As luck would have it, Xion wasn't the kind of drunkard who smashed things or raised his voice or went on a rampage just for the sake of it.
No, his kind of drunk was far quieter and also far more dangerous to himself.
Perhaps it was because he wasn't used to drinking, or maybe because he'd never had much of a filter to begin with.
Either way, once alcohol warmed his veins and dulled his edges, his body seemed to slip into a numb, languid mode.
His thoughts swirled until they loosened his tongue.
If something displeased him, he'd say so without thinking about the consequences.
If something pleased him, he'd praise it, and that too with an almost childlike earnestness, as if nothing else in the world mattered anymore.
Just like now. When his foggy mind could only circle around one thought. I messed up.
Red had spilled everywhere.
No, thank the gods, that it wasn't blood this time.
