September 10:
Demyx avoided getting drunk at all costs. The few times he had gotten drunk, it had not gone well. Once, he had woken up on Xaldin's balcony wearing Axel's favorite hoodie, a skirt of Larxene's, hugging a Roxas plushie, and surrounded by banana peels with no memory of what had happened. Another time he had ended up . . . well, it just hadn't gone well. At any rate Demyx avoided alcohol like it was poison (which, technically it is). This was a concept Luxord just could not understand.
"But Demyx," he said yet again, "'s'not a bad idea. 's'really good idea!"
"Luxord, you couldn't even walk over to the cabinet, much less pour me a drink!"
"Watch me! If I can make it, you're drinkin' it."
"Sure," mutter Demyx doubtfully.
Luxord pulled himself up off the floor by the hem of Demyx's coat, climbing his way up the black material until he was standing with his hands on the Nocturne's shoulders. He gave his head a little shake, took a look around, and walked in a line that he thought was straight across the kitchen until he crashed into the counter.
"That's the sink," Demyx pointed out helpfully.
"I know, damnit!" he said in his slurred voice. He felt his way down the counter to the forbidden cabinet that he had broken into several hours before. His ability to make more drinks while he was utterly smashed was extremely impressive. He staggered back to Demyx with the glass. "Told ya. Now drink."
Had Demyx been the type to swear, he would have been swearing up a storm.