He reached his apartment door, breathing out a sigh as he felt solidarity bitterly return. Hands went into pockets and he winced when the biting coldness of keys touched his already-battered fingertips. "Shit." He muttered. A Skeleton-pale hand reached to the lock and twisted the key causing a satisfying click to echo. He didn't know whether or not he wanted to face another night in the apartment alone again, it was starting to make him feel sick. That stomach-churning feeling of isolation mixed with a nauseating dose of 'the mean reds'. What would Holly Golightly do? Of course, getting hammered wasn't an option tonight. No cash.
He was considering going downtown, seeing which poor bastard he could lazily seduce. It was getting easier for him to make money this way. The number he felt, the easier it was to get the job over and done with. No guilt or regrets. Simple.
"Fuck it." He sighed as his arm heavily swung open the door, darkness was there waiting for him. Coat, shoes, jacket and tie all landed on the floor. It wasn't even worth turning on the light tonight, what good would it do? These days all the light did was remind him that he was fucking alone. "Alone." The word looped over and over like a circuit. What a horrible word.
It was when he heard a noise that the circuit broke. He frowned slightly as his eyes adjusted to the dark, trying to remove the lingering paranoia in the room. The door was still slightly open where an angle of synthetic bright light illuminated a patch of carpet. Right now, it was starting to look comforting in contrast to the stubborn blackness he was standing in. He moved towards the light of the corridor, not feeling particularly anything but the aching lull of tiredness. His mouth felt dry and that black coffee still sat at the back of his throat. It was late. An aching palm rested against the door and swiftly forced it shut; the remaining light fled the room.
Seconds later, there was a knock. He winced at the sound. It was a joke, wasn't it? Or his imagination. There couldn't be anyone at the door. It wasn't possible. Another, sharper knock denied these thoughts.
He bit his lip as the hand rested on the handle. He felt awful and a familiar feeling was creeping up in his chest, leaving him breathless. Not him, not tonight. The handle gave into defeat. Door opened.
"You bastard."
He wasn't sure what hit him first, the perfume of cigarettes or piercing aquamarine eyes. But it was suffocating, that's all he knew.
He remembered falling back on the bed, with mouths locked and eyes shut. He remembered impatient hands ripping off shirts and the desperate warmth of bodies against eachother. He remembered the flood of mumbled "I love you"s in between each breath and kiss and hug. He remembered the teary eyed apology and running his hands through tangled hair before falling back onto the bed and the bittersweet monsoon started again.