drug use, alcohol use//

Starre's delightedly drunken cackle faded as he'd waved off the gaggle of people that had been walking with him homeward, fumbling with his keys and clumsily unlocking the door to his home. He leans on the door for a moment, the world still spinning and neon as he tossed his keys to the table by the door - narrowly finding its home.

Using the walls for support, and slurring his words together as he muses to himself about the night's events, he finds his way up the steps and through the labyrinthian home until his hand finds the well-worn knob of his room and he swings it open. Staggering in, he doesn't bother closing it as he sheds his shirt and One shoe before letting himself collapse into a heap on his velvety sheets. His laughter dies in his chest as the tiredness hits amid the drugged haze, his breathing softening, feathers a mess, haphazardly a pile on his back. He'd lift his head, raking his hair back with a hand and squinting around the room, searching for something his addled mind couldn't put a finger on.

But his eyes found it nonetheless.

The only photo he had, with his ring sitting in front of it. It had his smile slowly fade, pink brows knitting very slowly. One, two, three missed tries and a wriggle of his Long body before he'd get his hand on the frame, and he'd pull it closer, smoothing a delicate thumb over his former spouse's face. A flicker of memories he'd been trying to bury; a man's face scrunched in defiance, shifting to agony in slow motion. A burst of flames. A blur of black smoke and pink fires. Tears. Then their face, horrified. Sad. Grieving. Distant. Never the same look of love in those eyes since he spiralled.

It had Starre's heart twist in the most rotten way, tears welling unbidden. He'd scowl at himself, flipping the frame down so its face - its photo - lay buried amid the sheets, and he'd sit up. Sliding off the edge of the bed to dig underneath it, pulling out the wooden box that held his delightful candy and the strongest cognac he had.

He didn't blink, didn't give himself time to think or regret before he'd popped another pill of ecstasy and chased it with a swig of the burning alcohol. It was no time for it to settle in, spreading a fire in his chest. The world burst back into its oversaturated technicolour, blurring the lines of every room, and he'd let his hands fumble for one of the many instruments he'd been taught as a child. Pulling the guitar into his lap, he ignores the out-of-tune strings and closes his eyes, taking a much deeper swig before finding the chords with numbing fingertips. The strum was satisfying enough, and he'd roll his head back to lay against the side of the mattress, humming to himself.

I'm headed straught for the floor,
The alcohol's served its tour.
And it's headed straight for my skin
Leaving me daft and dim

His voice filled the room, quiet but sad, and as the memories of the fire, of his outburst and his anger slipped away from his grasp like it had once before, being coaxed away by the feeling of the drug, he relaxed into it.

I've got this shake in my legs,
Shaking the thoughts from my head.
But who put these waves in the door?
I crack and out I pour.

His heart swelled, the only reason he hated this state of mind was that it took longer to forget his lover. The one who chased away the bitter loneliness that sat in his chest and festered like a demon straight from hell. Or his own heart. His voice rose in volume, as if to scream it away. To chase the emptiness in his chest out and fill it with nothing more than the mirthful lie of the neon blurs.

I'm Mr. Loverman
And I miss my lover, man
I'm Mr. Loverman
Oh and I miss my lover

He didn't admit it often. But he did still love and miss them. Profoundly. Sure their relationship as friends now was healthy and positive, but that never once meant that he didn't yearn for the love that once filled their eyes, now filled only with a guardedness. He ached for the gentle, fond, amused way they once spoke his name, now armed only with sorrow.

The ways in which you talk to me
Have me wishin' I were gone
The ways that you say my name
Have me runnin' on and on

Oh, I'm cramping up, I'm cramping up
But you're cracking up
You're cracking up,

And he'd repeat. That echoing agreement he still missed them. That he was supposed to still be in love and happy and doing his best to move on from his mistakes but instead, as the memory of them got drowned out by the noise and delight of the cognac, of the ecstasy, he knows he is alone, and he is lonely, and he is fragile.

His repetitions would fade out as he'd forget what he was singing about, what he was grieving for, and he'd set the guitar down to his side, fingers smoothing over the texture of the cords, of the wood. His other hand would find the bottle again, briefly admiring how delicate and perfectly intricate the bottle was before downing as much of it as he could bare, before things went black.

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