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“I don’t need to check your ID to know you’re a minor, kid. You should go home.”
Marc rolls his shoulder and shoots the bartender a glare. He doesn’t want to go home when mom— Wendy. She lost the right to that title the moment she picked up the belt.
He doesn’t want to go back when Wendy is there, drinking her own life away.
“You know alcohol isn’t good for you, right? Ironic, yeah, coming from a bartender, but…”
He scoffs.
Shouldn’t he be allowed this when she spends every waking moment drunk or drinking, blaming him for everything he already blames himself for? Cursing him as if Marc didn’t love Roro, too. As if he doesn’t still grieve—
He just wants something to lessen the pain (and forget his problems). Is that too much to ask?
“I can get you a Shirley Temple.”
Marc eyes the bottles in the back.
“Sure.”
The bartender nods and steps away a little too eagerly. As soon as their back is turned, Marc hops over the counter and grabs the gold one. He’s not going to touch wine. That’s what Wendy drinks.
Before the bartender can catch him, he tucks the bottle under his jacket and sneaks back into the crowd. That was surprisingly easy, he thinks as he pushes his way past the bodies dancing to one song or another.
As soon as he’s alone, he takes it out, wincing when he stretches the skin on his shoulder.
Whisky, huh? Bourbon. He doesn’t know much about alcohol, but he knows it’s dad’s favorite.
“I like the taste,” dad says whenever he gets a shot, and only ever one shot. He doesn’t keep any at home. “It’s sweet. I think you’d like it.”
Marc gulps it down too fast to taste it. It burns his throat, but he keeps drinking until he blacks out.
Jake comes to with a half-finished bottle of alcohol in his hand and a hint of vanilla on his tongue. He knows what went through Marc’s head when he left home, but nothing after. Nothing before either, but that doesn’t seem as important right now.
He puts the bottle down. He didn’t think Marc would go through with it. What would he do if he fell asleep here? The streets of Chicago aren’t the friendliest places to be, especially after dark. Oh, and he’ll definitely have a hangover when he wakes. That won’t be pleasant.
Wait a minute.
Jake stands up and walks in a straight line. The alcohol isn’t affecting him at all. Weird, but convenient, since he’s gonna have to drive Marc home, and he’s only recently taught himself how. He doesn’t need alcohol impairing his senses on top of that.
It takes him a while to find the car, only succeeding because it’s a bright red amongst shades of blue and gray. He likes driving, but the context isn’t the most fortunate.
Honestly, though, what was Marc thinking? He should have just gone to the movies or the arcade or the library, not a bar. He usually does. What changed?
He bumps into someone and realizes, oh. Ow.
“Watch where you’re going!”
Jake ignores them and pulls the jacket off. There’s an angry burn on his shoulder. A big one shaped oddly with skin blistering pink, as if someone spilled boiling water on it. Or threw, since there's none on his back.
Right, okay, so that’s what happened. Ow, fuck.
That doesn’t change the fact that Marc needs to go someplace safe. Dad should be off work by now—three minutes ago to be precise—and he’s good at keeping mom busy. Unlike that first time.
But it should be fine. It will be fine. Dad will be home before Jake gets there, so it will be safe. He’s more concerned with Marc.
He unlocks the car and inhales sharply. Sure, he isn’t a rule follower, and he couldn’t care less that Marc is breaking them, but drinking so much isn’t good for him. It’s something mom would do, and Jake thought Marc wanted nothing to do with her. This is a pretty big “mom” thing.
And really, he can go on about the disadvantages of alcohol, least of which is the lapse in judgment, but what’s he going to do? Berate Marc? Marc doesn’t know he exists, and he’d rather keep it that way. All he can really do at the moment is get him home safely.
He gets in, gentle with the shoulder as he puts on the seat belt. It rubs against the wound anyway.
Marc isn’t going to like waking up at home. Steven shouldn’t have to wake up to a burn injury. Jake’s just going to have to stay up until morning.
He stops for burn medicine and is extra careful on his way home. He hasn’t been stopped by cops before, but on the off chance that this is the night, he doesn’t want to explain why he’s reeking of alcohol and driving stone sober.
As soon as he gets back, he darts for Marc’s room and locks himself in. He ignores mom’s screaming and dad talking her out of storming inside. This is the only time fighting back isn’t going to help. It’s the one time Jake is powerless.
With nothing else to do, he counts the seconds and waits for morning.
(Twenty-three years later)
“Jesus, Marc. Slow down.”
“I can handle whisky,” he huffs through the bottle. “Been drinking it since I was sixteen.”
“That’s not something you should be proud of,” Steven gapes from the untouched shot glass. “Jake, help me out.”
“Can’t. I usually just wait for him to switch out.”
“Oh, the black outs are ‘cause we switch?”
“That… yeah. But you’ve known that for months.”
Marc takes another swig and leans back, eyes scanning the patrons of the bar for a familiar international mercenary. “Thought it was just the alcohol.”
“Hold on, how does that work? Don’t you feel drunk if you front after he drinks?”
“No,” Jake shugs, although it’s hard to tell from the way the water keeps rippling. “I don’t know how it works either.”
“Wait, you’re why I woke up at home every time.”
Steven raises a brow.
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t just leave you on the streets.”
“I don’t know why I thought I drove home myself.”
“Aww, look at you taking care of Marc.”
“Shut up, Steven.”
“Ooh. Touchy.”
“Ha ha,” Jake snarks back. “Seriously, though. You should stop drinking so much. You don’t have Khonshu’s healing armor to fix your liver.”
Marc smiles. Jake’s been opening up to him and Steven steadily, and it’s nice to know he cares. The whole business with Khonshu hasn’t been sorted out yet, but that can wait.
“Not gonna happen.”
Right now, they’re enjoying a night out and hoping to catch up with a friend.
Speaking of, he should be here—
“Marc?”
Both Steven and Jake go quiet as he turns. “Hey, Frenchie.”
He’s standing on two feet. Good for him. Great, even. He was in a wheelchair the last time Marc saw him.
“Ugh, I hate that nickname,” he groans and sits beside him. There’s a smile on his face anyway.
“Tell him I said hi.”
Marc glances at his reflection in the water, then back at the man. “Jake says hi.”
“Oh!” Frenchie starts, tension melting off of him. “Finally! Mon dieu, I tried so hard not to spill your secrets. Hardest thing in my life, and you know the missions we went on.” He motions at his prosthetic legs. “C'était très stressant, you owe me at least five drinks.”
“Who’s he?”
“My best friend,” Marc answers. “We were mercenaries together.”
“Is that Steven?”
“He knows about me?”
“Hi, Steven!”
“Oh— hello!”
"He says hi back."
“Wonderful! Now pass me the bottle, Marc. I just had the longest day.”
He moves it out of Frenchie's reach. “No. Get your own.”