A/N: This takes place in between the stories Leech and Lethe. If you have not read either story, it likely will not make much sense.
The Halberd was an immense ship – like a house in and of itself, with a kitchen, multiple bedrooms, storage, etc.
Because wandering the ship was an activity Marx had not yet vetoed, Kirby often explored to take his mind off things.
On one such exploration, he opened a cabinet off the main hall that was filled with lines of dusty bottles.
At first, he didn't understand. Juice and soda weren't kept in bottles like these, so what –
And then he remembered something once, back when he was staying at Fumu's place. He recalled Parm, rosy-cheeked and swaying, sitting on the couch and giggling about nothing whatsoever. Memu sighing and taking away the bottle, muttering something about how he couldn't hold his liquor.
Kirby didn't think twice, and grabbed a bottle.
He slowly crept back to the main living area, unsure if Marx would take issue with his action. It was very unclear on any day what Marx might protest to, and he often selected seemingly arbitrary things to pick fights over.
Perhaps the alcohol would be allowed, perhaps not.
Just in case, Kirby snuck back to his favorite corner in the living room – the corner on the floor, squished between the couch arm and the wall. When he hid here, he was only visible if Marx was standing directly in front of him. This made it one of the safest areas, especially since Marx didn't often go to the couch unless he already had Kirby in tow.
Satisfied at his hiding spot, Kirby settled down and – after some difficulty – yanked off the cap.
He sniffed thoughtfully and cringed at the pungent smell. Was this really what Parm had been drinking? The kind of stuff that made him so giggly? It smelled horrible…. Maybe this was expired, or a different kind of drink entirely…
Still…. If there was a chance he could feel better after drinking it, it had to be worth it, right?
With this thought, he took a tentative sip.
"G-aaack!" He nearly spit it right out again, but managed to swallow the liquid down. It…. Wasn't unbearable, but it burned, all the way up his nostrils and down his throat.
Once it hit his stomach, though, it spread a warm, queasy feeling throughout his body.
The sip left his throat prickling.
No giggly happiness yet, though…
Scrunching his nose up against the burning, Kirby gulped down several more swallows.
This time it didn't burn quite so bad. Maybe it was one of those things that you just had to get used to first. Even so, it wasn't exactly pleasant to drink…
He gazed forlornly at the sloshing liquid. Drinking the rest didn't sound appealing, either… This wasn't at all the giggly, relaxed experience he had hoped. Maybe it was something wrong with him? Or a different kind of drink than Parm had had? Maybe he just hadn't had enough…
Eugh. Shaking, Kirby lifted the bottle to his lips again – but before he could take a sip, it was yanked from his grip.
His veins went cold, freezing away everything except the small furnace in his stomach.
"M-Marx."
"Can you stand?"
"I-I'm sorry-"
"Stand up."
"I didn't know you would mind-"
"Stand up right now!"
If – if he listened, maybe Marx would take it easy on him –
Kirby unfurled his legs and shifted his weight forward – the world lurched wildly and he gasped. O-oh. Was this – this part of it?
Purple eyes poisonously narrowed. "That's what I thought."
"Wh-what's wrong?" Kirby whimpered. "I didn't know – you didn't say I couldn't –"
Marx shook the bottle, splashing the liquid in its glass container. "You're not supposed to drink this straight, idiot."
"O-oh. But – why – why is it in a bottle?" Kirby squinted up at Marx, and the odd urge to vomit rose again. He struggled past the reflex.
"You're supposed to mix it."
"Oh." That made sense. Dilution. "I'll add water next time."
"Stars, you're so stupid. It'll taste horrible with water."
Kirby didn't see what was so wrong with his idea – it tasted horrible already, so what was the big idea?
"Che." Marx gazed at the bottle. "You're disgusting, Kirby. You're really this desperate?"
"I-I just –"
"You think this is gonna make it better?" Marx shook the bottle angrily again. "Huh? This'll make everything better for you, Kirby?"
"I-I don't know-" Kirby screwed his eyes shut, the world starting to spin. Why was it getting worse? "I – I just, I thought – maybe it'd make me feel better…"
"Oh, of course." Marx voice changed, now bouncy and cheerful – but beneath it ran seething fury, and Kirby could hear it. "You just wanted to feel better! I mean, come on, don't we all sometimes? Maybe you were even hoping it'd let you forget your troubles for a bit, huh? Is that right?"
"I…" Kirby was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to look at whatever deranged expression Marx had fixed upon him.
Marx laughed. "Well, who I am to stop you from having a great time?"
"H-huh?"
"Here, just carry right along like I wasn't here!" Something cold and hard bumped against his lips hard enough to sting, and Kirbys' eyes sprang open – oh, the bottle. Liquid tickled at his upper lip.
Kirby let out a muffled protest, "Nmm!" He didn't want more; the amount he had already was making him queasy –
"Come on, Kirby – you're the one who started it in the first place. I'm just helping you finish!"
"Nm!"
"Open up!" The bottle cracked against his lip again; tears pricked at his eyes.
He didn't want anymore – he didn't –
Marx's fist collided with his teeth. Cold glass forced its way past his lips. Before Kirby could process it, burning liquid was dousing the inside of his mouth and throat, and heating up his stomach.
