Hello! This is my first ever fic, please read and let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone in this story who also happens to exist in the real world.. that should cover it, right?
Oh, and are you meant to put warnings for bad language? Take this as a warning if you're offended by swearing and that!
Also, the title is taken from a My Chemical Romance song that has nothing to do with the story other than it sounded like it fit.
Dougie leaned against the wall outside the club, cigarette in hand, ears ringing from the music, enjoying the cool December air against his skin that was still hot from the night of drinking and dancing. He raised his hand to his lips, taking a long drag on his cigarette. These were the only times he really enjoyed smoking, while out clubbing with the guys. It gave him a bit of time away, a break from awkwardly talking to people he didn't know and dancing to music he wasn't even that into. Not that clubbing was an altogether negative activity, he just liked having an excuse to break up the evening every so often. Danny and Harry were both inside, Danny dancing with a tall blonde girl, and Harry, last Dougie had seen, was sitting in the corner, making out with a petite and pretty redhead. Tom had left early, as usual, and gone home to Gio who wasn't feeling well that night. The night was better before Tom left, Dougie thought, before it was just him and the two guys who were so absorbed in their attempts to chat up girls that they ended up totally ignoring him in the process.
God, that sounded pathetic. He thought for a minute maybe he could try it, try just finding some girl to hook up with, there were plenty of hot ones here. But he couldn't, not because he wasn't attracted to anyone, but because his head just wasn't in the right place for that right now, not so soon after everything that had happened with his ex. He felt like such a girl sometimes when he thought like that, weren't men meant to put sex before feelings or something like that?
A shiver ran through his body, as the heat from the club was replaced by the chill of the night air. He put his arms round himself, his t-shirt flapping around his body in the breeze. Along with the cold, a new wave of melancholic self-pity hit him. His best friends, his bandmates, didn't care enough to spend time with him, and his ex – he couldn't bring himself to even think her name tonight – well, obviously she didn't care. And even at the same time he was thinking this, he knew that it was, the first past at least, not so much true, but as a result of slightly too much Jack Daniels and a bad couple of weeks. He took his phone out of his pocket and pressed the screen on, to have the clock on it tell him that it was 2:38am. Perhaps it was time to head home, the first vaguely sensible thought he had had in a while. He put his hand to his lips once more and inhaled the final drag of his cigarette, before rolling the still-lit cigarette butt between his thumb and middle finger, and flicking out into the road. He watched as it landed in a puddle, extinguishing instantly.
Pushing himself away from the wall he was leaning on, Dougie prepared himself to leave. He contemplated going back in to tell Danny and Harry he was calling it a night, but decided against interrupting both of their attempts to pull, instead beginning the short walk towards the taxi rank, swaying slightly as he stumbled his feet along the ground. Perhaps it was a little more than slightly too much Jack Daniels. As he concentrated on making his feet move forwards without tripping over, Dougie became aware of quite how tired he was. It had been a while since he had slept properly They'd been busy lately, between writing new songs, recording them, interviews every other day, and getting ready for tour, along with his own recent drama. It was beginning to take its toll. Not far now though, he thought, rubbing his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes and lighter, in a vain attempt to wake himself up a bit. Stumbling along, he pushed a cigarette between his lips, and tried to make his hands, numb from the cold, make the lighter work. He was too busy concentrating on the lighter to see where he was going.
"Oi, watch where you're fucking going, fag." Dougie heard, as he felt himself collide with a body. He looked up. There were three guys, each one tall and broad, hoods pulled up over their heads, shielding their faces from view.
"Oh, uh, I-I-I'm sorry." Dougie mumbled, trying to regain what little composure he had previously. His unlit cigarette and fallen from his mouth in the collision, and Dougie shoved his lighter back into the pocket of his black skinny jeans, keeping his eyes down, ready to keep on walking.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" The one standing to the left said. It wasn't so much a question as an accusation.
Dougie kept his head down and began to step away, just wanting to get home, go to bed, and to get as far away from this night as fast as possible.
"Oi, he asked you a fucking question, fag." The first one said, stepping in Dougie's way. Dougie smelled alcohol on breath, but he wasn't sure if it was coming from him or these three, or perhaps both.
Dougie stayed quiet. Or rather, he tried to stay quiet as a slight whimper escaped from his lips. Oh shut up, he thought to himself, there's nothing to be scared of, don't be such a pansy, it's just some stupid drunk guys who don't have enough brain cells between them to think up a better insult than "fag". His best attempt at a pep talk running through his head on a loop, his legs willing him to run far away.
"I said, he asked you a fucking question." The first one said again slower this time, his face bent down only inches away from Dougie's. Dougie opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could form, he felt the searing pain of a fist colliding with his cheek. Dougie recoiled, falling to the floor instantly, his legs no longer strong enough to hold him. Shock overcame him, nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he couldn't sift through everything in his head to figure out what he was supposed to do, so he just lay, curled into himself, the pavement cold and wet against his side. He tasted salty metal in his mouth as blood dripped from his nose and where the inside of his mouth had been hit against his teeth. He winced in pain as he felt shoes connect with his stomach violently, hitting him repeatedly. He lay as still as he could, only moving with each hit, conscious the entire time, eyes clenched shut, and, worse of all, suddenly sober, loosing the cushion of his drunkenness to dull the pain. He felt his eyes hot and stinging with tears, willing them to stop, willing everything to stop, wishing that they would just leave, or that someone was here, or that someone would help, or that they could at least, at the very least, knock him unconscious so that he couldn't have to feel anything anymore.