Impulse
It started as an impulse, an impulse and nothing more. The impulse to have a drink, to taste the subtleties on the tongue and lose himself, if just for a moment. It was an impulse, but he didn't give into it. The faintest stirring of worry touched his heart, but after all, what was wrong with desire?
There was nothing wrong in wanting something, in feeling the desire, as long as you did not give into it.
It didn't take long for the impulse to hit him again, for the desire to grow stronger. The intoxicating thought was hard to resist. It pulled him to the cupboard, had him curl his fingers around the door handle and pull it open. The glass felt smooth beneath his fingertips, and he could not resist picking up the bottle, feeling its weight in his hand. It was cool, it was comforting, it was inviting. After several long moments, he put it down and shut the door. He had wanted to give in, but he hadn't, so it was ok. There was no reason to worry.
There was nothing wrong with almost giving in, as long as you stayed strong in the end.
It was in the depth of the night, in the bowls of the darkness, the inescapable darkness that brought more restlessness that he would ever admit, that he got up again. This time, when he held the bottle in his hands, he had to open it. It was intoxicating; it was cool, so very cool, like diving head first into a crystal lake. He could almost imagine seeing the bottom, and for a moment, he longed to throw himself into the soft silence of the distant waters, and stay there for hours in the silence. But for now, there was only the alcohol, and for now, that was enough. It was smooth over his tongue, so very smooth. He had forgotten how well it went down, in the silence of a dark room, with nothing but the shadows to keep him company. It tasted good. It felt good.
There was nothing wrong with tasting, there was nothing wrong with one sip, as long as it was in moderation.
When he finally poured the last glass, there was nothing left in the bottle. He felt the last drop slide out of the glass and he tightened his grip. It went down too smooth, and he realized with something like horror that he'd had far too much. But there was something fuzzy about his thoughts, and he everything seemed to move slowly. He wasn't drunk though. He would never let himself get drunk, not alone in the dark of the night. Not him, never him. Besides, he would never do it again, so it was alright. He was confident, he was sure of himself. He knew what he was doing, he always did. He never faltered and he was never unsure. Not him, not Leonardo. That was the reason he was the leader, was it not? He could stay strong, he could guide his brothers. He would not falter, not let his heart be led by reckless emotion.
If one drink in the night could mask his emotions during the day, it was worth it, wasn't it? Worth it for the perfect façade, untouched, unmoved, like he always was. Always. Just one drink. Just one. He would never do it again. Not again, never again. He was sure. He was always sure, wasn't he?
There was nothing wrong with downing the entire bottle, as long as it never happened again.
And he told himself that the next time, the next time he'd be stronger than that. Next time, he'd resist. After all, he was all about control. He was stronger than that, better than that. He wasn't a failure, he wouldn't be weak. He wouldn't. Because the more one gave in, the harder it became to stop, so he wouldn't give in. Not again. Not anymore. But when the darkness finally hit again, something within him stirred, and he knew that the bitterness of alcohol would silence it. It had to be silenced. His thoughts had to be silenced. Silence. Gods, he needed that silence so bad, needed the silence, without darkness, dimness without turmoil. Silence, stillness. He needed that so badly.
There was nothing wrong with doing it the next day, as long as you didn't do it a third time.
And he'd promised himself that he would not do it the third time, that twice was enough, and that if he did it a third time, he would never be able to stop. It was a thin line, the line of control, a very thin one that he knew all too well. One misstep could send you spiralling into the darkness, the abyss, and he knew all too well how hard it was to pull yourself out of it. No, never again. He would not lose control, he would not give it. Not again, never again.
Yet he found that after the fifth glass, he no longer cared. Or even remembered what had worried him in the first place. Everything was good, after all, everything was finally silent, and all pressures, all memories of shame, were washed away, and there was nothing but silence, blessed silence as everything turned fuzzy and he heard nothing but white noise. Sweet white noise.
There was nothing wrong with doing it a third time, as long as you didn't become addicted.
It was just an impulse. Just one impulse and nothing more. He wasn't addicted and he wasn't drunk, because Leonardo was nothing if not controlled.