[w]hat is the point in worrying oneself too much about what one could or
could not have done to control the course one’s life took?
--- k. ishiguro ( @creunxce )
he’s drunk---or, if he’s not yet, he’s getting there. firewhisky coursed through his veins, along with the overwhelming amount of courage the drink brought with. he’s swaying, empty shot glass in hand. fingertips run over the rim, pads of finger ghost along the curves of the glass. he’s stalling.
---for good reason, though.
a clear of throat. a scratch of neck. elliott baek watches eunice eom from across the way; she was just as beautiful as three years ago, maybe even more so. a sigh. the grip of his hand possess the sides of the glass, his other reaches for the near-empty bottle of liquor. a pour of red, then gulp---that familiar burning sensation greets his lips, and he grimaces. here we go.
intoxication keeps him unaware. keeps him deaf. keeps him
bold. he approaches her, and the devil on his shoulder mocks.
took you long enough.
“eunice--” he hopes his voice is loud enough, is above the booming music. “can we talk?”