Francis shrugged as he still had a little remain in his first glass as the other finished his in a rush. He was clearly not prepared. He rose a brow and shook his head knowingly.

"Tell me about what brought you to Whitby. Or if you had one good thing to drink to, what would it be? I'm sure there is something. Or tell me something that has made you really angry or something you hate. I'll hate it too if you like." His tone made it sound like he was just trying to cheer up the other, even as he was still a completely damp mess that shivered now and again.

Edmund brought his new glass close, but didn't drink out of it yet.  He was still recovering from his last and Jesus, was it just him or was the room spinning a bit?

It was probably just him.

"Brought me to Whitby..?"  Edmund didn't think that conversation was one to have over drinks.

"Well, I'd say I hate storms, but I can't ask you to hate those.  You know what I do hate, though?  The ocean.  The beach, God, I hate it all.  I hate boats, and ships, and fish.  All of it."  His expression was closer to a pout than anything genuinely furious.

"What's something you hate, Francis?  I'll hate it too, probably.  I'm not hard to convince, I guess."

Francis nodded in thought. "I can totally get hating the ocean and the beach. Yep, hate it, the sand, fish, waves, you name it."

He didn't care about the beach since his love was for the fields and tall grass that could hide so much from the world. He looked up in thought.

"I hate... " he considered things. Hypocrites and double standards. He hated the thick dangerous line between everyone else and the poor and how guarded it was. But he shrugged. "I hate god." That much was very true.

"But if you can't find yourself being able to, I understand." He finally pushed away his emptied drink and rest his chin o ln the palm of his hand as he looked at his companion for the evening. He felt the warmth fill him and even if he was a little cold still, he didn't feel it.

God!  That answer startled Edmund, and he turned to look at his companion in surprise.  That was probably the one answer he hadn't been expecting.

Could he bring himself to hate god?  Edmund thought hard about that.  It took him a long moment to speak.

"I think I could bring myself to hate God," he said.  "If... if what all the religious people say is true, and God created - everything, then God created pain.  I don't think a loving God would create pain for His children.  Or beaches."

Exhausted green eyes danced over Francis' person, taking him all in properly for the first time.  "A loving God wouldn't send storms when His children can't shelter from them either."

Francis smiled a bit when he wasn't immediately labeled something terrible for his honesty.

"You're quite right. And God wouldn't make his winters so cold, or bring sickness that kills his best creations. He is a terrible person if he is real. And I hate him either way. For lying about his existence, or for doing terrible things just because. Maybe even for taking those who are good and leaving behind the bad to be terrible to others. I can keep listing reasons, really."

He shrugged and drank a little more before holding out his mug. "To hating the worst things ever. Beaches and god!" He pushed his forward just a little to tap Edmund's glass.

The reasons Francis listen were very correct in Edmund's mind.  Without his approval, the boys lips curled into a smile for the first time that day and he lifted his glass to clink it against the others.

"Beaches and God," he repeated, finishing his toast with a sip.  It went down easier than the last one did.  Whether that was because it was better, or because Edmund was already getting tipsy, he wasn't sure.

"And - fathers," he said haltingly, half expecting to be shut down.  "I don't know about you but I - I hate my dad.  The worst of the worst.  Maybe all parents.  But maybe... maybe I was handed a bad lot."  He shrugged with another smile, more rueful this time.

Francis started to drink, nodding along when the other mentioned fathers. He paused and stared.

"Yes! Fathers are the worst. I hate both of my parents!'he then took a huge swig. "I hope..." he slammed down the mug. "That they are dead. Struck by lightning, trampled, drowned. I don't care. "

He hit his glass to the other's once more. "To dead fathers!!" He may have been too loud at that. "After this, let's go piss on a church." He was now very happy.

Edmund laughed breathlessly, lifting his glass again.  "To dead fathers!" he agreed, only half as loud as Francis but no less enthusiastic.

"A church?"  He was incredulous, but not opposed.  "Why would we do that?  Wha - what about the constables, if they see?  I don't think I can outrun them like this."  And he doubted a well timed cart would come to his rescue again.

Francis looked genuinely delighted that he was now smiling too. He took a big gulp and slammed it down with a laugh.

H looked over and grinned huge and mischievously. "By the time we finish both drinks and get to a church, we might need to. And what better way to let God know how we feel. Besides, it's been raining. The constables aren't going to be hanging around the churches. They will be using this as an excuse to be inside. Rough pubs, that dmsort of thing. And you're younger than me. I bet you could outrun me. So don't worry." He gave him a wink.

"I'm not scared of the constables so I'll help you out if they do."

Was it the alcohol, or was Francis just a genius?  No, Francis was probably a genius.  "I hate God," he repeated, sipping his drink and imagining it.  Peeing on a church!  The only church he was familiar with was St. Hildas, where Father Brennan resided.  Edmund couldn't imagine the sort of trouble he'd be in if the Father caught him, no doubt the humiliation would be worse than anything the constables could do to him.

"I wouldn't leave you behind," he assured his friend with a slow blink.

Was it the alcohol, or was Francis a flirt?  No, that was probably the alcohol.  Edmund had been mistaken for a girl once or twice with how long his hair was, and it wouldn't surprise him if Francis forgot in his intoxication.  Edmund's flushed face was from the alcohol too, of course.

"Do you know - well, I sort of stole a constable's baton?"  If this was supposed to be a secret, Edmund was doing a poor job of whispering.  "Threw his cuffs down the street, he - he was hit by a cart, and... what a bastard."