WHO: Byron Kettleburn WHAT: Basking in glory WHEN: 4 February, late WHERE: Byron's flat WARNINGS: 😕
He'd done a decent job of cleaning out his apartment, moving all signs of his illicit activity to the warehouse Betty had helped secure for them. He knew it was dangerous to keep even a single copy of The Beacon present, but at least he'd talked himself out of framing the newsletter for vanity's sake. With an open bottle in his hand, he pored over the page, critiquing his own work and his colleagues', searching for things they could've explained better — jokes he could've made about some the most repulsive news he'd ever had to deliver.
He should've felt proud. This should've been a victory. As he brought a bottle to his lips, there were people reading the words he'd written — honest ones, words he couldn't count on from the Prophet anymore. But in the dim of his living room, he felt nothing. Empty.
His telly flashed against his walls but he had the program muted. He glanced up from the page to see Meghan Markle moving across the screen. He didn't know the story. He didn't care. But Andy would've had a quip for it. He'd have had any number of things to say about the royal family that would've left Byron chuckling. And maybe that's why the victory felt so hollow.
He'd done all of it, finished their story and sent it out. He'd published something he could fully stand behind. He'd made his son proud. But as his eyes skimmed the words, all he could think about was his drunken friend, all but beheaded when he'd least expected it.
"This one's for you," he mumbled, refusing to look at the blender he'd snatched from Andy's flat as he tipped a pint out over the sink. He had the sense, at least, to contain the mess. Andy would've.