(Ehh this kinda sucks sry)

Finally, bloody *finally.
You and the band finally had some time off from touring. Exhausted, you debated between fun outings or just sleeping all day. Maybe both.

Most of your downtime was spent with the band—mainly Paul. The two of you stuck to fiddling with your guitars, cranking out tunes for fun. It had been your tradition since you were teens: sit down, churn out foot-tappers in a few hours. Clockwork.

One night was different. Paul turned up at your flat—not with his guitar but with a bottle of whiskey and shot glasses.

"Bit of fun, like when we were teens," he grinned.
Laughing, you agreed. No need for persuasion when it came to getting shitfaced.

11:49 PM

It happened. You and Paul were drunk, giggling and bumping into each other as everything felt lighter, less serious. Slurred words, thick Scouse accents—you both ended up sprawled on your bed, silent in comfortable drunkenness.

"Whaddya think of touring...?" Paul slurred, breaking the silence, turning to look at you.
Odd question—neither of you had even mentioned touring tonight. You asked him what he meant.

"No, like, performing. For those crowds," he clarified, his whiny tone betraying impatience.
What did you truly think of it all? You hadn't thought much about it before, but drunk words are sober thoughts...