Remember All We fight For
Disclaimer: I do not own Austin & Ally.
It starts off with a beer at a bar one night.
The drink serves as kind of a formality. Can't walk into a bar and not order a drink.
So he stands a little off to the side, slowly sipping his obligatory drink while taking time to appreciate the violin in the oddly tasteful track this particular bar is playing.
He doesn't even swallow his third sip before he sees her familiar locks. Dark brown hair, curls all askew. Who else can it be?
The bar stool swings around all dramatic, like the way lounge chairs do for villains in movies (but maybe that's just him and his silly taste in movies). And of course she looks perfect. Dark black dress, red lipstick, a shade redder than he would have preferred—of course if it were up to him he'd take his pickle eating, cloud observing dork any day, but she doesn't really come around all that often anymore.
There's this slight tinge of pain he feels upon seeing her face, a sadness he can't shake. It's a sensation comparable to the illusion of pins and needles jabbing into him when his leg falls asleep, and he can't figure out why. But she's walking towards him and her presence still manages to shrink away all negativity clouding his mind.
"Hey." She greets him with a breathtaking smile. Without giving him enough time to reply she wraps her arms tightly around his neck and is soon kissing him senseless. She tastes like hard liquor, not the innocent types of champagne and margarita they used to dine on before dinner once upon a time. No. She tastes like something straight out of a bar fight; thick, sweaty and bad for him on so many levels.
His head is still swimming when she pulls away laughing loudly.
"I ordered one for you."
He hesitates, but sees her observing him from the corner of his eye and obediently swallows the drink, praying that the bridges he burns tonight will light the way for a future together with her.
Her lips curve into a thin smile.
He buys the next round. He argues that it's only fair, but really he just wants to see her smile again.
They clink glasses and chug the warm substance. Dark drinks. Sad eyes.
The liquor scorches down his throat almost painfully. When he sets his glass down, hers is already empty and she's beaming.
She smiles excitedly, tugging on his cuff link. "Let's get out of here."
Her eyes are crazy, and his steps are getting heavy, but he follow her blindly anyway. Together they make a mad dash for the exit. Just like that, the once decent sized bar table seems to stretch and stretch. It's unwinding, too long. The doors seem barely out of reach each time.
His ears are ringing, and the room is too warm. He catches a glimpse of her. She's giggling like she's having the time of her life. It astounds him how the blurrier the world around him, the more vivid and enticing she appears to him.
He is stumbling slightly now. He never was a lightweight, but he's having trouble keeping up with her. She downs two more shots off the counter with a twinkling laugh, and he can only wonder how someone so self-destructive can be so beautiful.
Then her heels are off, her hair is flying, and she's starts beckoning at him. She reaches the previously impossible exit, opens the door and disappears into the darkness. She feels light-years ahead of him and he actually starts to pant because believe it or not, heavy drinking does not do wonders for one's physical health.
Nonetheless, the distance between the two of them worries him so he chases on. He follows her. He always follows her, because what is he ever going to do without her?
The cold night air hits him like a ton of bricks.
He swivels his head upwards. The glare of the moonlight, mixed with his intoxicated state gives him a major migraine. He doesn't bother to squint his eyes because in an instant, his gaze settles upon her near flawless profile.
"Over here!" she calls out cheerily with cheek bones rosy and eyes lighting up like the ends of cigarettes in dangerous allies. She looks so radiant it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
Even so, she looks so intoxicated on life; he can't help but be in awe. Her skin is gravity, drawing him nearer. He reaches blindly for her. It's like he can't get to her fast enough. And it's like mood whiplash because it hurts. Everything hurts.
In that instant he wants nothing more than to pull her close. Tell her how much he loves. Tell her of how he'll never leave, because he loves her. He loves her when she nibbles on her pencil in thought. He loves her when she quirks a tired eyebrow at him. He loves her almost even more so when her hair smells like booze and her cheeks taste like tears. He loves her when her heart is wearing thin and her laugh makes her sounds invincible even when he knows she's not.
