PART 1

The time was approaching midnight at the (conveniently named) Midnight Crew Club downtown. Dave Strider was DJing the gig for a birthday party. He wasn't really feeling it tonight. Of course, no one knew this, because even on his worst of nights his skills were impeccable. He knew what the crowd was feeling, and gave them the songs and mixes that kept them moving for hours at a time.

His set would be over around midnight, and then he could relax a little, grab a drink. That was what currently kept him afloat as he noticed a few assholes make their way through the crowd up to his stage. Not that anyone could see behind his shades, he rolled his eyes and thought to himself that this ought to be fun.

The first thing he noticed was that they were drunk. Like, really drunk. Like, Roxy on New Year's drunk.

The leader of the posse, a girl with glasses that looked like they hopped off the face of a man from 1983 grinned a malicious drunken grin, leaning onto his turntables with a lack of respect he immediately knew he would dish right back to her. As for the other two, a short Mexican looking dude with a mohawk was holding up a nearly passed out girl with long braids and pink horn rimmed glasses. He could appreciate the irony at a later date. Right now he had George Costanza to deal with over here.

"Sup?" he said, loudly enough to be heard over the bass.

"Oh, mister DJ, won't you do us a favor and play this list?" she slurred, holding up a paper with songs written in sloppy blue ink. "It's for the birthday boy." she added, as if trying to defend the fact that there was a fucking Justin Bieber song on this shit mix.

He raised his eyebrow. "What do you mean?" (He couldn't help the reference.) He backtracked before she could answer. "Sorry lady, I'm closing up shop in five minutes. And I don't do requests." Especially not ones with My Chemical Romance either, he added mentally. Not that he didn't appreciate their… artistry. This was a club though, not Warped Tour. EDM, rap, dubstep, rave shit- that was what the crowd was into tonight.

She pouted. "Pleeeeeeeease?" she whined. He rolled his eyes again before he could help himself. This chick was annoying as hell.

"Again, sorry." he said shortly, patience wearing thin.

After muttering a few choice words under her breath, the girl staggered off, the mohawk dude and almost-unconscious braid chick in unsteady pursuit.

The final song entered its ending chord. A few seconds later it was done, and he grabbed his mic. "That's all for tonight, folks. Now go get wasted!"

Cheers and applause resonated throughout the already-wasted crowd. He took a bow and removed his turntables from the table, storing them in back for later when he would leave.

One of the perks of DJing for an incredibly low rate was getting treated to unlimited free drinks at the bar. Dave wasted no time in ordering a good old fashioned JD, downing it in one go. It had been a long while since he had noticed the burn in his throat.

Dave, unfortunately, had a nasty habit of drinking his issues away. Tonight was no exception. Less than an hour later he was completely hammered, hiccuping every now and then, on his tenth drink or so. The bartender kept giving him concerned glances, and when Dave gestured for an eleventh the good fellow refused.

"Bro, you're gonna bust open your liver!" he said worriedly.

Dave had heard that before, from his friends. Well, they weren't really friends anymore. Actually, he had no idea where he stood with Rose and Jade and John and everyone else. It had been a long time since he had last talked to any of them. Not wanting to think about that anymore, he handed the bartender a hundred dollar bill and demanded the strongest thing on tap. With wide eyes, the bartender couldn't say no- Dave knew very well that the club had fallen on financial troubles lately. So the poor man reluctantly poured Dave a tall glass.

He downed that in one go too, and he even felt a little scorch going on, that's how strong it was. Which is pretty strong to a guy who had been abusing alcohol for a year now.

Time began drifting in and out of his head. He glanced at his phone. 1:37am. He still had a little while before the club closed. He rested his head on the counter of the bar, closing his eyes momentarily. Before he could stop himself, the thoughts and memories came rushing back in, despite how drunk he would get himself to try and forget it.

"David, you can't keep doing this. You are going to drink yourself to death!" Rose had said in a firm voice, which did not fully conceal the fear she was experiencing. Dave couldn't believe this. There they were, his so called friends, sitting in a semicircle in his living room, trying to hold an intervention.

"Yo, chill out. So what if I like to party, Lalonde? No one's getting hurt." God, he had a massive hangover. He just wanted to go the fuck to sleep.

