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In another time, Gil might've mumbled something about the umbrella not being the pressing issue, and that he didn't really go in for girly drinks, and could you see i-i-if there was anything else? It's not that time, and he takes it, only a flick of his eyes betraying judgment. He looks at the umbrella. "Hah."
Then he plucks it out, stakes it into the ground like a banner, and downs the drink. Downs it! Like a shot! You didn't have a chance to ask if he wanted to do it together, or tell him that it was more of a sipping-type drink, or inquire if his alcohol tolerance has increased at all since two or three years ago— all things you could've possibly maybe done. It's just gone, drained, and Gil sets the empty glass next to the umbrella.
For a second, your respect rises: he doesn't spit it out or vomit or anything, even though you know exactly how it feels going down. Then he sputters a bit, and you decide to reserve your opinion. He snorts. He blinks a lot, and opens his mouth to touch the roof of it. He has grown suddenly alarmingly pink. So far so expected.
He keeps blinking, though, and stretching his face in funny ways, and he's planted his palm on the ground as if to keep balance. He's definitely slumping more than he was. Hmm. Did the icebox actually have ice in it? The drinks didn't go bad? The jungle fumes didn't corrupt...
"Am I drunk?" Gil manages.
"What?" You make to scoff, but end up tittering. "Gilbert! Geez! You're not that much of a— I mean, I know you're a wimpy drinker, and you drank that really fast, but— they're not <span class="mu-i">that</span> strong. I mean, they're... they're pretty strong, but they don't just... the alcohol has to be absorbed, or something like that. Right? And that takes at least a couple minutes! I think you're just—"
"I did absorb it." He does sound a little drunk. (But he sounded drunk before this, so.)
You swirl your glass. "I mean... maybe a little? Maybe you're a tiny bit tipsy? Or more than a tiny bit... but not <span class="mu-i">drunk.</span> Don't freak yourself out, or you'll feel worse!"
"No, no. No, I..." He waves a hand around his face. "I... I don't think I... swallowed it."
"Yeah! You just chugged it straight down! You have to be careful about that." You put your hand on your hip. "Maybe you were feeling crummy, but you don't want to puke, okay? If you have to puke, can you do it behind the tree?"
"I don't need to puke. Um, I... um... I think Pat said... goo."
"She says a lot about goo, Gil."
"No, I... she said it absorbed things. Uh. Liquids."
...Oh! Oh, no. "You don't mean—"
"I think it all went to my head... uh... through my mouth?" More vague gesturing. "I think I'm drunk. Very... efficient."
"Sorry."
"You didn't do shit, I... I mean, she told me... I didn't put it together. Uh. I'm not that drunk. I'm not going to piss my pants, or... I can walk okay. I don't think I'm saying my words all fucked-up yet?"
Kind of? He sounds different, but he's not slurring particularly hard. "Uh, it could be worse."
(3/4)