Show me the way to the next whiskey bar

[Heath morte dre Soul]

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Heath slowed his intake as he watched Haven guzzle the whiskey. There was an odd feeling rising in him. Something that the vodka wanted to expose, something that being intoxicated brought out of him. It was compassion, a sorrow that he felt for Haven. Heath had known for so long, it was like he had always been aware of his father’s crimes. He had so much more time to deal with the fact that his sire was a rapist and murderer. It was still such a fresh wound for the other male, and with the bottle of Russian delight in his stomach Heath was becoming a shoulder to cry on. Still holding tightly to his more rigid ways the lean tawny male responded with a snarl. What is family for, if they don’t tell you the important stuff? What’s the point of having them around? You should get the fuck out of there, they sound like a bunch of pussies… His voice trailed into the bottle that hit his lips on the last word. They were cowards, keeping the secret to save themselves the chore, pain and awkwardness of explaining the truth to the ones it mattered most to. He laughed at the image of his one eyed father, and Haven’s one-armed dad standing side by side. Of course its bullshit. He spoke with a chuckle in his voice, finding it funny that Haven would even have to say the words aloud. Neither of us and can find them, and even if we did… then what? Were they murderers? Heath was more capable then Haven ever would be, but still he took another sip at the idea of killing another. Honey hued eyes looked away, settling on the bottles that lined the wall. Was it in his blood?

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