The more Billy drinks the more he seems to....not really relax, so much as uncoil. When Eddie moves his chair he leans into the weight of him, or at least shifts himself in his own chair so they're touching shoulder to shoulder, knee moving to add another point of contact. He doesn't protest when Munson borrows the cigarette, only takes a couple extra drags when it's passed back. The alcohol burns in his veins, a comfortable warmth in his guts and a burn in his throat that seems only fair, really.

With more alcohol comes less of an ability to keep a handle on everything, to shove it all down where he doesn't have to deal with it, and with not much in his stomach to soak up the alcohol he gets there a lot quicker than he normally would. Suddenly he laughs, fractured and borderline manic but without any real humor, because this whole situation is ridiculous. Crazy, almost. Munson's hand is in his lap, and he half wants to hold it, tangle their fingers up, and half wants to press it against his crotch just to try to vent some of the expanse of whatever's trying to threaten to break through.

"My old man would fucking hate this," he offers to nobody in particular. "Sitting here like a couple of queers." A beat, and he laughs again, more broken and unsteady this time. "Guess he wasn't wrong about that part though, huh?"