(no subject)
By Upper East Side standards, a BYOB party was no party at all. But if there was one thing Chuck had learned, it was that here, you made do with what you had. And what he had was scotch. Good scotch. Having that made it easy to forget about the things he didn't have anymore - a father. A family. A home. As sorry and as broken as they'd been, they had been his, and after the island had taken everything else he'd been beyond stupid to think that he'd get to keep those.
It had been a miserably sober week after he'd been released from the clinic - a week that he'd stayed in his room and away from everyone as much as humanly possible - but it was long past time to put a stop to that. And Chuck was never one to miss a party - well, unless it was as relentlessly lame as the one going on in the compound right now. But there was one place that was quiet, and dark, and most importantly where it was unlikely that anyone was going to come and take the drink out of his hand. That was why the evening found him on the compound rooftop, watching the people mill below at the council party, the sky darkening overhead.
It had been a miserably sober week after he'd been released from the clinic - a week that he'd stayed in his room and away from everyone as much as humanly possible - but it was long past time to put a stop to that. And Chuck was never one to miss a party - well, unless it was as relentlessly lame as the one going on in the compound right now. But there was one place that was quiet, and dark, and most importantly where it was unlikely that anyone was going to come and take the drink out of his hand. That was why the evening found him on the compound rooftop, watching the people mill below at the council party, the sky darkening overhead.