Suggested Listening: Satellite Call by Sarah Barellies
-Start-
He was there again. The same place he always was at this time of day: The Bar.
And he would be there until closing. Drinking had never held much appeal to him; had never liked the taste, the smell, or how it affected those around him. Funny how he ended up seated in the very same spot he swore to never so much as glance at. He supposed—as he sloshed the amber liquid inside the glass—it was a cruel sort of irony that the very reason he swore to leave the drink alone would be the excuse he used to do it.
He smirked ruefully before downing the shot and ordering another. This time, something with more spark. He wanted to be hammered by the time he left. Unable to remember his own name, never mind whose birthday it was on that cold day in December.
His fingers tightened around the tiny glass so hard he imagined he could break it. With a carefully controlled breath, he eased up and set the glass to the bar top. No need to hurry the night along anyway. He had until closing, which was more than a few hours away.
Maybe they would even forget to ask for his keys this time too.
If "anyone" could hear his thoughts he'd be scoffed at. "You would be a morose drunk, wouldn't you?" they would say, hand on a slim hip and face scrunched in disdain.
He...missed him.
"Too many memories," he muttered and downed the new drink. Not enough to drink to drown them out. He ordered another. And another.
And soon he was able to laugh with the girl next to him, get into her flirting a little. She was pretty. Long blond hair, with cerulean eyes—perhaps a bit too much makeup, and her lashes were probably fake, like other things on her. But she was safe. She was far enough away from his memories to distract him.
And that was all he needed that night.
Not a replacement.
A simple distraction.
And he got it. In the backseat of his car, against his dirty apartment building hallway steps, and even in bed—shocking really they had made it that far without passing out.
His last thoughts of the day—half past four in the morning, and past the previous day as well—was that he was entirely too drunk to be this disgusted with himself. But as usual, that never stopped him.
He rolled away from the woman, and when a lazy arm curled over his side like someone who should be far more familiar than a one-night stand ought to be, he let himself pretend, just for once, that Mello was back in his life again.
-Finish-
Disclaimer: I do not own or make money from the anime Death Note
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