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Maybe Chris was right. Maybe he was just making another mistake like he always did apparently, maybe it wasn't worth drinking himself to death, maybe he should just be a Good Boy and sit down and let himself get herded around because that's what he was good at, wasn't it, following people and letting them push him around as they pleased because he was such a pitiful doormat, maybe he should just stop pretending getting hammered made him feel better and stop harassing random women.

Or maybe Chris was being a gigantic a*****e.

He dropped his arms to his aides and balled his hands into fists as Chris took over, feeling his temper begin to rise. "********' hyp'crite," Dawson growled as he turned to him, face turning ruddy. "Yer right, we ain' playin' tha' game. You don' getta say in wha' I do just like I didn' get a say'n yers, so git out. Stop touchin' mah stuff n' git yer country a** out, 'cuz it ain' my got-damn problem you mad 'bout watcha see." He started the internal countdown of ten seconds.

Syn rallied for a fight, and that was enough to tell him it was a bad idea even beyond the haze in his head. But he still couldn't look at Chris without feeling the distinct urge to punch his lights out. So instead, Dawson spat off to the side, rumbled something unintelligible, and then turned to go back to what part of his room hadn't yet been touched by Mr. Clean. He plopped with a grunt into a thicket of blankets lying atop one of several bean bag chairs and tried not to look pitiful as he curled up on it and stared at his lamp.

He heaved a large sigh, and most of the tension left his body with it. "Ain' no helpin' me," he murmured. "Ain' nuthin' t'fix. Cain't fix stupid, dontcha know."

"Nobody," he replied because that was easier to say. It had never been just one person but in fact a systematic reinforcement over the course of less than two decades. "Look, man, les hash this out later, 'cuz I," he started fishing in his pocket for his phone, "got some chick comin' over ferrr..." After several attempts to unlock his phone he finally made it and was able to read the name at the top of his most recent text.

Beat.

"...Yeeeeup," he finished, popping the P. Dawson sounded even more defeated if that were possible. The phone fell out of his hands, hit the blankets, and slid to the ground. His complexion was attempting to find a new color worse than drunk red or angry red, some awful combination of both mixed in with a s**t ton of ******** embarrassed red. "Should've figured." He started to tuck himself into a ball to hide his face, because if Chris couldn't see it then Chris couldn't exist in his room.

He curled up tighter. "Sawry," he mumbled, his thick voice cracking. He wished he could forget. Maybe if Chris hadn't taken all his drinks...No, not even then. This was worse than embarrassing, but he couldn't think of the right word. Could he possibly squeeze himself to death? He was half-tempted to find out. God only knew how he was going to look at this when he was sober.

Fumbling, Dawson peeled his hat off to cover his face, inhaling the familiar scent of oily hair and sweat permanently etched into its make.

His phone was still on the ground, and he had no intention of picking it up anytime soon. Dawson's hat was pried off with significant effort, but like his anger before, the resistance eventually just gave in. He gave his hand an empty look and looked close to crying, though he was doing his very best not to. Sobbing into Claude's shoulder was one thing; subjecting Christ to more awkwardness wouldn't do anyone any good.

"Yeah s'bad," he sighed quietly. "Should be better th'n this. Drunk dialin' fer comp'ny ain' mah style..." Dawson rubbed at his eyes and blinked blearily; they were still red, but at least they weren't so glassy now. "You got somewhere t'be?"

"s**t. Sawry." He didn't suppose he could say that enough to get rid of the guilt?

Huffing, Dawson forced himself to sit up and groaned as his head started up a dull ache. He really wished Chris hadn't cut off his supply so soon. "I was gonna say I got Die Hard on rent from a guy if ya wanted t'watch," he said, "but ya gotta sleep, bro. Y'look as shitty's me." He reached out to poke an arm to prove his point. "What'd ya'll do anyway?"

He tried to make a low whistle and ended up just blowing air through puckered lips several times. "Ya'll goin' Indie n' Lauren Crofter?" he asked in a slur as he attempted to get to his feet. It wasn't working very well. "These things do anythin'?"