His Identity

5

There's something about the way Nick walks, I noticed. He holds his head high like he knows his worth. He's confident, straight forward— not afraid to speak his mind. But there's something else behind that attitude of his, like he's guarding himself— protecting himself.

But from what?

I don't exactly know nor can I tell. It's the only thing I can deduce from the small observations that I make about him.

I can usually easily read people, tell what they're thinking. I'm some sort of psychic, no. I can't read their minds— more like, their body language. The smallest movement of their eyes, nose, lips, everything. I like doing that, reading people for absolutely no reason.

But Nick, however is the exception.

It's damn near impossible to read him let alone tell what he's thinking. He always have this stone cold expression on his face which he'll only let falter for a split second when he's drinking.

For instance, like how he's now on his third glass of vodka despite the fact that Rhys doesn't want anyone getting drunk on his birthday. He went back on his decision when he realised how boring it was to just sit there and talk.

Nick's not even close to drunk. He still have the same exact expression on his face like all the time as he gulps down his now fourth glass, slamming it rather loud on the table once he's done.

"Holy fuck," Zale breathes out, now on his third glass. I'm not going to drink— one, because I want to return home in one piece and two, someone has to be there for these idiots when they'll get wasted.

Last time Rhys was drunk, he ended up sleeping on the street by the club itself and neither of them bothered to return him back home since they were all equally drunk. I wasn't with them that day. Carter received a call from the one of the workers at the club and he was quick to rush there.

"Dude, how the hell aren't you drunk yet?" Rhys asks, looking at Nick with amusement coating his features. "I knew you've got a high alcohol tolerance but damn."

"Aren't you gonna drink, Ave?" Nat extends a glass towards me and I instantly shake my head. I have the lowest alcohol tolerance, being the kind of person that would literally get wasted by one glass.

"Your loss," she shrugs, bringing the glass to her own lips before chugging down the whole thing.

"Keep 'em coming!" Rhys shouts at the waiter who had just walked in with a tray of filled glasses. After placing them on the table, he leaves to get more.

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" I ask my brother who now has his head on Nat's lap while his legs are still on the table right beside the tray of drinks. He flashes me a grin, "fuck work!"

"You're not gonna be saying that when you're hungover tomorrow," I mutter only to receive a laugh from him in response.

"Bloody hell—" he sits up straight in one swift move, "guys!" He raises his voice making me wince from the sudden loudness, "I think I'm drunk!"

"No fucking shit," Nick mutters under his breath with a slight roll of his eyes as he reaches out to grab another glass.

The door's then pushed open and the waiter waltz back inside, carrying another tray when Nick looks up at him, "no, that's enough." The old man says nothing in response but only gives a curt nod before leaving once more.

"Awe," Rhys pouts at Nick, "why'd you have to send him away? I wanted more."

"You're drunk enough as it is," Nick states, leaning back in his seat. His eyes flickers to Nat who has somehow managed to fall asleep on the couch with her head resting on Rhys's shoulder. "Fucking great."