When he wanted to really, really get shit-faced, when he wanted to puke until his stomach was empty and then drink more, Doug didn’t go to Maureen and he didn’t go to his father.
He and Luke emerged from the sub-basement of the school quietly, and just as quietly went their separate ways. Doug scrubbed quickly, washing the ichor and gore off his skin, threw on the first thing that came to hand, and went to Agmund’s.
The Bear opened the door without question. He took in Doug’s expression and poured two glasses of vodka. “Sit,” he said, tilting his head at the big leather couch. “Sit, I will get the bottle and the bucket.”
Agmund never asked questions, and he never told Doug it was time to stop. And when it finally came to drunk tears, when Doug sat leaning over a bucket of mostly-clear vomit, sobbing shamelessly, Agmund passed him water and patted his back.
“…They were kept alive,” Doug muttered. “Alive down there. And we never knew.”
“We never knew,” Agmund reiterated, and passed Doug another glass of vodka.
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