Subject matter: This one tackles a sensitive subject matter: alcoholism. If that's not your thing, I suggest skipping.
Project progress: Chapter 3 of TCTNP is kicking my ass to write, but I'm slowly wading my way through the tough tides.
Time: Wish I had more time to play FFXII: TZA because it's a blast. I like the nuanced emphasis on politics and Ivalice is a stunning world that I wish I could tangibly explore myself. Alas, I've had to put my playthrough on hold 'cause, you guessed it, life.
Normally, he takes to the bottle to cope with life's callousness. But this time, that is not the case.
XVI - Dependence
It is with a slumped stature that Kain Highwind returns home.
The bottle in his hand, empty long before he got back to his residence. The room before him, cluttered and littered with some newspapers, magazines, and obsidian flasks.
The living room has the stench of disorder and uncleanliness. Windows that have plenty of sunlight to drown him with are obscured by stained, ancient-esque curtains, so the room is instead admonished with eternal gloom.
Kain feels there is nothing for him to do besides get more liquor. Rubbing his itchy stubble, he fights against the weight of the dark heavy dips beneath his eyes. He walks with a sluggish pace. Foot after foot, flutter after flutter, he thinks.
He tosses his old, metallic-reeking keys on the dusty kitchen table, reaches for the nearest bottle while dropping the other one on the carpet floor. But when he takes another step forward to grab it, cracking glass sings in a tenuous threnody beneath one of his boots.
When Kain lifts his foot and sets his unwavering eyes on the thing below him, he doesn't expect his gut and throat to ache at the sight.
He steps back, breathes in as much as his lungs can let him. Pulls the hood of his hoodie over his head a little further so his eyes are more obscured because he hates looking outwardly emotional like this. Even right in front of that picture. In front of anyone else, only a few strands of his hair, his nose and tightening mouth would be visible.
The broken wings of the picture, spread in gleaming feathers of glass, surround that gut-wrenching photograph of him, Cecil, and Rosa. It was already shattered, long before he stepped on it now. He doesn't remember what exactly he did for the picture to end up there.
They're so young in that photo. Back then, there was a chance to take the path Cecil took. To make things far too easy and unfitting for himself. To shape the road tomorrow would take to something easier to bear than what he's going through now.
Kain remembers it all achingly well; their soft excuses and cloying forgiveness despite all the things he'd done to them in those days. Things he'd done out of messy feelings of spite and longing.
He grabs the bottle, pouts, takes a quick swig while returning to the dingy old living room. The strong taste that soaks his tongue dulls the inner turmoil that scratches his mind.
He plops down on one of the old leather couches, sighing. The photograph is etched in his psyche, again for what could be the hundredth time, all because he's dared to re-glimpse it. Everything seems eerily still; fairly surreal.
He rubs tired fingers over a rigid brow, taking another generous sip before placing the bottle on the wooden coffee table.
And lo and behold. Another picture at the corner of his peripheral view, this one unframed and exposed to countless daunting elements. There are liquor stains on the crumpled paper, but yes, he can see his and her face well.
Theirs was a casual wedding. Lightning's gown wasn't anything too elegant, something fairly simple and short (she always hated wearing long, flowy stuff). And even though her white dress is marred by bitter blots of alcohol and the whole photo is discolored, Kain remembers how perfectly clean her dress was.
How time carries on with such swiftness. He remembers her devastating words before she slammed the door on him for the last time. The repercussion of betrayal in her eyes when back then he dared to look too much at Rosa when she and Cecil weren't as close. When he did those things in the dark with —
Enough. He takes to the bottle again for its nostalgic benediction. Glug, glug, glug.
Right there, at the worst possible timing, the doorbell rings. He questions if he really should answer it.
Glug.
A racket of hurried knocks.
Almost another glug, even though he can hold his liquor well.
The door opens, and sunlight strikes him dead in the face, warm and too much for him to take. Studious footsteps approach him. He doesn't need to look up to know who it is, so he keeps his head down, low.
"Christ, you didn't even lock the door." There, she leans in front of his face, so close that he can't avoid her needling glare. "You're really a piece of work, Kain."
