George subtly shifts his numbing arm as he swipes at the other man. It shouldn’t hurt, except Josh sometimes doesn’t realize his own strength, so it hurts a lot. Josh reaches over and punches him in the arm. “You guys are the best I could get for my birthday? Oh man, my life is tragic.” George snorts, glancing around at the motley assembly of the three friends who make up his “party”-Matt with his hair mussed, Alex hanging half off his barstool, and Josh slamming another empty shot glass on the table. “An hour late,” interjects Josh, like this is a point of extreme incredulity. “Come on, jerks, quit harping on me just because I got here late.” He can take a joke as well as the next guy, but after the day he’s had he’d prefer a little sympathy. George wipes the tears from his eyes before narrowing them at his friends. “Keep this up and you might catch up with us!” “One more down the hatch!” Matt exclaims. Tears pool at the corners of his eyes he blinks them away to the sound of his friends’ raucous laughter. He slams the shot glass on the table and sputters, struggling to breathe past the burning in his throat. It’s sheer force of will that keeps George from choking, even though he’s sure what he’s drinking has got to be at least half ethanol, half nail polish remover. Bitter alcohol runs down his throat, burning like liquid fire.
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