"Not yet, Dave, but we're really worried that you might!" protested Jade, hands clenched uneasily in her lap. He sighed.

"I can't deal with this right now." He turned around to leave.

"You cannot keep running from your problems like this! Sooner or later, you're going to have to man up and come to terms with the fact that you have issues just like everyone else, and you MUST deal with them in a healthy way!" shouted Rose, clenching her fists. He gritted his teeth, whipped around and stumbled a bit from the sudden movement.

"You're one to talk, you fucking hypocrite! You used to drink every fucking minute of the day back in high school." he growled. An uncomfortable silence fell. John looked anxiously between the two of them. He hadn't spoken yet since Dave had walked in.

Rose's expression turned steely. After an agonizingly long minute, she stood up. "Come on, Jade. John. We're leaving." She looked at Dave again. "When you get your shit together, you can come find us." And she brushed past him, just like that, out of his life forever, John and Jade too.

That had been a month ago. Dave had continued his way of life: party, work and repeat- constantly. Despite filling the emptiness inside with liquor, he missed them, not that he would ever admit that out loud. Glancing back down at his phone again, he saw that his wallpaper was still a selfie of him and John from the time they had gone to meet Nic Cage in person. That was a fun day, he thought, heart aching and head throbbing from drunkenness.

In his haze and stupor, old angst began rearing its ugly head. The dark thoughts he specifically drank to forget about were starting to catch up with him again.

A dull pain throbbed in his right side where his poor liver was trying to process the high alcohol concentration.

This is all my fault, he thought sadly. I fucked up the only good things in my life, my best bro, my sister, my best girl friend…

Before he could stop himself a tear rolled down his cheek. Normally, he would wipe it away immediately to protect his image, but he was starting to care less and less. He was one of maybe 3 poor bastards left at the bar anyways, sans the tender.

No one else cares, so why should I?

I'm such a dick.

I hate this pain, this suffering… I wish it would all just go away.

And Dave knew of a way to stop his suffering, permanently, but became angry at himself for even considering that cowardly option. Suicide was for asshole pussies, and he may be an asshole, but he was NOT a pussy. Hell, he didn't even LIKE pussy. Dick was where it was at.

And now it was 2am, and the bartender was telling him it was time to close up, Dave was the only one left in the club, and did he want to call a cab?

Wobbling to his feet, he shook his head no, lying that he had a ride home. After enduring a moment of scrutiny from the bartender, he turned around and left, grabbing his turntables on the way out and loading it up in the back of his truck. Of course he didn't have a ride. And even though he knew damn well he shouldn't be driving, he found that his gives-a-fuck-ometer was out of service. A true tragedy indeed.

He basically fell into the driver's seat and sat up, but a wave of nausea hit him. Not even two seconds later, he was outside again on his knees like the pathetic piece of shit he was, puking out his brains onto the cold, unforgiving sidewalk.

Tears leaked out of the corner of his eyes. He stared downwards. His shades had fallen off his face, landing in the pile of vomit. The gift he cherished most from John, ruined by his own stupidity. The rational part of his mind told him that since they were just plastic and metal he could just wash them off later, but that rational bit was being pushed away, aided by hours of chemical suppression. He began to cry in earnest now, great heaving sobs erupting from his chest. He hated himself for letting it get this far. He didn't even remember when it started; it was just him partying more often, like once a week, until it had escalated into a many times a day binge drinking. And he hated himself for it, it was all his fault, that he lost his friends and job and flunked out of college.

He began to wonder, not for the first time, what the fucking point was, of this ugly cycle of self-hatred and shame. What was the point of living if he couldn't even be sober to enjoy it? He pulled out his phone again. 2:08 AM. He looked through his contacts, the beaming face of his best friend smiling up at him. And he did the only thing he think to do, in his broken state.

He called the number for the first time in a long time. He was trembling and cursed himself, get a grip for fuck's sake, Strider, you're better than this (even though he knew he wasn't) and the line brrrrringed for what seemed an eternity before a sleepy voice answered.

"Dave?" John yawned on the other end of the line. "It's 2am, dude. What do you need?" The phone was clenched tight in his pale hands, his breathing heavy.

"J-john," he choked out. "I fucked up."

