A/N: A bit of a continuation of the last chapter, because I know short chapters do suck. Haha. Bit more playful. Wrote it while I was hungover. Enjoy.

Asphyxia
Chapter Five

Connor's hands were cold and they shook and his eyes were dazed, still blue, and drooping; sticky with vulgar sleep, his eyelashes were pasted to his face and his mouth, his tongue, his teeth - well, they burned and seethed at him. He hadn't been prepared for this when he took that glass to his dry, parched lips and drank greedily.

Another purge and this time he missed the trash, instead emptying his stomach on his dad's shirt. Connor thought that was okay, since it wasn't a cool shirt. Not like the one he was wearing. It was ribbed and black and didn't feel as soft as silk against the skin and that made it okay, because if things were harsh and thick, as well as dark...

Well, that just made it more susceptible to evil.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and he wasn't sure if he felt sincerity or obligation. This was his father, his dad. The Scourge of Europe, the sin against God, the demon with the angelic face. They always told Connor that he looked just like his dad.

"How long did it take you to drink it?" Dad asked and Connor twitched a bit at the sharp tone that had suddenly entered the usually soft voice.

"Not long."

"You drank too much too fast."

"So?"

It was all Connor really could say, and of course, it was more of a snap. He hated Dad and he hated the thing Dad was, and he flinched and retracted his cheek away from that cold, cold digit wanting to touch it.

"Connor, you shouldn't-"

"Drink. You said that already,' the boy croaked and lowered his head back over the wastebasket, releasing more of his stomach contents.

"And if you do drink, you shouldn't drink fast. It could really-"

"Make me sick?" Connor cut him off again, cursing himself for allowing the pain to seep into his voice. "Yeah, I got that. You don't need to tell me what to do. I know."

Connor always knew eventually. It just took a strenuous system of trial and error to teach him what to know and how to know and why knowing was necessary. Knowing this, Connor wasn't sure if knowledge was worth it.

"But you didn't know and that's why..." Angel went on and on, speaking slowly and softly as if to a frightened animal and eventually, Connor just became tired of this, ducked his head into the pillow, and threw the now putrid duvet over his ears.

He didn't want to listen. Connor hated listening to the vampire speak, because what were a thing's words worth anyway? More than this, maybe, but not by much. In the darkness and warmth of his dad's bed, Connor found something akin to overindulgence - silence, peace, comfort, tenderness, and everything he wanted but knew he didn't deserve. Connor knew now, that things he didn't deserve were things that he could take.

The duvet was pulled down- an act accompanied by a, "Connor, please listen to me."

After all, that's how it was in this world. Lying and stealing brought you the best days of your life. Ignorance and denial rose the sun in the morning.

Connor sighed as his dad talked uselessly of the repercussions of alcohol consumption. Connor knew the repercussions of alcohol consumption.

He was feeling them. Right. Now.

He stifled a groan and shut his eyes, curled his toes around the rumpled sheets. His stomach was unsettled and he felt the bile rising in his throat yet again.

"Connor, kid, you okay? You gonna throw up again?"

Of course Connor was going to throw up again.

"Shit."

All over Dad's hair.

Even in sobriety's uncomfortable grasp, Connor managed to laugh this time. It was absolutely revolting, but he laughed and laughed and laughed until mirthful tears streamed down the sides of his face and his nose ran and he coughed up more regurgitated whiskey. Connor laughed until his laughs turned into sobs and his chest heaved from lack of air and he gasped for oxygen but he just couldn't seem to get enough.

"It's not funny."

Dad was indignant. Connor was suffocating.

"Oh, God. Son, breathe."

Connor felt himself being lifted into a sitting position, felt a hand on his back rubbing in circular motions and he struggled for what seemed like hours, but eventually his breathing slowed and entered normalcy's door.

"Good boy. That's my boy," Angel whispered.

"Puke-head," Connor returned, holding his breath against the fetid shirt

"Still not funny."

Dad was still indignant. Connor was still suffocating.

TBC...
Reviews are encouraging. :)