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[rednecking]

❝ I'm probably ignorin' this thing, so leave a message at your own risk. ❞

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[redatheart]

Exactly, yes. I remember you trying to convince me to escape. And then Kyriakos.

[...And refusing to do it because he'd decided he needed to kill Ben. Something he absolutely has mixed feelings about now.

He also uncorks the stouter bottle, pouring a very little for himself and...more for Sawyer.]

[rednecking]

[that's a good idea, because as soon as the glass is in his hands he downs the whole drink in one go]

Right, that. [a scowl] You should've freakin' listened to me.

[redatheart]

[....Here Sawyer, you can just have the bottle. Sayid will keep the second one. It's lighter anyway.

Just because he doesn't think he was right anymore about Ben doesn't mean he's going to just agree with Sawyer. Which means Sayid just shrugs in response.]

Perhaps.

[rednecking]

"Perhaps"? Guess you don't remember bein' forced to tell the truth, huh.

Or me tryin' to convince you leave and even givin' you a way out and you bein' a hardass about listening again.

[redatheart]

I remember those things.

[Look at this asshole.]

[rednecking]

[any other time Sawyer would take great joy on calling him on it, too. Now? It just seems like the next step in the conversation]

Ain't I the one who's supposed to be the asshole?

[he takes a long, long sip from the bottle]

D'you remember the kid?

[no name, not yet. He's going to find out exactly how much Sayid knows before he even starts the rest of the story]

[redatheart]

[They can both occasionally be assholes. Not that Sayid is admitting to that.

But the second Sawyer mentions the "kid", even without naming him, Sayid's attention is drawn down to the glass in his hands. Ben.

The look on his face is somber and slightly conflicted.]

I remember him.

[rednecking]

[now we're getting somewhere. Sawyer deliberately takes another drink, then sets the bottle down]

Remember shooting him?

[he was never one to sugarcoat things, so there's no point in starting now]

[redatheart]

[If he were any less self-controlled, he might have breathed in sharply at that. Or something betraying his discomfort with the idea. As it is, his fingers just curl a little more tightly around his glass.]

...No. But I remember deciding that doing it was the purpose for which I'd been brought back to the island.