[There's an uncomfortable moment of sensation, like catching a glance of an inconveniently placed mirror, of wondering if this is what he sounds like when he gets into his particularly gloomy moods. He pushes the thought aside, breathing out that impatient feeling that crawled up his spine for a moment.]

It's not a competition, y'know. Losing people sucks, especially when they had a choice in it.

[Honestly, the things in his life that have hurt him the most have had nothing to do with his battle scars, as it were, or the things he's seen as part of the war against Salem. He grew up with death and destruction, after all. He was a bandit, a murderer before he was a Huntsman, and well before he was ever an alcoholic.]

And you already said you're on your own, here.

[A beat passes; that uncomfortable self-reflection bubbles back up, and he is unsure she is even liable to listen to reassurance spoken gently. He's not good at it, anyway; he allows his tone to sharpen.]

Besides, it's not as though telling yourself your problems don't matter will magically fix your drinking problem. Wasting your time getting mad at yourself for it is the fastest way to end up back at the bottom of the bottle.