he can feel the cold bottle in his hand.

he glances down at it dispassionately, wondering what it would be like if he smashed it -

- smashed it and used the pieces to cut -

because physical pain always was the simplest thing to deal with

but he can't feel his legs.

they've just sort of gone numb from lack of movement, and it annoys him -

- it's not just his legs that are numb anymore -

because seriously he needs to walk out of the place in just...a few...minutes...

he wants to feel nothing.

numbness doesn't count because if he feels numb he's feeling something, dammit -

- and he doesn't want to feel a fucking thing-

not that it matters because the cheap beer isn't helping his case in the slightest

it's making him feel everything.

he feels the compact air around him, the gryrating bodies in slow motion -

- and he wants it all gone before he gets sucked into it -

and most importantly he feels the tender bruise on his cheek that everyone's ignoring

because it's not like it's any of their business, you know, he's just some kid

hanging around the mansion, breathing in the tangy greenish smoke and

- drinking his mother's vodka, oh how proud she'd be -

pretending like he doesn't know the girl up in one of the spare bedrooms

she's got the biggest brown eyes anyone ever saw

and everyone said they were filled with tears when she ran up the stairs

- and like the dumbshit he is he followed her -

and really it was just stupid of him to ever think he might've had a chance

stupid, stupid, when she had the perfect guy already who

treated her like the princess she ought to be

- not the absolute whore she was -

and whose touch was some kind of loving caress

but it's not like he'll ever know that kind of touch

it was reserved for her, and her alone

- because she was the daughter the precious flower -

he was simply the troublemaker who had his rebel stage a bit too late because

that perfect guy

he's the king

- he always was -

and what he says, goes.

(even if what he says is killing them all in the long run)

(it's not as though he really gives a damn)

not in the slightest.

xx

note; If you don't get it, that's fine. I don't really get it, either. The Host Club turned into some kind whorehouse, apparently. I don't even understand my own brain.