[ while freddie might be drunk enough to say what he's saying, cassidy isn't drunk enough to hear them. he's not drunk at all. he's actually never felt more sober than he does right now.

it's not that he hasn't talked openly about himself to a few people here and there, when it fit the flow of the conversation. but he hasn't had anyone cut to the heart of him without him offering anything first. maybe that's not true. maybe he's been offering parts to freddie since he met him. or maybe freddie's just that perceptive. either way, he feels exposed. found out.

freddie didn't ask a question, so cassidy doesn't feel obliged to give an answer. he doesn't say that he's been lost for as long as he's been at sea. he doesn't say that there are only a few people that make him feel less hollow, and freddie might be one of them. he doesn't say that he's afraid to go back. he doesn't say that he's tired tired tired.

what he says is: ]

Drink makes you prattle more than usual, though I'd not thought it possible. [ he blows out a breath, wiping at another spot of blood. then, he admits, quietly, ] Aye, but perhaps there's truth in it.

[ with that, he removes the last of the glass pieces that he can get with his fingers. ]

Now, don't stir.

[ he eases away from freddie and maneuvers back to the bed, where he left the rest of the supplies he brought. the one he brings back to the dresser now is a bottle, half-empty. if freddie really thought it couldn't hurt much worse, cassidy is about to challenge that. taking hold of freddie's wrist again, he removes the gauze he already placed on the one cut and pours the bottle's contents, which smell like whiskey, over freddie's hand. ]