He decides it's best not to reply and just sits stock-still in place. He knows she can't see his eyes from there, so he feels secure, even though that doesn't stop his clenching mouth from feeling labored.
Lightning sighs back, and he hears her walk away from him. He takes a mental note of his growing discomfort when she starts kneeling on the ground, picking up the disheveled newspapers and magazines with graceful, albeit anger-hastened movements. The hand she snatches them with is vein-laced, and it crushes the stuff with cruel effort.
"And here I thought you were a functioning alcoholic," she says, vocalization strained by her labor. "Apparently, you're a functioning one bordering on dysfunctional. How the hell haven't you gotten in a car wreck yet?"
Kain again doesn't rise to the inquiry, just takes in her appearance. Her hair is tied in a loose ponytail that lingers on the shoulder it always inhabits. Her red, nigh-sleeveless turtleneck is a vibrant anomaly in this room. Her shorts and bright sneakers also stick out like a sore thumb.
Gazing back at the beverage, he groans as he grabs it. He goes for another sip, but her cold fingers pry the bottle away from his frail grip.
He scowls at her but can't find the motivation to take it back. No matter. He'll grab another when he can. He needs it so badly, but he can afford to wait a few minutes. He only needs it immediately when his past haunts him too much.
"Look, it's hard enough playing housemaid for you even though I don't have to. This crap is a big reason why we're divorced. Stop drinking."
Ah, yes. He's heard that one a million times from her mouth. Kain wonders why Lightning thinks vulgar repetition will somehow get him to change his ways.
Lightning huffs, taking the bundle of shoddy papers in one arm and the bottle in the other to the kitchen. She's out of his view, but she doesn't stop talking, much to his displeasure.
"I don't know how you're making a living like this. This place is a shithole."
The sound of papers being recycled, followed by a bottle being emptied before being discarded.
"You know, I liked you better when you talked more. Annoying as hell to put up with your sophisticated nonsense, but also stupidly… charming, I guess. Now you don't say diddly-squat."
Lightning returns to the room with a rag and furniture spray in hand. She quickly goes to work, clearing off the coffee table. She's again close to him.
He watches her pick up the photograph. She scoffs, handing it to him to get the picture out of the way. "Some pipe dream of a life that was."
Kain grunts in response, hurriedly shoving away the photo into one of his hoodie's pockets. He'd really like to have another drink again. Yes. He needs it. It is the only aid to this very heartache that comes whenever he falls back to his past after seeing far too many traces of it.
This time, he makes his way for the kitchen. But then Lightning's got a cold grip on him before he's moved four steps.
"No more drinking."
Kain's scowl flourishes. He gains the energy to turn to face her, the will to lower his hood enough so that she can spy an eye or two of his.
Finally, he says something. "And why not?"
"Look at what it does to you." She gestures with her head to the whole room. "Your life. Shit, are you blind?"
Kain's eyes squint, sharp daggers pinpointed on her countenance. Something new in his heart hurts him, and his face retreats back into his hood.
He can tell she's trying. Really trying to see his soul as she steps closer, leaning in to catch the gaze he's once more hidden from her view. The shadows aren't aiding him as well as before, so he steps back. Lightning's grip on his wrist tightens, blockading much of the circulation. Even though she squeezes hard, the eyes she wields, while brutal, are interlaced with a type of yearning he knows all too well.
It gives him that heartache, but in a different kind of way. In a way that feels more… acceptable and tolerable.
He's already let her see a hint of his spirit. There's no stopping her now. So, with a firm huff, he lowers the hood entirely, barring everything there is to see.
Her face looks like it's enduring an epiphany. One that's trying too hard to look reserved and unaffected.
"No," he eventually answers, feeling her release him. "I… I'm just — "
"Stop," she commands with a softening lilt. "It's fine. I understand now."
Nothing really is fine. But Kain knows what she truly means, between the way she looks at him and how she sounds.
When she guides him back to the couch, soon tossing him a blanket with a sigh, he decides that maybe, just maybe for these few minutes, that another drink can wait.
Alcoholism: To be frank, this is my first time writing about a sensitive issue like this. So I hope I didn't execute anything stupidly or awkwardly without knowing. I did some general research and used a functioning alcoholic relative of mine as an IRL reference.