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Champagne has always been dry, has always made Cater’s mouth taste like stomach acid and death, and yet it is his most prominent vice.
His first drink was when he was 9, on New Year’s, his mother, with too much alcohol in her own system, poured him a large sip in her wine glass. At the time, he’d scrunched up his nose, from how bitter the whiskey was on his taste buds, accustomed to fruity, saccharine drinks, cloying sugar, instead of the dryness of alcohol.
When he was 10, he remembers sneaking a drink of his father’s beer when the man was distracted by some sports game on the screen. Basketball, Spell drive, he really couldn’t remember which sport it was, nor which team.
He does remember, however, the way the beer made him gag, a grass like flavor intoxicating his senses. Against his own senses, Cater had continued to drink from that can, acidic and sour as battery acid.
Cater has always disliked champagne, for its decadent sweetness, its bubbliness, fruity and dry. And yet, he sits on the floor of his dorm room, drinking and drinking and drinking.
You are all alone, and no one is coming to save you.
His sisters had called earlier that day, during that pleasant gap between twilight and midnight, had talked and talked and talked, not to him, but at him, endlessly complaining about his lack of calls, this and that, everything. He knows he is too weak to resist the pull of alcohol, its acidity, as much as he hates it, is what leaves him wanting more. Yes, it’s horridly bitter at first, bone dry, but Cater has grown to realize that the bile taste evaporates with half the bottle.
He knows he likely looks a mess; he hadn’t washed his face, and he distinctly remembers feeling something damp roll down his face, so he’s sure his card suit has become blurry and smudged. His eyes have likely dulled in color, like they typically do when he drinks like this, and he knows he’s had too much, the bottle much lighter than it was when he had first opened it.
Now, Cater is no stranger to the disapproving looks he receives from his family—his mother, his sisters, sometimes even his father. He knows that, from somewhere, since he isn’t quite sure he believes in a heaven or hell, despite how orthodox his mother’s parents are, his uncle, boy does he miss that man, is staring down at him in disapproval. This is not what his family wants from him, he knows his father has no appreciation for his dramatics. His father wants him to get into accounting and be masculine and traditional, a picture perfect child with excelling grades. Truth be told, his father, upon seeing the acceptance letter from Night Raven College, that thick manilla envelope, had frowned, his brows furrowing deeply.
His father had threatened he wouldn’t let Cater go so far away for college if he didn’t study something finance related, so despite how much of an absolute snoozefest those stupid classes are, it’s better than being home in that big, empty house, more for showcase and praise than for actual life or comfort.
His mother hadn’t been all too worried about sending him off.
“He’s grown, he should be independent.”
His sisters had only pouted at the prospect of him leaving since it meant they lost their dress up doll, but otherwise, they couldn’t have cared less.
Cater had cheered when his acceptance to NRC came in the mail; he was ecstatic to finally escape his older sisters, who bothered him to no end. He never really felt like a person around them, more so a tool for them to use, something to satiate their boredom.
There was one condition, though. He had to call every other day, and hearing their voices got old rather quickly, not to anybody’s surprise.
When he was on a call with them, he knew they physically heard him, but they never really heard him.
His father scarcely spoke to him on calls, and if he did, it wasn't really about how Cater was doing, or if he had any troubles, it was about finance and finance and finance. One can only hear so much about finance and economics until they’re driven to insanity. His mother would just drown out his voice, and talk about how much they missed him, and if he could come visit soon, and how much she wanted to go shopping with his sisters, and “Of course, you’ll be there,” completely disregarding any of his protests.
So alone Cater sits, on the cold floor of his room, splayed out similarly to a starfish. The bottle is no longer as cold, so the alcohol is room temperature, which really doesn’t help how much the champagne tastes like battery acid. If Riddle saw him like this, he’d no doubt freak out, and scold and nag. He supposed he had to credit his own family, who never really complained when they noticed the amount of alcohol in their wine bottles was half its original capacity, or when the whiskey would slowly disappear out the bottle, when their soju or vodka or tequila would go missing.
Cater understands that alcohol is only a temporary fix to his situation, an ephemeral solution which will remain short-lasting. His issues will remain at the end of the day, and yet, he just keeps drinking and drinking and drinking.
For a short phase, Cater considered smoking, but cigarettes were worse than the alcohol, and they smelled horrible, so that was a no-go for him.
Cater doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry, laying there all alone, on his cold, nearly barren floor. He doesn’t know if he’s drinking because he’s lonely, or if it’s because he’s been around all these people for so much time.
But champagne makes these worried thoughts something for another day, so he will let himself soak in his sadness, his misery, and will wait for these bad thoughts and memories to recirculate to the front of his brain.