The drunk watches. The drunk always watches.
The bottle in his hand, although perhaps not his disguise, gives him a reason to be in the room, to sit at the table and to wait. To wait for Him to arrive. And when he does…oh, when he does…
He arrives in light, and noise, and that dedication in His eyes to His cause and to the country He so adores. The drunk would be jealous, but he is too busy being enamored.
And then…He begins to speak, of revolution, and of the new world that He believes will soon exist, all thanks to Him.
The drunk can hardly contain himself for the wanting of this new world, although he knows how improbable such a thing is.
He knows of the drunk's unease, of the drunk's disbelief. And so His eyes wander over to him, to the drunk with the bottle in his hand, and He watches him. He watches him as He Himself is speaking, looking into the drunk's eyes for some sort of acknowledgement, forsomething that the drunk feels tingling in his stomach but cannot for the life of him find a name for.
So the drunk takes another drink, shouts out a taunt to Him, although the last thing that he wants is His intensely displeased expression, but he'll take it, because the very first thing that he wants is His attention. Any form of His attention will do, and the drunk has become used to only receiving that slightly unhappy, extremely intense look from Him.
And the drunk loves Him for that look, for that very thing that should have made the man with the bottle in his hand feel hatred towards this man, this passionate, inspiring man that he refuses to admit he is inspired by.
But he doesn't want to think these thoughts that run through his head. The drunk would rather drown himself in absinthe and watch as His golden hair flutters with the passionate way He speaks, but without listening to the words. Because listening to His words would cause his mind to be at war with his heart, and that is something he doesn't want, especially not with Him in the vicinity.
And so he takes another drink, and watches.