Just as soon as he realized it, he was choking on it – foul smelling drink flowed over his chin and down his shirt. The lip of the bottle jammed against the back of his throat, and then Kirby couldn't stop it: with one violent heave, he was vomiting onto his own lap. Marx skittered back with an offended cry, and the bottle clacked painfully against Kirby's teeth in the retreat.
"You're disgusting, Kirby. You still have a lot of this left, you know!"
A tiny whimper squeezed its way past his ruined throat. No more. No more.
"What, you want to cop out already?" Marx scoffed. "This is your own fault, you know that? You wanted the bottle. Don't blame me that you're too weak-stomached to finish it."
His mouth tasted horrible, a nauseating mix between alcohol and vomit. He didn't even want to close his mouth, lest his tongue contact more of the sticky slick surfaces.
Meanwhile, the puddle of throw-up in his lap was slowly soaking in to his clothes and dripping to the floor.
Kirby shuddered. Disgusting… Every inch of him felt unclean. Shower, now…
He slid one foot under him, shuddering at the sticky feeling in his lap. Then the other foot –
"What do you think you're doing?" Marx said, sickly sweet.
Kirby trembled. "I- I – I nuh-need – to –shu –shu-"
"No."
Marx knelt down in front of him, and flashed his canines.
"N-no?" Kirby whispered.
"No. See…" Marx shook the bottle. "You didn't finish, Kirby. You can't stop now."
"I-I don't w-want-"
"Oh, now you don't want it? You think it's that easy?"
Kirby didn't know how to respond. What would keep Marx from attacking him again? The abysmal weight of hopelessness fell over him. He collapsed against the wall, and the world spun wildly. He blinked furiously, but couldn't clear his own spotty vision. "P-please, don't – I don't want –"
"Then maybe you shouldn't have taken it in the first place!" Marx screamed, and flung his hand down. The bottle shattered against the floor.
"I- ah – I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry-"
"No. No no no. You're not even beginning to be sorry." Marx bared his teeth. His hand crept along the floor and scooped up a handful of shattered glass, which he clenched in his fist. As he lifted his hand, Kirby hazily glimpsed blood seeping through the jester's fingers.
Oh stars no please
"You want it; you will get it."
"No, no!" Kirby scrambled back but there was nowhere to flee to – the cozy spot between the couch and the wall was now his prison.
Marx slammed his palm into Kirby's mouth, and the glass and blood smeared across his lips. His cry was Marx's opportunity to pry in fingers. Kirby's voice twisted into a distorted scream.
Marx mercilessly swiped his own glass-ridden fingers as deep as he could shove them, while his other hand fed in new shards. Tiny flecks of glass burrowed into his tongue and cheeks; thicker pieces sliced up the roof of his mouth and his gums.
The pain was unbelievable, unbearable – Marx ground gritty dust into the inside of his cheeks; his gums were lacerated repeatedly and blood freely trailed down Marx's wrists and forearms.
Even this was not enough. With an inhuman growl, Marx took a larger shard in his left hand and began to rake it along Kirby's gums.
"Aaahhh!" Kirby yanked his head back so hard that it struck the wall and everything went blurry and dizzy.
He lulled his head to the side. Blood, vomit, and alcohol dribbled from his lips.
Chuckling, Marx sat back on his heels. His own mutilated hands bled freely.
"Have you had enough yet, Kirby?"
Tears streaked down his face, but he had no reply. He wasn't sure he even trusted himself to speak; he didn't dare move his tongue or close his mouth. The glass seared like fire, it felt like every last millimeter of his mouth had been met with a barrage of needles and a blowtorch.
How was he going to remove all this glass….
"I said," Marx hissed, "have you had enough?"
Kirby made a stupid, open-mouthed whine.
"That's not a good enough answer, you useless piece of flesh."
Dangerous, no, no – "Ah," he uttered weakly.
"Kii-iiirbyyy…. There are more bottles you know…. We could keep having fun like this….."
"A-ah-!" Kirby shook his head hard.
"I'm sorry I got impatient and trashed your bottle…. That wasn't very fair of me, was it? But I can get you a new one."
"Nuuh –ah."
"Nooo? But Kirby, you were so eager!"
Tears wracked his body. Stop…. Stop… let it end.
Marx leaned in close. "I went easy on you this time, Kirby. I gotta say, I really would be interested to see what happens if you try this another time. Aren't you a little curious?" A grin spread across his cheeks, and his eyes looked downright manic. "Come on. Even I don't know what I would do."
Kirby squeezed his eyes shut.
"Well, I guess you really do seem sure that you don't want any more." Marx shrugged.
Kirby whimpered in relief.
"But I'll keep the other bottles around in case you do. Doesn't that sound good?"
Frantically, Kirby swung his head up and down. The motion caused him to splay his hands onto the floor for balance.
"Glad you agree." Marx said softly. "You look horrible, by the way. And you threw up all over yourself…" he snorted. "Good luck getting out all that glass."
With this, he walked from the room.
Kirby was left with a mouth full of sandy glass, and uncontrollable shivering setting in.
A/N: *coughs* can you tell I dislike alcohol?