Kira meets the shove with his hand, every movement slow, and pronounced: the gleam of the bottle shifts for one obstinate sip, and then lowers very firmly to the floor. His hand rests over the open lip, fingers stilling over the neck.

"Oh boo fucking hoo," he says. Just as slow, enunciating every word. He's a little ahead of Frank, in terms of drinking, in terms of emotional fucking intelligence. "People don't change because they don't want to. Sometimes it's macho bullshit, sometimes it's just being attached to your own fucking pain."

Which, pot meet kettle--but nobody expects him to do anything but water and roll the weed, these days. "It's been a few weeks, Frank. There's time to try harder. When you butt up against the hard thing, just fucking do it. I know why I'm drinking in a dark corner while the world shakes to shit; why the fuck are you?"