"We've got apple and we've got kiwi-lime."

In the kitchen he can breathe easier, can take a moment outside the line of Charlie's sight to bring a hand to his neck, unconsciously, to rub away the memory of heat and constriction and pain. He wills his knees to stop shaking. The whisky is going to his head already, making him feel light and ever so slightly skeptical of the floor's ability to stay in the same place beneath his feet.