It's moonshine, is what Demo calls it, which apparently means it's alcohol only terrible and Soldier levels a disgusted glare as he hauls up the latest batch.

"Ah, dunnae give me that look Solly," Demo says as he punches him in the shoulder. "You'll learn to love it."

Well. He might just have to. Supplies had been running thin lately, starting with the "non-essentials" such as spare buckets and also a reasonable amount of scrumpy. Now Demo didn't have enough left for their nights atop the 2Fort bridge, not without dipping into his personal supplies, and Soldier was more likely to see under Pyro's jumpsuit than any of those prize possessions. So he's left with this horrible brainchild of Demo's insistence, something that can barely be considered potable on a good day.

Soldier cracks open the keg and digs a ladle into the lethal soup, pulling out a fermented apple. He raises an eyebrow over it.

"…Alright, learn to have a cold and loveless marriage with," Demo admits. He snags the ladle from Soldier and scoops himself a mugful.

"Your funeral, private." Soldier raises his hands in an absolution of guilt. "I'll make sure your pine box is nice and spacious, and your dog tags laid on a luxurious skirt of plaid."

"I dunnae wear dog togs you idjit," Demo shoves with his knee. "You dunnae even wear dog tags. Why is that lad? Scout more of a military man than you?"

The bark of surprise that escaped the Soldier is, thankfully, misconstrued as a laugh, and the moment long pause between Demo raising his mug and putting it back down gives him enough time to wipe the look of shock off his face. By the time Demo shoots him another look, he's managed to fold it back into his usual disconcerted frown.

Demo smiles sloppily at him. "Dunnae…knickers in a twist…jus' a joke lad…"

"Are you drunk already RED?" Soldier's brow knits under the helmet.

"Me? Nah…"

Jesus, that must be strong stuff. If he lets Demo drink the whole thing, he'll respawn by morning.

That still doesn't motivate him to touch the caldron of rotting fruit. Instead, he changes the subject. "If you're going to make crap I can't even drink, I'm going to start skipping these meet ups. It's not like I come out here for the booze-" He cuts himself short, realizing how close he was to saying I come out for the company.

Demo, as always, doesn't notice.

(Sometimes, Soldier wishes he would. Would use that brain of his for something besides formulaic balancing, and decrypt Soldier for once. Save Soldier the trouble of saying it. Save him from figuring out what he even wants to say.)

But Demo doesn't, and gulps down another cup of the moonshine. "It's the principal, Solly. In fact, it's principally principal now more than ever! S' contraband, just like us."

Contraband. Unlawful. Prohibited. Taboo. Wrong. He knows all the synonyms for things that should not be done, for items that should be confiscated, for activates that should be court marshaled. He knows that certain things are trouble, like making illicit moonshine, like meeting with REDs in the zone in between bases, yet he's sucked into them anyway. Demo knows it too, bastard, as he shoots Soldier a cheeky grin before gazing out over the desert.

He rationalizes it to himself, like he always does. Those rules are for the other BLUs, the lackadaisical ones, the mercs who need to be whipped into shape with anti-fraternization laws lest they slip into pit of hippies and quislings. Soldier doesn't need to follow them. He knows how to keep himself sharp.

BLU doesn't know what they're talking about.

They've never met Demo.

Soldier struggles, for a moment, between the wafting smell of moonshine and sewer water below. Demo's hand is resting on the tin between them, soft and relaxed. Soldier could hold it right now—nothing is stopping him. No BLU, no watchful eyes. If he doesn't then he'll never find another way to tell Demo, never be able to say that maybe they are contraband but that doesn't bother him all that much-

He could do it. He can rationalize anything if he puts his mind to it.

Slowly, he extends his hand, and links fingers with the Demoman, surprised at how warm his palm is. He waits for a reaction, a flinch of surprise or even just a confused look that he can play off as a joke to; but neither comes. He swallows, suddenly feeling very out of his depth, and is about to beat a hasty retreat when he hears a soft snore coming from Demo's form.

"…You've got to be kidding me." He leans forward, and sure enough, the eye on the other side is closed, indicating the extent to which Demo has poisoned himself. "You useless drunk."

Soldier sighs, but doesn't withdraw his hand. Another day, maybe. He squeezes, and wonders how much longer it will take to muster up that courage again.