𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄? (𝗵. 𝗮𝗸𝗶) ✓

Drunk Walk Home

Before the party, Hanasaki had never properly had a beer.

It had been a good few days since the Eternity Devil incident, and she had expected herself to be anywhere but there on that evening. The street-food restaurant that many of her co-workers hit after work was so full of people that Hanasaki had felt the air crush against her as soon as she'd stepped inside. She'd never actually been there before — in fact, the last time she had gone to any place remotely similar must've been when she was a child.

Of course, she wasn't there of her own choice. Aki had a way of gently forcing her into social situations she was rather keen to avoid, especially if there was eating involved. Seeing as the whole group was going, though, she supposed she'd have to if she wanted to convince them she wasn't a pathetic wretch who just wasted away at home when she wasn't doing her job. Well, that was the best justification she could think of, anyway. It didn't even manage to convince her fully, but she needed to believe she wasn't sad enough for her only reason for attending to be 'my friend told me to come'.

So, there she knelt, bathed in the rude, orange light of the dining area, surrounded on all sides by laughter and idle chatter. The place reeked of food; lovely, liver-rotting junk food that smelt so rich and oily that Hanasaki's stomach stung with longing. It was even worse when they were served, and all of it was laid out on the table. Fries, gyoza, yakitori, sushi, the works, and everyone but Hanasaki wasted no time in digging in. The plate in front of her was blissfully clean, the glow of the lamps overhead making the porcelain gleam yellow.

Hanasaki always enjoyed that feeling of sterility. Whenever she ate anything, she would always cringe at the aftertaste that lingered on her tongue and in the crevices of her molars. It'd become a habit to brush her teeth after any meal, which is also why she barely ate outside of her own home. She relished the sensation of menthol cooling her gums. It made her feel inhumanly hygienic, like she'd just emerged from a surgery that'd somehow fixed whatever was wrong with her.

She lifted her gaze from the table. Around her, she noticed everyone wrapping their fingers around the thick handles of their beer mugs — well, everyone who had been given one. Power seemed much too preoccupied with guarding her chicken to notice her lack of alcohol, and Hanasaki doubted she'd mind anyways.

Hesitantly, she took a hold of her own glass and even made an effort to raise herself slightly from her cushion seat so that she could reach the others mugs. The dull series of clinks and the resounding roar of 'Cheers!' was enough to snap Hanasaki from her stupor. The force of someone's glass bumping against hers made her hand jolt and caused an amber trickle to run down its lip. When everyone placed their beers back down, she watched others swigging their drinks, some even finishing theirs off and swallowing the final dregs. She glanced back at her own; the foam had since dissipated, but it was still embarrassingly full compared to the rest of the table. She was still clutching the handle, and with a trembling forearm she brought the mug to her mouth.

The smell was what hit her first. It had already been a part of the blend of aromas filling the space, but she found it to be a lot worse on its own. It reminded her of when she was younger, when her father would drink in the evenings on his days off. He'd ask her to sit on his knee while he watched television, and before sending her off to bed he'd deliver the gifts he'd picked up for her while he was in Tokyo. They'd always be the type of presents that would've been appropriate a few birthdays ago, but Hanasaki never told him that in case it would make him upset. She would squirm under the bristly kiss he'd give her on the cheek to say good-night, specifically because his breath stank of whiskey.

Her mother also drank, but only after Hanasaki's father's death. She didn't like the whiskey he bought — she never had, insisting it was cheap and therefore bad quality — and instead had red wine that had reminded Hanasaki of blood, rich and thin. It didn't smell as much as her dad's whiskey did, but her mother was always so far away from her when she drank she doubted she'd get even a whiff of alcohol if she was sat right next to her. Her mother didn't talk when she drank. Hanasaki would be doing her homework, or reading a book, and she'd glance up to see her perched on a stool by the dining table in solemn silence, staring at the hazy reflection on the surface of her drink.