If he thought about it, Dylan would have to realize that he actually hadn’t thrown that suit away. He wasn’t sentimental, and that wasn’t something that he would want to bloody hold onto if he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to toss what he had worn to Luvinia’s funeral. It was a reminder of just what he’d lost, which he needed to keep him grounded, in a sense. He hadn’t kept much else of hers, after all, as he’d gone straight to Scotland soon afterwards. Bloody hell, that entire damn time back then was practically like a blur at this point, and although he would happily forget walking down the street of Diagon Alley to see his fiancé dead on the street while Aurors cordoned off the area, that apparently was something that was going to stick with him. Everything else was fading away, which was both good and bad. How he had been in Scotland afterward wasn’t something that he wanted to remember, though it did remind him that he needed to contact his family and see how they were doing. It had been going on a month since he’d spoken to them last—if not longer; Dylan did have a break from work now that the Hebridean was gone, and he supposed he could always make a visit. Merlin knew how much they tore into him for never coming up there.

As his thoughts continued to wander, he realized that now wasn’t the best time to be pondering his family and when he should be seeing them. It was an idea to consider, obviously, but even he wasn’t bloody rude enough to ignore his friend in the middle of a damn conversation. “Not quite there yet,” he said, dryly. His alcohol tolerance was a bit better than his friend’s, obviously; he had both height, weight, and more experience on him, after all. He realized that ignoring might have been the better bet only a few moments later. The conversation had taken a turn that he hadn’t been expecting. Dylan shrugged, taking a long gulp of his firewhiskey. “My sister’s not married,” he said instead, figuring that the bloke would be too busy getting to his desired level of intoxication to realize that Dylan had hardly even answered the question. Kyla wasn’t married, though, so that was technically the truth, though he really had no bloody idea if she was even dating anyone. It was as though he hadn’t realized just how long it had been since he’d really talked to any of them.

Plenty of the dragon breeds were getting close to extinction, to an extent. It wasn’t like there were thousands roaming around all over the world, and to most people, the creatures were certainly nearing on going extinct. There were actually some breeds that had quite a high number remaining, and what was considered high in the eyes of a dragon keeper was different than most people would consider it. But Ironbellies were ones that were actually in danger, and if Ryder could actually make use of his ministry position, that would be a benefit of him working in the monotonous place. “Good bloody luck with that,” he grumbled under his breath. Dylan didn’t need to meet the Minister to know that he disliked the man; anyone who disliked purebloods to the level that he did had some issues, as Durant obviously blamed them for everything. Dylan wished that he could blame his wife’s death on him, but he hadn’t even been in office yet. Luvinia’s death had been one of the very first of a pureblood, before they had even realized that there were people out there specifically targeting purebloods.

The bloke was thinking about the bint he’d seen at St. Mungo’s; Dylan didn’t have to even glance at him for more than a moment to see that. Ryder always managed to amuse Dylan, particularly because it was entertaining giving him shit, and this was a situation that he was gaining an incredible amount of satisfaction from. Not every bloke shagged around like Dylan did, but most knew how to ask out a bint by Ryder’s age. But the man seemed confused, or something ridiculous, and that was something that Dylan was going to have to find out more about. It would be too bloody funny not to. “She looked nice,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Hopefully you give better damn compliments than that,” Dylan said, shaking his head. Bints all needed a good compliment from time-to-time and he couldn’t recall the last occurrence where ‘you look nice’ had ever come out of Dylan’s mouth. Maybe Ryder had just kept that particular thought to himself. If Dylan had even doubted that the man was distracted by his thoughts of this mysterious bint, then he no longer was as he watched his friend down the rest of his glass of firewhiskey. “So did you ask the bint out, or not?” Dylan asked, grinning at Ryder’s statement. If he was getting close to that point, then he was getting to the point where Dylan could get amusing information out of him.

It wasn’t really a secret that Ryder Dawson didn’t hold his alcohol well. Sure, he was fairly athletic build wise, but he was still a bit on the smaller side for a man. He sure as hell wasn’t some burly man that could down a lot of liquid courage with no consequence. No, instead, it only took a few heavy drinks to knock him on his ass. There had been many nights where he had tried to drink with the best of them, only to find himself in need of assistance getting home or even standing up. Perhaps it was best for both Dylan and Ryder himself that he was getting pretty damn well near reaching that point. He was easily forgetting things they had been conversing about. Maybe he would make for good entertainment, or at least be let off the hook for any stupid intoxication-induced thing he may say.

