"Here's an idea," Childe hummed, mouth open and full of chips, "What if you talked about your feelings instead of drowning them in alcohol."
"You're funny," Scaramouche deadpanned, making eye contact with Childe as he drained another cup, "Close your mouth when you chew."
"If you say so," Childe muses, slowly inching the bottle away from Scaramouche.
Scara stared down at the empty cup, crumpling the plastic in his fist as he felt his mind go hazy.
"I'll start," Childe continues, eyeing the now ruined cup, "I'm homesick."
Scara raises a brow, "Really? That sucks. I hate going home for break."
"Just spend it with mine!"
"Your brother painted my face when I was asleep last year."
"It was funny, I told him to do it!"
"It was a penis."
"My point exactly."
Scara opens his mouth to tell Childe to shut up but he felt an incoming headache throbbing behind his eyes. He tries to make move to get up and go to bed, but he can't find the energy to move himself.
Instead he stays seated, eyes boring into the floor.
For a brief second, he lets himself believe the pain was gone.