“It’s because you are drunk”, Manuel says while ironically tasting his glass of wine. “And you are crying and getting all mopey and really, how can you complain about me when you are like that?”
“Because it sucks”, Miguel whines and his words are all so slurred even him has trouble to understand his own voice. “Actually, you suck too, you won your match. I hate you.”
Manuel hides a very, very tiny smile and holds the phone a little closer.
“I knew I’d win”, he answers and he tries to sound confident, really, but it comes out as a weird… squeak that makes Miguel snort. “I guess you didn’t were as lucky as me this time, that’s sad.”
“Shut up, you idiot”, Miguel snarls at him, feeling the rising urge of trying to strangle the phone. He rolls all the way over his bed and holds the phone close to him. “You suck, Sebastián sucks, football sucks, everything sucks—- except for food, food it’s great.”
“You are a crybaby.”
“Shut up and make me a sandwich. And then send it to me.”
“… by fax?”