drunk words are sober thoughts

No one lived their lives free of shame and regret. Ruìsāng, perhaps, knew these feelings better than many, but after a few tequila shots, the words were lost to him.

In the fog of tequila and forgotten words, Ruìsāng found himself in a bizarre predicament. He was sprawled on a stranger's bed next to a rope, alone in an apartment that wasn’t his. It was the kind of surreal scenario that could kickstart a murder mystery, yet the reality was far more boring as he waited for Mr. Stranger Danger to fetch another round of alcohol.

After firing off a nonsensical text mentioning the rope, he heard the door creak open, and he scrambled up, forcing a grin on his face. This man had been the epitome of dull, but somehow, he looked like he was a good lay.

…

Or so Ruìsāng guessed. It was possible. Who could tell? One moment, he was gearing up to make his move, and the next, he was consoling the man, his head nestled in Ruìsāng’s lap. What was he even crying about?

Arceus, Ruìsāng needed an escape route, and he needed it fast.

And so, Drunk!Ruìsāng executed a disappearing act, pretending to head to the bathroom but snagging the freshly purchased bottle of tequila on his way out. He staggered down the stairs, savouring the liberating touch of the cold night air.

Phone clutched in one hand, bottle in the other, he started texting again...

Only to collide with a stranger.

“Woop!”

And ‘woop’ he went, stumbling into a stranger before abruptly pushing himself back, a bit too forcefully. Too far back, in fact, as he lost his balance and plopped down unceremoniously onto his backside. Lucky for him, there was some cushioning (figuratively, not literally) on the ground; otherwise, that fall might have been a lot more painful.

Red eyes blinked up at the stranger in a drunken surprise. A figure cloaked in black, with long hair cascading down and golden eyes. The drunk man’s priorities were clear: clutching his precious bottle close to his chest was paramount, even amidst his clumsy descent. His phone, however, found itself abandoned on the ground.

“You’re so high,” he observed, his gaze widening as he stared up at the mysterious stranger. His brow furrowed in confusion, but the drunk logic was swift to return. He glanced around, letting out a tipsy giggle, then bent over to retrieve his phone from the ground. Awkwardly, he managed to haul himself back up, wiggling his backside as if trying to shake off the dirt.

“Now lemme tell you s’mthin, yeah?” he slurred, his words slightly muddled. “It ain’t neccessassassarily gonna be fun if they got rope.” He punctuated this statement with an exaggerated nod, as if he'd just shared the most profound wisdom of the century.

Smart.

The other guy looked puzzled, and Ruìsāng couldn’t quite fathom why. He was puzzled too. Why were they both puzzled? Maybe it all made sense, and they were just not catching on. Why was he puzzled again? What had happened? Oh, yes, the ground. Was his bottle okay? Yes, the bottle was fine. He should get up.

After managing to stand and delivering his insightful remark about ropes and fun, the other guy appeared even more perplexed. Ruìsāng just arched an eyebrow, unsure what was unclear about his brilliantly articulate statement. He might be a little drunk, but he knew that ropes usually equaled fun. In this particular case, apparently not. ‘Learn from my mistakes,’ he tried to convey to the other.

The guy asked if he hit his head. Ruìsāng furrowed his brow and shook his head vigorously. “No, just my butt,” he replied with utmost seriousness. Because he hadn’t landed on his head. He’d definitely know if he did. See, he was doing perfectly fine.

“Why are you here?” he wondered, genuine surprise lacing his words, as if the other man shouldn’t be wandering the streets at this ungodly hour– and that was the most astonishing thing that had happened tonight.

Confused, Ruìsāng rubbed his head, genuinely trying to figure out if there was a bump. Maybe the other guy was the one confused? It wouldn’t have surprised him. Ruìsāng felt the need to extend empathy to the other if he was this confused.

Apparently, the guy was embarking on an adventure. Ruìsāng's eyes widened with interest, and he leaned dangerously forward, nearly tipping over. “An adventure?” he echoed. “Count me in!” He’d always wanted to go on an adventure! “We should find a stick,” he declared sagely, like it was the most profound wisdom ever spoken. Every adventurer worth their name had a trusty stick.

“You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, no shit. Tequila has that effect,” Ruìsāng nodded, utterly serious. He was not his mother. He wasn’t an alcoholic. Just incredibly, unbelievably drunk. Getting laid might have been part of the plan too, but well, not everything goes according to plan, right?

Ruìsāng's eyes widened in disbelief. “Never had any?” he echoed incredulously when the other man said he was sure it did. Tequila, to Ruìsāng, was like a rite of passage into the realm of adventurous nights. He couldn't fathom someone missing out on the salty, tangy, fiery experience of a good tequila shot, even if it was the cheap stuff. The whole salt-shot-lime ritual was practically a sacred tradition.

The man's suggestion to find a stick made Ruìsāng smirk. “And why would I search alone?” he retorted, his words slightly slurred but defiant. “The stick would help us both, you see. You could put something in there too.” He gestured dramatically with his bandaged hand, emphasising the point.

