The only other tradition that was better than eggnog to Al, was that of mistletoe.
It’s February in Central. There’s nothing better to do.
If Al could have frowned suspiciously, he would have. Instead he relied on his expressive vocal stylings as he propped his brother upright. “What’s in that glass, Brother?”
Well, it sure looks like the rumors were true about Wednesday nights, Ed thought, easing inconspicuously along the edges of the room. But I never knew so many soldiers were gay.
He hadn't asked Hughes to follow him to this place.
"I was your mother once," Dante told him with an air of great drunken magnanimity one evening.
The first time was not a night of magic or fireworks, not something dreams were made of, not something that either of them planned on repeating again.
Ed was normally a cheerful, friendly drunk, thank goodness, but the slightest hint of reproach or anger on Al's part would send Ed into a crashing depression.
Of course, the jar was really the professional female companionship fund; or, as Ed liked to sarcastically call it, the pussy kitty.
But they were no longer young, and they no longer lived together, and Al wouldn't embarrass his brother in front of their hosts by trying to take care of him.