It was second nature to fall in the element of himself when liquor presented itself for the taking. The rhyme or reason never necessarily mattered whether that was to blow off stress, to numb the thirst that lingered dryly in the back of his throat, but more importantly to forget about the carnival that brought out the worst parts of himself. His once dull emerald hues had deepened, craving that spark that would ignite the flames and give him a sense of comfort his body yearned for. Even though, no amount of drinks could shake those conflicting thoughts that he [ THRIVED ] so well in. He ate them up, inhaled them as if they were the air he breathed, and just for a split second when it all so happened to come to an abrupt stop — reality sunk in as a reminder. His fingers were curled around the half-empty glass, bringing it up to his lips as he let the bourbon trickle down his throat, downing the rest. The burning sensation brought out a sense of relaxation, his shoulders beginning to ease up as a part of himself could come back to life in a blink of an eye. It was the flame that nestled in his throat, to his chest, giving him the numbing effect his body craved for — until it evaporated into nothing but thin particles immediately after.
The delusions he experienced that night were vivid, haunting him, reminding him of what he was capable of. Stefan could never leave that part of himself in the past. And falling right into a pawn of the necromancers that night to attack someone was further proof of how much he lacked control. The last place he should have been was at the Mystic Grill’s bar. He reached for the bottle, pouring more into his glass, ❝ Are you here to drink your sorrows away too? You might need this more than me. ❞ The question rolled off his tongue when he heard footsteps approaching.