“You don’t seem like a very nice adventurer, making me do all the work.” He pouted, feigning offence at the other man's apparent lack of cooperation. How dare he shirk the duties of their joint quest? Ruìsāng was all for fairness, especially when it came to finding a suitable adventurer’s stick.

Ruìsāng let out an exaggerated sigh, his drunken stupor amplifying his sense of amusement at the other's confusion. “No, silly,” he slurred, a drunken grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Not in a stick. On it. Clearly.” He gestured wildly, as if illustrating an invisible stick's surface area. To him, it made perfect sense.

The mention of a name, Qiān, drew a puzzled expression from Ruìsāng. “How many?” he mumbled, trying to grasp the concept, his thoughts swimming in a sea of alcohol. A thousand? A million? What? Servants? The idea of a wealthy companion intrigued him, and a wild thought crossed his mind.  “You’re rich? Do you have a bag?” he asked, envisioning a bottomless bag that could carry all their spoils, far superior to a mere stick..

Yet, a twinge of unease crept in. Adventure with someone wealthy was a dicey proposition. Would they understand the true essence of adventure? Ruìsāng squinted at the stranger, his intoxicated mind trying to comprehend. “What are you?” he wondered.

Ruìsāng's words slurred slightly, his alcohol-laden confidence apparent as he responded to the other's confusion. “You clearly need to watch more movies,” he said, waving a hand dramatically. "In movies, people leave with sticks and stuff attached to them all the time. It's, like, a thing." He nodded emphatically, as if he had just revealed an important truth. Okay. Maybe not in many movies, but he had seen it more than once.

“No need to be rude,” Ruìsāng pouted. “It’s not my fault you name your Pokémon after numbers. You see, mine has an actual name,” he proudly stated, pulling out a Pokéball from his jacket and presenting it as if unveiling a precious gem. Ruìsāng, in his intoxicated state, seemed to forget the social norms about displaying Pokéballs in public. “This is Lìeyàn.”

What was the other? Sober, according to him. “Maybe you should try some,” he suggested, pointing a finger accusingly before nodding sagely. “Loosen up a bit. Live a little. You've got that stick way too far up there, my friend,” he added with a roguish grin. “Not the kind to carry anything.” At least then, the stick would have been useful. Though perhaps he would not want to use an arse-stick.

“Can always come watch a movie with me,” Ruìsāng suggested, his grin widening mischievously as he raised his eyebrows, clearly enjoying the banter. Despite the alcohol, he knew the other would turn him down. See, he thought, even drunk Ruìsāng had some intelligence.

The other said he’d keep his advice in mind, to which Ruìsāng nodded and told him about his own Pokémon, Lìeyàn, who was named after the fire of her personality. It was normal for the other to ask what it was, as Lìeyàn was in her ball, so he enlarged the Pokéball and played with it, his movements surprisingly steady despite the alcohol. “A Mawile,” he answered. “She’s very strong,” he continued, his tone almost reverent. Because he battled. Illegally. Maybe he shouldn’t say that.

When the other said his life was wild enough, Ruìsāng burst out laughing. “You?” he asked. “Please. The wildest thing you’ve probably done is decide between soy or almond milk for your latte,” he quipped.

“No? How surprising,” Ruìsāng sarcastically hummed, when the other turned down his invitation for a movie. The guy didn't strike him as the outgoing type, not the sort to enjoy a night out watching movies with friends. Ruìsāng's alcohol-fueled confidence made him quite the character judge, or so he believed.

The stranger confessed his ignorance about Mawiles, and Ruìsāng's drunken mind provided a straightforward description. “Difficult, feisty,” he stated, his words punctuated by a drunken hiccup.  “Bite hard,” he added after a moment of reflection, a chuckle escaping him as he remembered the pain of his own encounter with Mawile's teeth.

The stranger's remark drew a sly smile from Ruìsāng. “Am I wrong?” he challenged, his tone daring. “Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll eat the words. But I feel like I might not be. I know my people,” he boasted, his words laced with drunken confidence. His ability to handle sticks, among other things, was just an added bonus.

Sarcastically, the stranger commented on Mawiles, to which Ruìsāng simply shrugged, his words slurring slightly as he replied. “A bit of spice has never hurt anyone,” he confessed. “If I wanted my Pokémon to be a lap dog, I’d get a Bulbasaur.” Even in his intoxicated state, Ruìsāng was ready to defend his choice of Pokémon, a testament to the importance of his companions in his life. Though the Mawile hadn’t exactly been a choice. It didn’t matter.

The stranger insisted he was wrong, his tone carrying an undertone of offense that Ruìsāng found amusing. “You don’t have much experience with tequila. You’re out here by yourself. And… you know? Vibes,” he summed up intelligently. It was hard to think very hard about it in his current state of drunkenness, but to him it made a lot of sense.