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There’s nothing but laughter and light-hearted banter that rings through the lodge; an atmosphere that gave off warmth and comfort to all who participated. The clinking of glasses rings through the living area, a wild “cheers!” being yelled in unison between ten different voices. A weekend up on some mountain in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by no one but your best friends, no parents to supervise and endless partying to be had—what could be better? Of course, once you throw cheap booze into the mix then the entertainment seems to go up at least another 70 or so percent.
The party had started practically as soon as the sun began to set, anyone who drank picking out their poison and the few who didn’t take their stand as on-lookers, merely enjoying the time around their friends in a sober headspace.
Then of course—there’s the boys. Josh, as per usual, had already set up a line of shots for Chris, Mike, and himself to suck down, to try and out drink each other while their companion Matt breaks away, finding a better place as a by-stander to watch the train wreck happen. Most knew better than to go up against Josh, his tolerance for alcohol abnormally high; but of course, where was the fun if you didn’t try? One of these days somebody was sure to beat him at his own game.
“Alright gentlemen, we all know the rules. If the peanut gallery will count down the battle will begin.”
Beaming with confidence Josh appoints their by-standers to count for them, each boy sat around the coffee table that was littered with shot glasses, each one filled to the brim with orange vodka mixed with god knows what. Chris and Mike exchange a look, each of worry and knowing of their impending doom, but now was the time to find their courage and just go heads first into the game.
“One! Two! Three!”
With the final number from the crowd, all three dive right into the competition. Each start off at a decent pace; merely getting used to the strong taste that attacks their tongues and burns down throats, faces scrunching and contorting to looks that cause their friends to laugh and taunt. Chris gets about three down before he’s beginning to regret this decision while Mike and Josh are hand in hand at five, everyone cheering them on to keep going. Chris barely gets the fourth down before he’s practically choking to swallow, the taste only getting worse as they went on and the heat pooling in his stomach signaling him that it was up to Mike now to take Josh down.
In the end, Josh still arises as the winner, defeat being admitted when the world is practically spinning around Mike’s head, Emily intervening when it’s decided they’d each had enough. Of course, now they have to deal with Josh’s gloating as he crowns himself ‘The Shot King’, elbow nudging into Chris’ side as he’s babbling on, the blond only rolling his eyes and cracking a grin, nursing the chilled bottle of beer he’d retrieved after the defeat.
With their competition ended everyone disperses away from the action; either finding their spots on the couch to chit-chat or moving closer to the music that played in the background, a slight lull in the activity as everyone situates once again. Josh hoists Chris up by his arm and shoves another drink in his hand, something a little stronger than whatever it was he was working on. He doesn’t seem to mind, merely shrugging as he’s tugged over to toward the speakers; Josh now attempting to show off his ‘moves’ in his now, slightly intoxicated state, a few other of their friends quickly joining in.
Chris only observes as he swallows down whatever it was he was handed, the dizzying feeling in his head only proving to grow the more he works at it. Letting the feelings go ignored there’s times where he’ll break, clumsily bumping into Josh or the others as he joins them in their dancing—if wild flailing of limbs and jumping up and down could be considered dancing. It doesn’t matter to them as long as each and everyone one are having a good time, and by the looks of things, they certainly were.
The antics go long into the night, various games of beer-pong and spin the bottle being set up, an array of horrible jokes and shitty movie references not going unnoticed, plenty of spilled booze and knocked over bowls of chips to be cleaned up in the morning when all were aware of the night’s messes.
Music had long since been turned down into nothing more than white-noise in the background, most of the party either chit-chatting idly or passed out on the various couches and chairs, things finally coming to a stop at the ridiculously late time of the night. Chris is leaned up against the staircase with Josh by his side, the two drunkenly conversing about how great the night had gone and how they should set this up more often, because having everyone together like this was a treat. Both are working on nothing more than cheap beer, Chris seeming to have trouble with every swallow, the alcohol in his system at this point beginning to warn him that his limit had by far been reached.
He seems to have the right mind before pushing the bottle over to Josh, in which his friend’s confusion is ignored as he takes the object despite unknowing why. A sudden rock of balance and Chris is grabbing onto the nearest thing he can to keep himself steady, a dizzying feeling hitting him full force with one fell swoop. It was quick for his mind to warn him of the impending need to vomit, perhaps too quick as there is barely any time for him to warn his companion before spewing onto his own shoes. There’s but a pitiful gag and retch and Chris is hunched over, unable to stop the burning feeling traveling his throat before orange-tinted puke splatters to the hardwood floor, Chris only relieved by the fact that he’d missed the expensive carpeting.
There’s a hand that grips his shoulders and he knows its Josh, but he takes no acknowledgement to the feeling, the pounding in his ears and vision blurring from tears and dizziness blocking anything the other could be saying.
“O-oh shit, bro, m’s-sorry—“
Chris slurs, a shaky hand raising to wipe at his mouth, a grimace settling over his lips to follow. The acidic taste that lingered on his tongue was less than enjoyable, Chris convulsively swallowing at an attempt to get the taste away, though it really only ends in him gagging. He can feel his body being shoved to the side, the hands that’d clasped his shoulders now guiding him through the lodge and to the nearest restroom, various comments of reassurance leaving Josh’s vocals; though only about every word or so is actually picked up and remembered.
He hadn’t even noticed the other’s fingers removing his glasses from his face before he’s on his knees and heaving onto the tiled floor. Josh is desperate to get Chris back up and to the toilet, because God knows he’s making a damn mess and no one wants to be the one cleaning this up. Yet, Chris fights against Josh’s grip, a hand waving him away and a jumbled mess of words falling from his tongue, unwanting to be moved from the spot he was knelt in.
Josh had since decided to give up and instead clumsily pulls the wastebasket over, shoving the item to Chris to which he gratefully takes, arms wrapping around the hard plastic. A jolt of his body and a churn in his stomach Chris’ pulls the trashcan to himself, watery vomit now safely contained in the trash instead of dirtying the floors. A groan rips through his vocals and he’s clearing his throat before spitting into the can, hand raising now to wipe away the tears that pricked in grey-blue eyes. Man—what a waste of good booze.
“—You, you know you’re cleaning this up, right?”
Nothing but a weak laugh leaves the blond, nodding slowly at Josh’s words. Perhaps next time, he’d think twice about trying to outdrink his friends.
“A-as long as you’re a—a bro and get me s-some water.”