other pocket. Jack could barely type. He was pretty sure he sent something to Wendy, but it was likely along the lines of ‘drunk, brb morning’ but with less coherency despite the shortened message.
“Done,” Jack announced, phone dropped to the ground. It was a cheap POS anyway, it could handle a few beats. “How the fuck are we gonna get home, again? I’m being responsible and pre-planning so I can rest in peace. And if there’s police sirens in the distance, fuck you, you framed me.”
“Maaaaaaaan, way to leave me in the trenches,” Gale snorted, but he couldn’t deny that Jack made an excellent, excellent point. How were they going to get home, come the morning? “Ummmmm...” Quick, synapses, fire quicker! Mostly he just planned to pass out here and see what happened, that was fine with him, but that might not be the best idea in retrospect...
He managed to wiggle on the ground enough to free his phone from his own pocket, and texted Leliana. They were friends, friends who saw each other naked, and she had promised to come get him if he were ever completely shitfaced and close to puking. Now was one of those times. She might even tuck him in.
“There, I got it, we’ll have a way to...” Something.
A few minutes later, he kind of passed out, and when he woke up he wasn’t sure what time it was, but there was light that felt like knives in his eyeballs and he was pretty sure he was lying on a rock. Ow.
“Did you honestly blow up a park?” Obviously, the voice was too feminine, too foreign sounding, to be from Jack. Who’d passed out on the bench with a mostly burnt cigarette in his mouth. How it remained untouched throughout the night, Leliana did not know, but perhaps the sleep had been that deep?
It didn’t take too long to locate Gale. And his friend, apparently, who she was sure was a friend of Wendy’s too. It took a pinch to wake Jack up and he woke up startled, cigarette finally falling to the ground, ashes and all, and he looked wide-eyed and bleary. “Who the fuck?”
“I hope no animals were harmed during your drunken...bonding?” How did the police not come in here?
Gale shifted, and he was almost sure there was a permanent indentation in his back because rocks did not make good pillows. “Heeeeey, this is - “ A squint of gunmetal grey eyes, weary and sleepy, probably crusted or something unattractive because this hangover? Was not going to be attractive either. “It’s okay, this is Leliana, she’s safe,” he assured Jack. Like, as in, not an undercover cop or anything. Thank shit.
“Animals’re fine.” Or at least he assumed, because there were no carcasses strewn about what what the hell was Leliana talking about? “We did...did we do that?” he asked, sitting up, black hair a mess and in need of a comb. “What the fuck happened to our whiskey?”
Jack groaned, a hand over his eyes. “We used it. We put things in it. And lit it. And then you threw it singing ‘Happy New Years’! Or that part might have been me, I’m not entirely clear on the exact details of who said what…” No vomit, though nausea was present and so was the throbbing headache that made it seem like his head was as heavy as an anchor. Blindly, he fished for his phone for the time. How long were they out?
“All I’ve ever done drunk is pin panties on boards and get stuck in caramel pudding,” Leliana mumbled, eyes surveying the damage wrought to the land. Nothing too terrible; it was a shallow crater and the ground was scorched, though it’d likely be investigated. Must have been a good night, though! Anyway, she’d help Gale up, the ground did not look like a comfortable resting spot. “Up you go. Careful, and please warn me as soon as possible if you have the urge to vomit. So I can step away?”
Passing out drunk in a park. Mini camping trip? That was what he and Jack should call this? That sounded good to Gale. “I’m okay,” he said, taking Leliana’s hands and hefting himself to his feet. Stumbling, swaying, a little woozy. But still with the contents of his stomach where he should be. Fuck, he hadn’t been that drunk in awhile. “No puking, promise.”
But there was another pressing issue which required attention right away.
“Can we go get pancakes?” And he wanted to hear more about that caramel pudding. Probably the panties too, come to think of it.
“Pancakes,” Jack echoed. That idea sounded fucking splendid. “Yeah. Gale’s got plans. He’s going places.” He hoped to stomach it anyway, that some grease and maple syrup would settle nicely in his stomach instead of blowing out chunks from his mouth. A cigarette first and foremost, though - it was his last, and he’d lit it up to greet the bright rays of the morning. Standing up on his feet wasn’t too bad, but his walking would be sluggish.
Oh, Maker. Leliana observed both of their attempts at movement and appeared a bit sheepish, looking between the two. Her car was parked a few yards away, it was a modest thing that wasn’t anything new (she had money, but she was very frugal, she didn’t need extravagant things unless they were shoes). “Pancakes,” mimicked the bird. They seemed sold on the idea. “I suppose we can do pancakes.” Gale’s arm was grabbed and pulled over her shoulder; she’d help keep him steady, otherwise she feared he’d stumble and break his face open! It was too early for a gush of blood, not today. “Come, my little arsonists. Before the authorities arrive and I have to explain to Wendy what exactly happened.”
Jack paled a bit.
“Well, I’m still going to tell her what happened anyway…”