For my good friend Zan, who wanted a one-shot about Tequila.

Warnings for underage alcohol usage.

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It had a way of sliding down his throat like water, only the driest of flavors followed up by the sense of something sweet and almost fruity hitting his tongue, before the kickback burns up his throat and hammers down into the space between his eyes. The only time he speaks is a mumbled slur for another, the only person interested in him the one pouring out the alcohol and taking away his cash. No one else bothers to approach after the first dumb broad leaves his side with a broken high heel and a bewildered, tearful expression.

All of this was mere teenage rebellion, a matter of pride and a cocksure thought process leading to the conclusion that unlike the rest of the global populace, inebriation would never cause such a drastic vulnerability in his person. Now, if asked, his mind would come up with an uncomfortable blank, one resulting in a nasty look and a less than grand style of vengeance.

He was a mean drunk. He was a mean person. Vanitas was underage, and hell if anyone here gave a damn. One of the employees currently catering behind the bar could barely pass for sixteen, anyway; short, blond, baby faced. He was proving to be popular with the female patrons, despite his dubious legality and their varying sobriety. It would have proved entertaining to watch, should have shown some venue with which to irritate and cajole all parties included, and yet his gaze simply rested on them as his mind wallowed in an alcohol induced stupor.

As much as Vanitas would like to show his superiority, sneer and tear them down, cause discontent that would negatively affect the business, the employees, the temporary tenants- Vanitas found himself struggling to grasp onto simplistic ideas and concepts, thoughts rearing up at the edges of his mind, only to vanish completely when he took the effort to grasp onto them.

The only discontent to be found was within himself, a sense of wrongness, one that was making little to no sense and causing an irritation above all else. One could almost look at him and say-

"Hey, you okay?" Blondie. The look Vanitas spared him was a mixture of dismissive and confused; as if he had little care for speaking, but wasn't quite sure what to do about it. Eye contact was the only thing necessary for a conversation to be started, with or without his consent. "Don't answer if you think it'll make you fall off, but- why straight tequila?"

Its slow to process, but once it does, Vanitas straightens, as if to prove that the kid has no idea what he's talking about. Haphazardly, he sways, before hunching over the bar again. If there's anything good about what just transpired, it's the sour glances upwards that proves the barman didn't even notice the action through his own little speech.

"I mean, I serve here all the time! It just seems weird- tequila can be had with so many different things, salt and lime, a tequila sunrise-"

"You fini- done?" The word choice leaves little to be desired, but a sharp snap, and he actually looks taken aback by the abrupt cut in.

"Well, I didn't get an answer…" The employee leans over the bar, expectant. Vanitas' mouth tastes and feels like he's licking up flour- his unwanted guest's face is quite blurry, though the eyes stand out at a much greater pitch and contrast than anything else in his surroundings. Electric blue; it simply makes his head throb at a much greater pace.

"It's made to be drunk straight. Like most things." Each word is an effort, stealing all of his attention in a way that seems to be expected, considering how all the glasses in front of Vanitas disappear in quick succession, the bench top wiped, a brief, nonverbal exchange related between the employee and what looks to be his boss, before he's slipping round the bar and up to Vanitas' side. "Like Vodka; mixing them is pointless."

"But it tastes better. Having some salt with tequila- a lime too, its not going to stop how much you're drinking."

"Not the point." Why bother, really? A mixture didn't interest him. What was the point of taking a drink in the exact same way as everyone else, just to cheapen the blow of the alcohol? The idea was pointless, even has his tongue scrapped against the back of his teeth uselessly, as the words that should have been easy to get across escaped him.

There was so little control in this situation, in himself, it made him feel-

He was being pulled off his stool. The blond was gripping his shoulders; steering him across the room and the sensation of being touched was more than enough to make his gut clench with nausea, for a hiss to escape between his teeth. The look Vanitas threw him was simply murderous- the expression given in return was a benign smile.

"I called a taxi for you earlier; it's probably here by now. I'm Ventus."

"I don't care." Even the process of lifting his arms made him stumble; likely, his entire sense of balance was relying on the grip of Ventus' hands. He hated him more for that than anything else; his voice, his tone, his expression. It was all one muddled concentration of hate, somehow completely centered on Ventus' hands. Little logic to it aside from how Vanitas' mind could focus on little else.

"You wouldn't be the first, at least." He has the gall to chuckle, propping Vanitas against the wall to push the door open, staying it with his foot. "It would've been easier if you just got drunk at home, though- if the cops had been round tonight, your ID wouldn't do very much. How old are you, Vanitas?"

He doesn't look alarmed, but he doesn't shoot off in a stream of denial, either. In fact, his mind is working around the fact that whoever made his face ID messed up, and how to make them feel it. But to have anyone point this out, to have blondie- Ventus, take note and speak up, he's-

"What it says on the card, idiot."

"Right." He didn't believe him; far more interested in getting him out the door and down the steps than covering his tone of disbelief. Vanitas gritted his teeth, wondered at his tone of voice- was he slurring? Stuttering? It all seemed wrong, movement and speech, how was he supposed to know what Ventus was hearing, and what he wasn't. "You think I could tell you something?"

"No."

"I'm going to anyway." The taxi was across the street, and so began a small, awkward dance, the two of them shuffling forward, off the footpath and onto the road, two steps forward, one to the side, half a step back. Repeat. "I've seen you around school; heard more than seen. Everyone thinks you're kind of a bully."

Hesitation.

"Seeing you like this instead, it's kind of sad."

Pathetic. Afraid. Shamed. It wasn't okay to feel like that; it wasn't okay to think it. But having those on the inside is vividly different from exhibiting them on the outside. The fact that Ventus noticed, the fact that he pointed it out is enough for Vanitas to step away and throw a fist into his face, breath heavy with unadulterated rage. Ventus hits the pavement, holding his nose awkwardly and Vanitas simply looks on with an expression of caustic disdain, swaying once before shifting his feet for balance.

He wasn't supposed to look and see anything. Not a weakness, not a flaw. Vanitas took pride on his control- took pride on being better, the best; which was why he'd come here in the first place. To prove himself against another potential weakness.

Not only had he failed, it had just been thrown back in his face. Pathetic. The debate on whether to continue this now, make Ventus regret everything is decided by the unpleasant twisting of his stomach; he's not doing anything, tonight. The taxi driver leans on his horn, and he turns towards it with his ears ringing from the sound.

"You don't know anything." Not a sound from Ventus, not as Vanitas moves away, pulls open the passenger door and hangs over it, righting himself and swinging his body down into the seat. The door is slammed shut- Vanitas murmurs an address, and the taxi pulls away, manned by one more driver who could care less about one more person bleeding on the ground this Saturday night.

To his credit, Vanitas remains in control of his stomach. It helps, to press his forehead against the cold glass, to close his eyes. To take his mind off the way the world is spinning by latching onto those loose threads of thought, turning them into a daydream of walking back into that bar, ordering a flaming shot, and throwing it into Ventus' face- glass, fire, and all.

It all sums up to one more nick to Vanitas' armor, one more failure of the evening that he's determined to squash, one way or another. Kind of sad- it is, but Ventus shouldn't know that.

Ventus- the blond, baby faced employee from the bar; he knows nothing.

The problem is that he does.