Then the distance between them is gone. And suddenly he's crying very hard. His tears are in her hair and he's telling her how much he misses her; chanting her name over and over again in the crevices of her neck until his throat burns.
Then he's cursing her, cursing himself, cursing this enigma, this manic pixie nightmare he's created out of her. He's cursing this never ending river of frustration he can't understand. This sadness so profound he wants to spend his days looking at the bottom of bottles trying to find a cure. He wants to taint his tongue with profanity, shed his skin, pass out in carpet burns.
Anything to get rid of this anxiety.
There's a feeling of metal in his throat, like he's swallowed a huge anchor. His head starts spinning and he collapses.
He feels oh-so-heavy, and the ground is both foreign and comfortable to him.
And he's thinking about how there is some kind of a lyrical masterpiece to be found in this gnawing pain. There's something to be romanticized about the toxins swimming in his body, and this ache deep within him. Just like how he can find poetry in the split ends of her hair. How he can recall the exact number of freckles on her left shoulder.
There's something absurdly beautiful about this tragic disaster.
She bends down to look at him, eyes ablaze in cold sobriety. "I'm worried about you, you know?" Tenderness dances along her furrowed brows. She looks as if she hadn't ingested a single drop of alcohol all night. She looks the way she used to. Soft curls, fair skin.
He blinks, and through his bleary vision he sees her give him the saddest look imaginable. The sight makes him feel sick to his stomach.
He slurs a half-assed acknowledgement to her concerns but what he really means is 'please don't leave me.'
She's getting hazier, hazier, and hazier. His voice rings incoherent. His words blur together like a ten thousand page novel lacking of punctuation. He wonders if he can hear her crying.
And it goes dark.
...
"Dude, you blacked out again last night."
He's got a killer headache, and he feels like there's an elephant sitting on his chest, but even that isn't enough to block out the sight of his best friend's grave countenance and exhausted features.
Groaning slowly, he shifts to his side. "Got an aspirin?"
"I'm being serious." But the redhead passes him a bottle of Advil anyways.
Uncapping the bottle takes all his effort, and even then his fingers can't reach the medication fast enough.
"You really had me worried there."
He swallows two without any water.
"Sorry man, just got caught up last night. Lost count of the drinks."
The rookie director's lips are a tight line. "This is the sixth time this has happened."
And there's silence that neither of them acknowledges.
Dez looks to be debating with himself about whether or not he should say something, before he coughs awkwardly.
"Al—uh, Ally wouldn't have wanted to see you like this." The silence this time is short but piercing. Then he continues on, like he's been holding his thoughts back for a while. "She really loved you, you know? And I'm sure it would kill her to see you like this."
The discomfort and lack of reply in the air is clear, so with that Dez gives his friend a curt nod, a pat on the shoulder and excuses himself from the room.
Austin blinks slowly. He can still hear her laughter from the previous night. Dead people aren't supposed to laugh.
His grip on the bottle of Advil is so tight it turns his knuckles white. He almost considers downing the entire bottle and putting himself out of his own misery, but the words Dez implants in his mind are enough for him to set it down.
But it doesn't stop him from finding himself back at the same bar. There's no violin in the chorus of the song currently playing in the bar to distract himself this time. Guess the alcohol sitting across from him on the counter will have to do.
He finishes a glass full of whiskey, embracing the sting it sends down his spine.
When he opens his eyes, she is there smiling at him.
He smiles back.
A/N: Believe it or not, this story actually started off being a sequel to For the Nights I Can't Remember. Then my demons took over.
I know this is bad, OOC, and weirdly angsty, but I hope it at least evoked some emotion. Because I feel like shit and I think we all have felt so mind numbingly frustrated that we wanted to bash our head through a wall and pass put in carpet burns.
Nevertheless, this is for Tiffany. I love you. You are my better half. Please don't leave me alone too long.