Dylan appeared to be a man that was probably stronger than Ryder in many ways. One of those ways was his ability to maintain sobriety better than the ministry worker. It was really unsurprising that Ryder was damn near shit-faced while Grier seemed perfectly fine. I bet the bastard’s more drunk than he lets on. However, the dragon keeper stated that he was nowhere near drunk or even tipsy. Ryder envied the man. Wait, why am I jealous of him again? The firewhiskey was starting to consume his mind. His memory began to slip. Why is Dylan bringing up his sister? Is he telling me she’s single because he thinks I should date her. Not only did the poor former Gryffindor forget the topic of their conversation, but it seemed that his own drunkenness had caused him to forget how to converse completely. The filter that deemed what was appropriate to say and what wasn’t appeared to have completely broken. “Wait, why is your sister single? Should she be single? If sober, the young man would have realized just how truly ignorant and stupid he sounded asking such questions, but in a time where his judgment was clouded, it seemed like perfect discussion.

Ryder’s near state of annoyance brought out some of the worst in him. He could be one of those fun-loving drunks that is always remembering the good times. He suddenly felt so happy to be drinking with one of his good buddies. In his inebriated state, he did his best to recall old memories of his dragon keeping days with the blonde man currently with him. Boy did they see it all. He wouldn’t trade those days for anything. Seeing those majestic beasts up close, spending day in and day out with them. Some could be sweet as honey while others were the biggest bastards he ever laid eyes on, but he didn’t regret any moment of it. He would save them all if he could. None of them deserved to die. The man was suddenly overcome with great sadness. Grier was wishing him luck in his endeavors to save the wonderful beasts. It had to be done. Maybe it was the liquid courage talking, but damn if Ryder wasn’t motivated to set a plan in place. He had no idea what he would do, but perhaps he would when his mind was clear.

Normally, when there wasn’t liquor in the way, the brunette could avoid being roped in to talking about things he certainly was trying to avoid discussing. Unfortunately, tonight was far from normal. Ryder had expected this. There was a strong part of him that wanted to talk about Alex, but some prideful part of him that couldn’t allow himself to admit that he was inadequate in some areas prevented this. Naturally, he was expecting that some booze could loosen him up. Now that it had, he was unsure if he was ready, but what better person to discuss it with that Grier? He was an easygoing, fun man that would probably give him shit, but at least Ryder would be too drunk to care. If he was lucky enough, maybe Grier could offer wisdom equivalent to that of the sages and Ryder would be fortunate to remember in his hungover state that was bound to come.

The man gave a sloppy laugh with his friend. He knew any woman would want more than just being told they looked nice. Hell, if I looked pretty, I would want someone to tell me. “Maybe I’d give better compliments if I was given better compliments. C’mon Dylan, don’t you think I look ravishing,” Ryder tried to do some sort of sexy pose, but ended up just looking like a sloppy, snickering mess. “And for the record, good sir,” he paused as he tried to steady his elbows onto the bar that was way closer to him than he believed it to be, “I didn’t have to ask her. She asked me. So take that and put it a pipe and smoke it. Wait, do you smoke a pipe?”

As he had suspected, Ryder was getting drunk enough to hardly even remember what they were talking about. That worked out quite well when he had just asked a question that ventured into territories that he normally didn’t talk about. If the bloke had been even a bit more sober, Dylan could have predicted just how many damn questions he would have been asked until he finally probably told him about Luvinia—and no one knew about her in what he vaguely considered his ‘new life.’ Ever since returning from Scotland, he’d made friends that knew nothing about his life before moving back. They knew a bit about how he had spent time in Scotland, but no one really knew anything about him prior to that. It wasn’t as if he was hiding it, he just didn’t want to dwell on it, or bring it up in conversation when he was doing a hell of a job at attempting to move on from that.

