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2015-10-27 02:33 am (UTC)
chris can see the way all they've poured up tonight is starting to wear on josh; he looks tired, his movements heavy and unsteady as he rocks forward to put his glass down and then returns to the safety of the couch. chris is starting to feel it, too - like his head is full of cotton and his insides are getting heavier - but josh seems father gone. maybe the soju is to blame. whatever the reason, chris figures it's only fair that he finish what he's started and knocks back the rest of his vodka, placing his glass on the table with an air of solidarity.
he's a strange mix of exhausted and content, and while he notices josh's physical reaction to the question, it doesn't feel like dangerous territory yet. it's due in part to the little cocoon of coziness they've made here, made perfect by the whole 'two happy shitheads' conversation. his watered down brain can't help but ignore the possible consequences. he adjusts josh's beanie like he's adjusting a pillow as he leans back into his place in the couch, head nestled against the armrest and the back. he presses on, feeling more curious than threatened by the weird tone josh's retort takes on.
You like her, don't you? At least a little?
he really doesn't see how josh could say no. they always seem to hit it off, apart from the times she's scolding him and chris for doing something hilarious and stupid. they got along well, seemed to flirt in a casual way a lot of the time. with all of josh's charisma, chris wondered why he'd never asked her out - especially when he was so sure of his plans that involved
chris just hopes that it doesn't have to do with the medication and the therapist and the other, harder stuff that chris is sworn to secrecy about. he thinks - knows - that sam would understand, that she'd accept it for what it was. hell, she's probably better equipped to handle it than chris was. but josh might not believe that, and the thought of him limiting himself because of it tightens something in chris's chest.
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