The tone of his voice made John more alert in an instant. Dave could hear shuffling around on the other line, assuming that John was putting on his glasses, those dorky ass glasses, and he knew instantly that this was a mistake.

When John came back on the line, his voice was clearer and concerned. "Dave, are you drunk? Where are you?"

Dave couldn't help but hiccup and laugh bitterly. "I can't believe you, Egbert… after everything that's happened between all of us, you're still trying…" And Dave knew in his soul that he didn't deserve one ounce of kindness from John.

A sigh came from the other end. "Yeah, well, I don't need you doing anything stupid, dude. Just tell me where you are, I'll come get you." More shuffling, he must be getting dressed. A grim smile spread across Dave's tear-streaked face. He staggered to his feet and got back into the truck, shutting the door as quietly as he could. He turned the key into the ignition with uncoordinated hands and the red Chevy rumbled to life.

John was back again. "What was that? Dave, are you driving?" He started to sound panicky. "You fuck, don't do this! You're smarter than that, you know your limits-"

"John," and Dave's voice was subdued and quiet, one hand putting the car into gear and then on the steering wheel. He suddenly felt very calm, and his decision had been made. Life was a highway, after all- and the highway didn't last forever, and HIS highway certainly wasn't going anywhere.

"Dave?" he said, (it was more of a question really,) uncertain.

"John, I love you man." And he hung up before John could say another word. He stepped on the gas and briefly thought, I'm driving the exact opposite way they wanted me to drive, I'm drunk, I'm not wearing a seatbelt, no headlights on, speeding-

He ignored the phone ringing incessantly on the seat next to him, eyes blurrily focused on the road, grateful for the lack of other cars because FUCK he couldn't take it if he crashed and killed some innocent driver because of his own fucking stupidity. He knew he was being stupid but he didn't care because he wanted OUT, out of this shitty fucking hole he had dug himself.

His phone dinged with a text message, and he picked it up- texting while driving in addition to all the other fuck ups- because he could handle non verbal communication, he just couldn't talk to John out loud right now.

EB: DAVE!

EB: dave, please! I really hope you aren't driving, and if you are, please please pull over somewhere safe!

EB: just tell me where you are, i don't care where we stand, you're going to get hurt and i don't know what i would do if i lost my best friend!

Dave contemplated answering.

TG: hfnom

EB: what?

TG: sorry im a bit distracted

EB: OH MY GOD DAVE PULL THE FUCK OVER

TG: you sound like karkat loam

EB: DAVE PLEASE

EB: I'M FREAKING OUT OVER HERE

TG: its ok john

TG: itll all be overe soon

EB: what do you mean?

TG: "when u nod ur head yes, when u wanna say no, what do u mean"

EB: i can't fucking believe you. you're making fucking justin bieber jokes whilst texting me and driving drunk!

TG: lmap

Dave wasn't actually laughing. As a matter of fact, tears were pouring in quick succession down his cheeks. He watched the road, and then his speedometer. He was approaching 80mph and stepped harder on the pedal, the truck groaning its distaste in response, but adhering to his command.

At 90mph, Dave checked his phone again.

EB: dave, this isn't funny.

EB: i'm begging you, just… just pull over, ok? it will be okay, we can work through this! i'll take you home and you can sleep in my bed and then when you wake up, i'll have made you pancakes and we can talk it out. how does that sound?

EB: dave?

EB: dave i'm going to call the police if you don't answer me immediately and agree to pull over.

EB: come on dude just make it easy on yourself. think of the pancakes!

EB: DAVE.

TG: do it

EB: do what?

TG: call the police

TG: theyll have to find me anyway

TG: when im gone

EB: i don't know what you're talking about, but i don't like the sounds of it.

EB: are you pulled over?

Dave's hands clenched on the steering wheel. 108mph. He could practically feel the engine begging him to stop this torture. This was the exact opposite of being pulled over.

TG: no but listen

TG: tell lalonde im sorry for what happened

TG: and jade, tell her too

TG: and im really sorry john

TG: i fucked up really bad with you guys huh

EB: that doesn't matter right now! all that matters is your safety, so pull over.

EB: we can talk later about all the other stuff!

TG: im sorry john

TG: i love you man im so sorry i cant

EB: …..dave?

EB: i

EB: i'm going to call the police now.