" unlike some, i do not let my addictions consume me. " // listen, one day, when i get off my ass, i'll reply to that starter ya wrote me bc i'm still gay for it
a singular feeling: rage. the tightening of muscles along his shoulders and torso, the closing of already-half-lidded eyes in some form of minor restraint. his half-finished glass    (   his fourth that night.    )   made a soft clink as he haphazardly dropped it to the surface of the bar he sat at and both hands turn into fists.perhaps one day heâd get over his addictions, get over his anger issues.   (   he was too much like raven when it came to that. it made him sick in the stomach and ache everywhere.   )   today was not the day, sadly.  today was a day to stay in the bar and wash away his sorrows with a neat glass of bourbon. until the inevitable came-- an interruption.  normally heâd glance in their direction, though on the rare occasion of qrow branwen being in a particularly bad mood, the commentator would receive a reaction that was much more than they intended. he had self control, yes, when it came to children, to ruby, to yang, to his friends-- not to strangers in the bar who had a snide fucking comment. he wished that the world was a lot better than it was.    (   he wished raven was so much more wrong than she was.    )    he wished for a lot of things. right now he wished for this stranger to shut the fuck up and go away. heâs glad, however, that the words do not leave his lip. he accepts his momentary unbridled and unchecked anger and hopes for a better alternative for what was most definitely going to be the end outcome of this conversation.the sad truth of it all was that SOMEONE ALWAYS HAD SOMETHING TO SAY. and qrow was usually the one on the chopping block.what he does not expect, of course, is that johann is the one to say such a thing. addiction is not a choice he makes anymore. sure, those twenty years ago he chose to drink and drink until he couldnât stop drinking, but now it was a necessity. he feared every day that if he did not, he very well might die. it was his clutch, and on some days it felt like the only thing that kept him sane-- that kept him grounded. someone had been that anchor once, though he dared not even think her name.the white fang lieutenant is the last face heâd thought to see in a shit-hole bar like this.    (    heâd always seemed like a club kinda guy, anyway.   )   i guess miracles do happen. the concept of miracles tended to dissipate when the huntsman came âround. johann, who takes the seat beside him, sits tall while qrow seems to shrink in his seat, half-drunk and more numb than heâs been in a few weeks. the huntsmanâs slouch is replaced with the buffing-out of his barreled chest, face contorted with a look of pure anger. he feels the rage vibrate within him until he canât hold it in anymore.the words come bubbling out of him in a drunk spill. his anger however seems to sober him up slightly, and his words sound relatively coherent. at least to him they do.  â  and i, unlike some, know when to hold my fucking tongue and when to let it loose.  â  he pauses, only for effect and to push himself up against the bar.  â  if you got somethinâ to say pretty boy, say it to my face and use my fucking name. we canât all be perfect like you, in case you were wondering. unless you plan to spit more fightinâ words at me, get the fuck out of my face. â