He laughed at the man asking about his sister, taking a long gulp of his firewhiskey. That had been an incredibly affective way to switch the topic, apparently, though really, anything probably would have worked at that point. The firewhiskey was doing its job in, well, making Ryder drunk, obviously. “Couldn’t tell you why she’s single—she’s all independent and shit,” he replied, shrugging. Really, the answer to that question was pretty inconsequential, because Ryder wasn’t even going to remember it. That worked out quite well, since he wouldn’t even recall talking about suits and why he was wearing them… hell, Dylan really didn’t know what point in this conversation was going to be the cut-off for what Ryder remembered. He did seem to go from zero to drunk pretty damn quickly, amusingly enough. It was incredibly humorous to him when Ryder got drunk, and he felt it was his damn duty to stay sober enough to enjoy it. After all, who would give him shit about it the next day, otherwise? Besides, although he enjoyed drinking, Dylan didn’t feel the need to drink to get absolutely intoxicated anymore.

Dylan raised an eyebrow at his friend, chuckling under his breath. He always did forget that Ryder’s alcohol tolerance was absolute shit. Perhaps it was the Scot in him, but Dylan found it took a bloody lot to get him drunk. He supposed he was both taller and weighed more than Ryder did, which meant that the younger man would certainly never beat him in any kind of contest involving drinking—or picking up women, apparently, if he ever made that ridiculous face in public. “Maybe you’d get more compliments if you never made that face again,” he suggested, still laughing. It was lucky that Ryder lived in the same apartment building as him, so it would be absolutely nothing to get the bloke home, though he supposed he’d probably help him out regardless. “The bint asked you out? Fucking Merlin, Ryder, you need more game,” he stated, shaking his head. Dylan had no damn clue that Ryder was apparently a bloody novice when it came to women. “And I don’t smoke a bloody pipe,” Dylan added, before getting to his feet, “Now, I should get you home before you pass out on the damn bar, so can you bloody well handle walking out the damn door?” Dylan didn’t mind helping his friend in the slightest, even though someone who didn’t know him might think otherwise due to the amount he was cursing—but that was just bloody well how he talked, really.

To any random outsider, it didn’t take a genius to see that Ryder Dawson was three sheets to the wind. Ryder on the other hand would argue that he felt perfectly well. Despite not being able to remember shit. He was probably just tired. Surely, it had nothing to do with the copious amount of alcohol he just consumed. The man surely couldn’t be done for the night. Especially when his comrade seemed completely fine. Some part of him distantly remembered that Dylan always seemed to hold his alcohol better, but that couldn’t be true. Ryder was in the prime of his life. He was invincible. Surely, one more drink wouldn’t hurt. He sloppily ordered another drink. The bartender gave an uneasy look before handing the poor lad another drink. Ryder ignored this and thanked the bartender profusely for his hard work.

He took another huge gulp and heard Dylan speak of some woman. Who is he talking about again? Ryder tried his damnest to remember, but unfortunately, the alcohol had completely clouded his mind. It must have been someone Dylan was trying to set up for him. Why else would they be talking about some single woman. “How can I date her if she likes to be independent? Not your best idea, Grierer,” he said slurring the man’s name unintentionally. It seemed to him that if he was going to be chasing after a woman, he would like for her to be a bit open to the idea before being shot down. “Besiiiiides, I gotta figure out what’s going on with Alexxx,” he managed to say, drawing out the words more than need be.

Before he knew it,the firewhiskey in the glass he just ordered had disappeared. “Bloody hell, someone must have been stealing my drink. Ain’t a way in hell I drank that all allllready.” The man was actually correct in his statement. Truth was, most of it had been sloshed all over the bar and his shirt because he couldn’t manage to sit up straight. Dylan said something about a face he made, and any hopes of him being able to recall what face he made were slim. “What face? I ain’t making no faces at you,” the ministry worker said defensively. He laughed at the man. Of course, he could still remember Alex. Even in his intoxicated stint he couldn’t get her off his mind. “What do you mean I need more game? Sounds to me like I got plenty. The women are running to me!” He threw his arms back as he said this and his drunken ass fell completely off his bar stool. Perhaps I am a bit more drunk than I believe myself to be. Had Dylan suggested they leave any sooner, Ryder may have fought the idea. However, now that he had found himself on the floor, it was rather difficult for him to find any justification to stay. “Let’s hope I can handle walking better than I can sitting,” he said as he struggled to get up. Once he finally found his balance, he turned to Dylan and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You’re a great friend, mate. Looking out for me and shit. Remind me of this when I am sober.” Ryder wobbled with great difficulty to the door. Thankfully, Dylan and him lived in the same apartment so he would be supervised on the journey home.


*****END OF THREAD*****