A red plastic cup was fixated to Toby's hand. Already he'd been through two refills of beer. As he drained the dregs of the second, he imagined his pessimistic younger brother, Nick, telling him all the things that were wrong with the world-- that this very cup would end up in a landfill or in an ocean or something, taking ages to rot, more than a memory but a semi-permanent fixture. Do better, be better-- he needed a third to drown that voice, ever encroaching. Not tonight.
Toby snapped to attention as a hand clapped his shoulder, his bubble of cyclical thoughts popping, relief spreading across his cheeks as he recognized Noah's voice. Where beer failed him, his best friend never did. "Always," he said with a huge grin, holding up his cup in a sort of toast. Then he tipped it back and chugged it fast, both in an effort to chase these persistent blues away and start a dick-measuring contest. Everyone knew, after all, that it was the easiest way to prove one's manhood.
A gaggle of girls came into the house and Toby's gaze followed, eyebrow lifting. "I'm sure gonna miss this," he said to Noah, even as he tried to contain these feelings. So much for being macho. Embarrassed of even acknowledging such a feeling aloud, he shook his head, cheeks tinging pink. "Have we got any harder liquor in the back? Shit-- have you got anything on you?" Weed often made him paranoid, but he was willing to try anything to clear his head.