Hunter set two cooled beer cans on the table. Kant glanced at him, furrowing his brow, but reached out to take one anyway.
"What are you grabbing at?" Hunter slapped Kant's hand away. "Stabbed men don't drink."
"Then why take out two?"
Hunter popped open a can, smirking. "Both are mine."
Kant leaned back in the chair, watching him chug the beer.
It had been about two weeks since he'd been crashing at Hunter's place. The wound was healing alright, mainly a dull throb, occasionally a sharp pain. Not much to complain about, aside from someone strumming his nerves like a guitar.
"You don't drink anyway." Hunter rummaged through his cupboard, pulling out a random box of tea that he threw to Kant. "Better not fly into one of your alcoholic episodes again. You're a shitty drunk."
"I wasn't bothering anyone," Kant muttered.
