Ardor: A Storm and Silence Fanfiction

3: Drunken Sentiments

This oneshot was a special request from multiple people about a drunk Rikkard. I hope everyone likes it :)
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The wine was red.

Rikkard stared at the contents of his glass in a daze, his mind full of nothing but fog.

Why was he drinking? He didn't know. But the wine was red, and it was sitting in front of him. It called his name, like a siren would, and he found himself lifting his glass to his lips once more.

It went smoothly down his throat. He swallowed. Good.

He peered at the glass again. It was almost empty.

"More," he said, holding up his glass. He waited.

Then he remembered--he was alone, not at a bar. There was no one coming to refill his glass.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled, and shot to his feet to retrieve a new bottle of wine. But something was wrong--the world was spinning, and he didn't know why. He tried to step forward, only to stumble uncontrollably. Once he secured his footing, he paused for a moment.

He squinted. The world was still spinning.

"Stupid eyes." He'd replace them later.

Rikkard wobbled unsteadily towards his destination--a cupboard in the very corner of the room. He knew there would be more of the wine in it; wine that he had never opened in the time he had established Empire House. In his line of work, there was usually no time for any sort of alcohol. It impaired one's senses and left them incapable of working; something he despised.

Tonight, however, that all changed.

He nearly ran into the cabinet. His feet seemed to suddenly trip over each other, sending him reeling with every other step. Wrenching open the cupboard door, he seized the first bottle in sight and tried his luck getting it open.

His clumsy fingers refused to cooperate. The lid stayed firmly sealed, and the wine deigned not to come out. He frowned. Maybe I should smash it open? He hesitated, looking at his hands wrapped around the bottle, feeling an uncomfortable sensation he usually never felt--doubt.

It had been years since he had been drunk. This is what was happening to him, he realized, looking down at his disheveled form. The wine had started to get to him. He was falling deeper into the sweet sensation of ignorance, of being so impaired that he wouldn't know the difference between a table and a chair. He was doubting his actions as he performed them, not knowing his right state of mind, grasping at straws to determine what to do.

He hated it.

Angrily, he attacked the lid with more force than what should've been necessary, and was greeted with a splash of wine to the face as the lid flew clean off. It dribbled down his chin and onto his white shirt, now visible thanks to his earlier removal of his waistcoat.

"Damn!" He checked the shirt, watching in irritation as red liquid stained his front. He closed his eyes in frustration, bringing the bottle to his lips.

He drank.

And drank.

And drank.

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The wine was beautiful.

Rikkard stared at the glass in his hands, a loose smile on his lips. Why didn't he get drunk more often? This was amazing. Incredible. He felt unstoppable. Maybe his business would be even more successful if he felt like this all the time.