They had been drinking for god-knows how long when Vergil finally sputtered, coughed, and promptly threw up all over the table.
"Jesus!" the tipsy half-demon roared, standing up, sensitive nose scrunched up in disgust. "What the fuck, man!"
"I feel ill," Vergil informed Dante soberly, and tumbled to the floor. A groan emerged from the ground.
"Verge," Dante peered down at his elder. "You're shitfaced."
"Kill me," the fallen man pronounced morosely. "P-puh-please." His eyes closed in resignation. Stuttering, his drowsy mind muttered. You're stuttering.
"We're not even on the thirtieth shot yet," Dante slurred, vaguely waving at the bar where stacked cans of beer, two drained bottles of vodka and an as-of-yet-untouched bottle of whiskey stood proudly. "Get up, bro. Not done yet."
"Filthy," Vergil gagged, rolling to one side and attempting to stand. His lethargic arms couldn't hold up his weight, and down he went again, hitting his chin. "I can't breathe."
"You look like a d