That's because Washington had no taste. None. Seriously, Queen was a classic. Epic.

Fucking lameass.

The pounding against the door stopped his off-key singing, but the music didn't turn down; this was the good part. He did, however, swing his legs off the cot, finding the floor under his bare feet. Vertical was never as pleasant as horizontal. When he stood, the room swayed but didn't spin, like gravity was altered but not gone.

The cement was cool under him, which shucked away some of the top layer of intoxication, but he didn't really feel any more sober. He made his way to the door, fiddling with it until it opened and he was staring at Wash.

Wash with no musical appreciation.

"Fuck you. Freddie's not racket. Your mom's racket."

Maybe his finger poked Wash's chest. Maybe he smiled a little. Those fucking eyes.

"I'm a war hero. I get to decide when people sleep."