Rum made him reckless. Wine made him sleepy. Tequila made him flirty. Whiskey, though, was a loose cannon, bringing out either the best or worst in him, sometimes both in the same night, or somewhere in between. Sometimes it comforted him like an old friend, the sting turning his mouth and throat into softly crackling embers, warmth blooming in his chest. Other times it turned him into a forge—smithing his tongue into something sharp and silver, scorching away all doubt. Still other times it sat in his stomach like fire in a dragon's belly, curling smoke and venom pouring from his lips, fury seething off every inch of him.
But this time, the heat rose, filling his head and chest and the space behind his eyes, threatening to spill.
Theo fumbled to take his glasses off, slapping them on the desk with a clack and a strained sound. He'd unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt to combat the almost-uncomfortable warmth that had risen just below his skin. Blearily he looked at the door just to make sure it was shut—at the thick couple inches of mahogany shielded him from outsiders who would see him in such a pitiful state and laugh. Or tell him to buck up, or—worse—pity him.
The outline of the door blurred—no thanks to the spirits, and his lack of glasses, and the tears still in his eyes. But he was fairly certain he'd shut and locked it the second he plucked the whiskey from his collection. He was safe—he was alone.
His face screwed up, chin puckering. He was a right bloody mess is what he was.
His breathing stumbled and he dissolved. His face fell into his hands and his shoulders racked with sobs. Hot tears fell, trailing down to the tip of his nose, slicking his palms.
Through his fingers, he glanced at a half-written letter on his desk—a commission for two gravestones. He sucked in a shaking breath and fisted his hands in his hair.
Just how many people put their lives in his hands? And how many did he let down? This wasn't new. His parents—by God, his parents—
He bit his knuckle hard with a whimper. He'd just been a kid. A know-it-all twenty-year-old who thought he knew the world. Who thought he could bring justice to the justiceless. And what had been his first instinct when he uncovered an aristocratic conspiracy? To shout and point at it. Consequences hadn't even crossed his mind. Naive. Stupid.
He wiped his nose, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Stupid," he hiccuped, even though he hashed and rehashed his parents' deaths in his mind more times than he could count by now. "You're stupid, Ned Crawley—Theodore—whatever. Stupid, stupid, stupid." It didn't matter what he called himself. It didn't matter how much painstaking effort The Executioner took to polish his skills in the Exousían underworld. His name change didn't scrub away his colossal incompetence.
The Church of Hera found The Eyre out. It was his one purpose: hide The Eyre and the assassins from prying eyes. And he failed. And he still didn't know how.
He half-blindly swiped for his desk drawer and opened it, sloppily shuffling through files and plucking them out one by one. Where had he made a mistake?! Was it the financing? Was it the taxes from last season? Or worse—was it him? Had he been defending the assassins too conveniently, too perfectly in court? Half the files he dropped on the floor, and half he set in front of him.
He didn't know. He didn't know. He never knew. He never knew anything. The file in his hands slipped to the floor as tears blurred his vision again. Swallowing audibly against the lump in his throat, he took another shaking sip of whiskey (almost spilling it on himself as he violently hiccuped) that turned into a gulp, then two, then he drained the glass—just to feel the scorch on his tongue, his gums; down his throat and in his belly, like churning liquid fire.
He clanked the glass down against his desk with a whooshing sigh. The room began to turn on an axis slightly, uncomfortably—but he found solace in it. Soon his mind would fog completely over to the point of uselessness. Hopefully.
He was a right bloody mess. Especially for dealing with his problems through liquor like some kind of thug. But he'd take that heat over indifferent, sluggish cold any day.
His chair scraped the floor as he rose from his seat, swaying, and teetered back to the liquor cabinet.
