MCA #4, Sunday Morning

There was a mostly-naked man shaped like Atton sitting on the sofa in his underwear. He was surrounded by many empty bottles of booze - almost all of Atton's entire collection, in fact - and he was squinting up at the ceiling like it meant something.

It did not, but he'd been drinking too much to figure that one out.

Eventually he moved, sending several bottles crashing to the ground; that made him burst out laughing.

Then trip, fall over, shout out a curse in French before following it up with a question as to the whereabouts of the cocaine that should've really been under the sofa. Just for clarity, he tacked on the same question in English, albeit so heavily accented the words were hard to make out.

"Where the fuck is my cocaine?"

He eventually made it back to the liquor cabinet. Eventually.

It was kinda a toss-up whether Atton'd be relieved tomorrow morning that he never made it out the door, or angry because he'd be out of drinks. But right now, Xavier didn't give a flying shit.

[[ establishy since i'm on eurotrip, but i had to. she made me. ]]