Dan looked around himself, the light of the moon casting itself on the king-sized bed and his pale skin, the dark shadows of the trees looming over where he lay. It wasn't supposed to happen this way, he thought, there must be someone who can save me.
And so he left the room meant for two, which only inhabited a party of one.
Phil wasn't at the height of his senses, never was. Every day he slipped further and further, getting his mind lost in his own realities. The lost boy stopped himself from downing his sixth shot and found himself intrigued by a figure lurking near the door. The figure looked sober, and, what was that? Phil squinted and tried to read the figure's body language for any signs of emotion. He was about to give up when he saw it. The figure, a male probably slightly younger than himself, had started twitching and fidgeting. Each of his hands toyed with the other's fingers, twisting and pulling, scratching and squeezing. His head constantly whipping to better understand the atmosphere of the bar. He was afraid.
Phil had only known this not because of the boy's body language, but the look in his face. The terrified sparkle that once glittered in his own eyes all those years ago.