[P] [M] But the regrets are killing me

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Ooc: O o p s

So that was it then?

Goodbyes were spoken, but no one dared share what was really on their mind. Roanoke wasn't ready for this, he was far too flighty -- too irresponsible to strike out on his own, but Boone held his tongue when he watched the cart depart with the rest of the caravan bound for the Gang proper. The Winthrop patriarch had already said his piece, and still, his son's resolve was not shaken.

"I love you dad, but I have to do this," he'd said, slinging his arms around his father in one last painful hug. God, he sounded so confident. So certain.

In part, he blamed Andrew for this. The boy needed another summer at the very least, but Andrew insisted that Roanoke needed to be able to make his own mistakes. However, in Boone's mind, it was hardly Andrew's place to give parenting advice. He'd been a steadfast presence in the Winthrop home since Helena had died, but it would never make up for all the lost time. He hadn't been there when Boone and Nazario needed him most. No kindness could ever take that back.

He must have gotten in Roanoke's head. Spun some hair-brained yarn to steal him away.

Boone's hands shook. He could hardly even roll a cigarette, but God damn it all did he need the chemical reprieve. Returning to the Winthrop family home was not yet an option. A dark, familiar feeling crawled uncomfortably underneath his skin, he wanted nothing more as evening overtook the day than a stiff drink.

Just one, he assured himself. Only one. There was no harm in that.

There was a quiet bar on Highstreet, and Boone ducked inside. The scent of alcohol brought back memories, not all them good, but it was easy to fall back on the things that felt familiar. He took a seat and flagged the attendant down with a wave.

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