Jesus, tension built quickly here, didn’t it? Johnny watches, mute, as Ver initiates a new altercation (he supposes it was kind of justified, but the teeth wrap around his head in his memory, and a feeling of injustice arises once more), and so he shrinks into the background until it blows over. Soon enough Speedfreak is running off, spitting spots of blood into the sand, and Johnny fends off a shudder. A light wave of nausea still rises, but he clamps his jaws shut, waiting for it to pass before decided to even try to speak again.
Now I know why people do things behind closed doors, Ria mutters, and he chuckles lightly, a little sadly, maybe. “Sorry ‘bout yer luck,” he answers her quietly, and paws the bottle closer to himself to take a drink. Was he still young for it? Maybe, but that hadn’t stopped him before (nor had anyone else stopped him), and he’d partied enough to know how it affected him. The wine is bitter and rich as it snakes down his throat, and he stops himself from shaking the taste out of his mouth. Ugh. He much preferred beer.
Sangria (seemingly truthfully) admits that drinking just isn’t for her, and though Johnny hears opportunity for a new bottle to bring back to the Flights, he decides to push the wine back to her to be polite. Ver is right there, after all, and if the whole Speedfreak thing was anything to go by, he didn’t want to misstep. He has other opinions on alcohol than they do, but the decision about whether or not it would be smart to voice them hangs over him.
“I just like th’ taste, but if it ain’t for ya, it ain’t for ya. No harm in that,” he finally adds, ears flicking. Maybe he can go somewhere to find a new supply. After all, these people had to be getting their drugs and alcohol from somewhere.