Chapter 343: Three Drunk Idiots
The dining table was lavish enough to make Bob’s eyes water. Silver cutlery gleamed, and chandeliers were like spotlights to the lavish display of food.
He and Riven were seated side by side, plates already loaded high, while the others... Well, the others were busy engaging in a silent war.
Leon and Soren would stare daggers at each other every time they clashed. And it happened quite often, they both were placing food on Riven’s plate.
"Would you like more truffle butter with your steak, Riven?" Leon asked smoothly, leaning forward.
Soren immediately cut in, scooping the butter dish away with the dexterity of a hawk. "No need. Riven prefers sauce." To be honest, Riven liked all food in general. He was not picky. His mother praised him often for that. And even after transmigration, he retained his foodie taste buds.
The air between them practically crackled, the forks and knives in their hands would have become weapons.
John pinched the bridge of his nose. This—this—was why he’d left home. Growing up, every meal had been a battlefield, brothers clashing over crumbs of attention at the dinner table. And now, the same, except now they wanted Bob.
Meanwhile, Bob and Riven were completely oblivious.
Bob shoved another forkful of food into his mouth, eyes sparkling. "Riven, this steak—this steak is better than anything I ever had... Ah, except the one my mother used to make." He reminisced.
Riven, chewing serenely, nodded. "Mm, I would have to meet your mother someday then and get her to cook for me. And these mashed potatoes? Smooth as clouds. I could die right now and be fully content."
The two of them cackled like idiots, bumping shoulders, while Leon and Soren’s stare-off escalated into subtle shoving of platters and knives clinking just a little too loudly.
John groaned, slumping in his chair. "I’m living the same nightmare all over again. At this rate, someone’s going to stab someone with a butter knife."
"Right?" Bob practically smacked the table, they were talking about street food now. "Ah, the only thing missing is alcohol."
Riven’s eyes lit up, "That could be arranged." He turned to Soren with a sweet, hopeful smile. "How about some—"
"No." Soren’s flat reply cut through the air like a blade.
Riven blinked at him. "...Why?" His lower lip almost trembled. He looked as though Soren had just kicked his favourite puppy.
"Because that would delay our guests. And they seem to be in a hurry to leave," Soren said, perfectly calm, as though dismissing guests was the most natural thing in the world.
The mood plummeted instantly. Riven’s shoulders drooped, his entire frame sagging like a balloon losing air. "But... We didn’t even have dessert yet..." he mumbled pitifully.
"Oh, that’s fine!" John said a little too quickly, seizing the lifeline. He looked desperate, like a man who’d just spotted an escape boat on a sinking ship. "Really, dessert’s unnecessary. We should—"
He stopped when Bob shot him a look of pure betrayal. It was the kind of glare reserved for murderers, cheaters, and—apparently—people who dared skip dessert. John, how could you? Leave before dessert? How could you even consider that?
John actually flinched. He glanced at Riven, who was looking at him with the same wounded eyes, then back at Bob. The two of them, side by side, radiated disappointment so strongly that John felt like a schoolboy caught cheating on a test.
Leon leaned back, trying to hide his laughter. This was fun.
John sighed in defeat. "If... If it’s okay with the Master, I’ll be honoured." He sounded like he was agreeing to sign away his life.
Riven’s pout instantly melted into a grin, the kind that could melt glaciers. He turned those bright eyes to Soren, who was now the final gatekeeper.
Soren, for his part, didn’t enjoy being manipulated, least of all by an expression so innocent it almost hurt to look at. Riven was a crafty wolf, he could not fall for those puppy dog eyes, he could not. He will not! He-
"I suppose that is fine," he said at last with a sigh.
The shift was immediate. Riven cheered as though he’d just won a war. Bob clapped him on the back, both of them already talking excitedly about getting drunk on fine wine.
Soren’s gaze softened. He didn’t like alcohol—not after his childhood, not after his mother. It left a bitter taste that had nothing to do with the drink itself. But the truth was... He had entire cellars filled with rare vintages, bottles he never touched. Why did he collect them? Certainly not for himself.
John muttered something about terrible decisions but caved the moment Bob looked at him with that same disappointed puppy stare.
And so it began.
The chef produced wine that was worth more than Riven and Bob’s yearly pay combined, and in no time Bob, Riven, and Leon were clinking glasses like lifelong comrades. John sat stiffly on one end of the couch, arms crossed, muttering reminders. "Sip it slowly, Bob." These omegas were very good at getting what they wanted.
Across from him, Soren was just as grumpy. "Pace yourself," he told Riven.
Leon tilted his glass, frowning. "What about me?"
Silence.
He pouted, cheeks red from the alcohol already hitting his system. "Why is no one telling me to drink slow? This is discrimination!"
Riven burst out laughing, leaning too close and almost spilling his wine. His words came out slurred, drawn-out. "It’s okay... You have a frrriend in me."
Leon’s pout immediately melted into the dopiest grin, and he smacked Soren’s back so hard it left John speechless. Did that just happen? Yes, yes indeed.
John groaned, head in his hands. Soren looked equally unimpressed, he did not do anything to Leon though, he blamed himself. Now they were surrounded by three drunkards. And he only cared about one of them, the other two should get out of his sight as soon as possible.