He's… Sloshed
"I see why Kai never comes drinking with us," Tala smilingly said to his teammates, batting the empty tumbler of his Mudslide back and forth between long fingers, "he's got the constitution of a petite fourteen-year-old girl."
"Ah least I don look like one," the beyblader in question irately replied from the right; he did nothing, however, to argue the accusation of his wolfish counterpart, heavy head remaining at rest on the bar, blurry garnet eyes shut in serene drunkenness.
"But you do, Miss – with those lovely long 'lashes…" his red-headed concomitant amicably retorted, waving a folded bill to get the 'tenders attention.
"Can't really blame the poor thing," Ian impishly noted from across Spencer, words sing-song, "though we can blame him for drinking something called '1-900-FUK-ME-UP'… and accepting it from Brian, of all people."His ruddy glance settled on the Falborg blader (other side of Kai), narrowed for emphasis.
"I thought it was tradition," the addressed young man expressionlessly reasoned, shrugging it away.
"Right, for petite fourteen-year-old girls," Tala chuckled, gaze just as playfully reprimanding as Ian's. "You'll have to carry him home," their captain continued, looking away from Brian's next shrug in time to order them another round.