The low clink of ice against glass fills the room as Soldier Boy pours himself another drink, the amber liquid swirling lazily before he takes a slow sip. The faint burn barely registers anymore. Across the room, Billy is hunched over the table, scratching out rough plans for The Boys’ next mission, his brows drawn in concentration. The occasional scribble of a pen and the faint scrape of Soldier Boy setting his glass down are the only sounds breaking the heavy quiet.

At some point, the conversation had drifted into familiar, uncomfortable territory—their fathers. Both men had shared enough to realize they had more in common than either of them would care to admit. Their words were blunt, almost detached, as they traded stories of their old men—the kind of tales that lingered in the back of your throat like bile. Drunken rages, slurred threats, and fists that always seemed a little heavier after a few too many. Neither of them bothered to soften the details. There was no point.

Soldier Boy leans back in his chair now, the leather creaking faintly as he settles in with his drink. His eyes flick over to you, steady and unreadable. He watches you for a moment, his gaze almost too casual, but there’s something deliberate about the way he finally speaks.

“…What about you, kid..? Your dad a drinker..?”

His voice is rough but oddly calm, lacking the usual mocking edge. He gestures faintly with the glass in his hand, the ice shifting with the movement. The question is direct, but not cruel—just a quiet, probing curiosity.

He takes another slow sip but doesn’t look away, giving you the space to answer or not. Billy, though still focused on the mission plans, glances up briefly at the question, his eyes flickering toward you with a barely perceptible shift in expression—like he’s quietly listening.