it's all chemicals anyway ; bea & holt blitz

Underneath neon haloes, Holt Fier is anything but holy. After a long afternoon spent getting absolutely shitfaced he descends into an evening of much of the same. Boredom soaks into his veins, impulses of electricity and adrenaline are too sweet to be ignored.

It's not enough to just get drunk. It's not enough to crash a couple parties and kiss boys with girlfriends and girls with boyfriends. Sure it temporarily staves off the hunger, it's fun while it lasts and even better when he can be around to watch the fallout. It's not what he really wants, though.

That's what he's searching for at the bottom of all these bottles, when he throws up in some trust fund kid's potted plant and then takes a shot of whiskey out of his grandmother's vase.

It's fucking unbearable. This discontent that sits inside of him, making him a mess of frayed nerves and shitty behavior.

Tonight is particularly bad and Holt pities everyone except himself. His minds already gone fuzzy, memories more like a patchwork of jumbled emotions than anything concrete. He's been talking to a guy for twenty minutes and just now realized it, the entire conversation falling to dust between them the second his eye catches a head of blonde hair.

It's an Alcott alright and decidedly not the charming one with the false smiles.

Beatrice, quiet and considerate - he's got no reason to hate her aside from her last name.

And, of course, Holt doesn't buy into their families' bullshit -

until its convenient.

"Howdy neighbor!" He sidesteps the guy he's been talking to, forgetting his face the moment it's out of sight. His elbow hooks around her shoulder, pulling her close enough that she can smell the alcohol that's gone sour on his breath. There's no kindness in his eyes and the promise of something worse settled on an easy grin. "What a coincidence I find you here," He's slurring, "I'd completely forgotten you existed! How's it hangin'?"