he's tethered to her, isn't he? this is proof of that— his father hung up the call an hour ago, voice sharp and final like always, and the moment the line went dead, beau's body moved on its own. it's longing that steers him home, pitiful longing, like she's north and he's a compass that can't help but spin to her magnetic field. and now, here he is, standing on the quiet street outside the kappa house, yearning swallowing him whole, torn by the awareness that she's so close and still is always just out of reach.
hands ghost over the initials carved into the metal flask, thumb brushing the grooves like the flask might tell him what to do, same as it always does. it's muscle memory, then, the way he unscrews the cap, but this time, lips never find the rim. brown eyes force themselves to stare at the grass, and, as much as his craving screams in protest, beau tips it forward. the liquid hits the ground, all too familiar smell leaving behind a sting in his throat, even if the ground drinks up the vodka before he allows himself the chance. it might be the only right thing he's done all month. hell, all year. his phone is already out moments later, bravery winning out over cowardice for once. i'm outside, he types, half convinced she won't be bothered to do more than read it. can i see you?