- Drinking alone held a very different connotation for most people. Cups and mugs and flasks full of various concoctions: the legitimate ones like butterbeer, whiskey, gin, cider, vodka. Other things, brewed up in seconds or carefully created with the skill of an alchemist, like a potion specifically devoted to getting oneself utterly pissed. Thoughts came to mind of swirling alcohol and swirling minds, laying on one's back and watching the ceiling float. Stumbling, tripping and mixed-up words that say things they never meant, or maybe things they meant but never thought they could say. Emotions running rampant, fists too-happy to fly, or lovestruck flirts becoming drowned in their passion and sneaking off for some night of whatever they wished to do to eachother.
For Moth Skelton, drinking alone referred only to a bowl of soup.
He held the bowl with both hands, treating the tomato soup that dwelled within like a hot water bottle. It warmed his hands, kept his fingers from frosting over as the wintery cold began to seep into the castle. Charms aside, Hogwarts was still only stone in Scotland: two things not known for their warmth. Sometimes, there would be a spoon involved, but right now Moth preferred to drink from his bowl straight to his lips. It seemed warmer that way, like he was clearing his lungs of the to-come frost and putting a fire back in his belly that he so often missed. Soup to most, of course, was just that: just soup. To Moth, soup was one thing that he adored. You could make it from anything, and it was perfect for any weather; any warmth.
Perhaps it was the warmth that lightened his heart on that cold evening; or perhaps it was the ever-presence paranoia that sprung from Halloween. It had changed him, of course, for this past week since the event. It was something he'd simultaneously put too much and not nearly enough thought into. He had been here; in boggart form yet nonetheless him. It stuck in the back of Moth's mind no matter what he did, no matter where he went or who he spoke to. Fighting had become boring since the boggart attack, and punching people seemed to have lost it's charm for the moment. Surely it would resurface, but right now he just wanted to be alone. Or not quite alone - with very specific people. Strangely enough, he found his mind pointing towards Nechtan.
Nechtan was someone Moth very rarely found himself wanting to be around, if ever, and when fate happened to spin them towards one another it ended in nasty words or an extra bruise on one or the other of the two boys; or occasionally both. Despite their rocky relationship and seemingly endless grievances with one another, Moth found himself sending out owls to the McMahon middle child and requesting his company, in some sort of roundabout way. In an even more surprising turn of events, Nechtan had agreed; and so a friendship-date-soup-thing had been arranged.
The waiting turned Moth's stomach into knots: what if Nechtan never came? That would be embarassing, of course; making Moth seem like some little crushing schoolgirl asking someone just to talk to her. But it seemed that Nechtan's appearance would also be just as humiliating: why should Moth have to rely on some stupid fifth year to make himself feel less alone? Maybe it was the fact that he'd barely slept these past weeks, and the darkened signs of sleep loss in the bags of his eyes showed that fact more than clearly. Dreaming lay the path for nightmares, and Moth wasn't ready for something like that for a while yet. For now, we was happy being tired and full of soup. That was all anybody needed, right?
Bitten fingernails tapped against the bowl with a clink, clink, clink.
[ wearing ]
(permanent language/abuse mention warning: moth swears a lot when angry;
and he often references his abusive childhood in his inner monologue)