He'd clean up grand, John would. Wash off the muck, shave off the beard, and he'd be the sort of man Davy could fancy.
'Course you'd have to sober him up as well. And John holds that bottle like he loves it, drinks like the kind of kiss that makes you shiver and ache.
Davy's no fool, to try coming between a man and his whiskey. No fool, to think sharing a blanket on a cold night means anything.
But when John's snoring, oblivious, Davy leans into his stink of booze and puke and falls asleep on his warm shoulder.