Edgar doesn't drink.
Much.
But tonight this bottle of the finest Figaro wine is his only friend.
In a bar full of strangers who greet him with bowed heads and murmured pleasantries, he is alone. It is hazy in here, his nose twitching to the bitter scent of pipe-smoke, bitter as the foreign taste in his mouth, the ache in his heart.
He doesn't remember how long it's been – three, four years, perhaps? This long, and still he hurts. Deep inside, it hurts.
He should have grasped his own freedom back then, shouldn't have tossed that coin even though he knew that no matter what he wouldn't win. They should have left together, the both of them, leave the desert behind and seek out their own destinies.
But, no. The kingdom needed him, needs him still. He watched the chocobo carry his brother away from him on that hot summer night, knowing that he could never abandon his people, hoping that Sabin's freedom was worth his caged wings.
They entered this world together, have always been Edgar and Sabin and no one else, but now it's only Edgar, His Royal Majesty; it's only Sabin the wayward prince.
Edgar doesn't drink much, but he returns to his bedchamber drunk on his brother's absence.