Carlisle shudders as he feels the thrum within him, and is so sure he is losing his grip on himself again. It would not be the first time in the past few days that he's struggled with his own energies; when the rest of him is too entrenched in his despair to focus, he cannot possibly maintain control over them. It has been that way his entire life, and is one reason he prefers seclusion.
Preferred, that is. Things are so different now.
He feels longing, feels need -- his head throbs. A drink would stifle all of that, drown out everything: his thoughts, his fears, his despondence and the encroaching madness that feeds upon him. Twice-cursed tend to lose themselves to their affliction, but he has staved it of so far, dulling the effects by tempering himself with alcohol.
"I said I wouldn't."
He made that promise to someone whose presence he can feel, but who is entirely absent. His chest aches, and he doesn't yet know how to seek the solace he so craves from the Mote. It's easier to turn to what's familiar. That's what he's always done. Grabbing the bottle from the table, he sinks back to the floor, down, down. The glass is cool in his fingers, inviting only because he associates such a chill with the icy armor of his partner. Just one drink won't hurt. Something to take the edge off the remorse impaling his heart.
"I said I wouldn't."
Through his heartache, he feels something as familiar as disappointment: disgust. It is white-hot, a fire compared to the melancholy that has suffocated him for days now. He can drink all he wants to extinguish it, yet the smoldering embers will always remain long after the intoxication is gone. Despite that, the temptation is still there, still urging him to drink... and as he uncaps the bottle, he's not sure whether he'd rather feel emotionally encumbered or inebriated.
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Preferred, that is. Things are so different now.
He feels longing, feels need -- his head throbs. A drink would stifle all of that, drown out everything: his thoughts, his fears, his despondence and the encroaching madness that feeds upon him. Twice-cursed tend to lose themselves to their affliction, but he has staved it of so far, dulling the effects by tempering himself with alcohol.
"I said I wouldn't."
He made that promise to someone whose presence he can feel, but who is entirely absent. His chest aches, and he doesn't yet know how to seek the solace he so craves from the Mote. It's easier to turn to what's familiar. That's what he's always done. Grabbing the bottle from the table, he sinks back to the floor, down, down. The glass is cool in his fingers, inviting only because he associates such a chill with the icy armor of his partner. Just one drink won't hurt. Something to take the edge off the remorse impaling his heart.
"I said I wouldn't."
Through his heartache, he feels something as familiar as disappointment: disgust. It is white-hot, a fire compared to the melancholy that has suffocated him for days now. He can drink all he wants to extinguish it, yet the smoldering embers will always remain long after the intoxication is gone. Despite that, the temptation is still there, still urging him to drink... and as he uncaps the bottle, he's not sure whether he'd rather feel emotionally encumbered or inebriated.