Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts or 'Sometime Around Midnight' by the Airborne Toxic Event
A/N: Man, I haven't posted anything for a while…I'm so sorry :'(. Everything's been really crazy, what with school starting and schedule changes and homework and extracurricular and the drama that comes with teenage life. Urgh. How very frustrating.
Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this little one-shot. It's not terribly long, and it's unedited, but it's something, so…yeah. R&R? Please?
"I think we should break up."
It hurts a little more than you think it should and maybe that's a good thing, but it feels like it's probably not. But you've never been very emotional, seriously, so you just sigh and hang your head with a wistful sort of resignation (you should stop reading so much poetry) and say, yeah, okay, it's probably for the best. You may be imagining things – and you do believe that to be the case – but it almost looks like he's disappointed in your reaction. It's a little anti-climatic, you'll admit, but isn't he the one telling you that you two shouldn't be together? What an ass.
"I'll see you later, then. I'll pick up my stuff sometime this week."
Okay, you agree. Alright, that works. See you then. Call me before you come over. He stands. Turns to leave. But right when he's about to walk out there door, wait, you call, where are you going to stay?
The hesitation should be hint enough, but you've never been terribly in-tune to that kind of thing, but when his lips start moving and the mangled sounds of his words start falling onto your ears, something breaks.
"At my b – at a friend's house."
And shit, even you know what that means. Your lips tighten before you know what you're doing and you shoot to your feet, the loud scraaape of the chair like a gunshot against your pounding eardrums as you push past him. You can accept someone falling out of whatever it was. Understand someone getting tired of being with you, because, come on, you're really not that interesting. But you can't understand being with a 'friend' when you've been with another 'friend' for- what? Three, four years?
You don't know if you're supposed to feel worse than this, but if you are, than you're damn lucky you don't.
And it starts, sometime around midnight.
Or at least that's when you lose yourself
for a minute or two.
"Hey, man, come on – let's go out."
As a general rule, you try to avoid going out. You don't like crowds, or people in general, for that matter, and seriously, what's the appeal of going somewhere specifically to get smashed when it's so much easier just to do that at home. There's nothing remotely special about tonight, but hey, why not, right? Your friends have been bugging you for the last couple of weeks to get together, anyways, and it's Friday and you just got paid. Might as well.
So you say yeah, okay. Hang up your phone, grab your coat, your keys, your wallet, and leave, head down the four flights of stairs between your apartment and the ground floor and start making your way down the street to the bar where some band is playing. You don't really want to get drunk, or anything, so you'll have one beer. Maybe two.
As you stand, under the bar lights.
And the band plays some song
about forgetting yourself for a while.
Around your fifth or sixth glass of red wine, you notice that the clock says hey asshole, it's sometime around midnight and where did all your friends go? It's a good question and you look around for them. What douchebags, where did they go? You think that's one of them, making out with that girl over there. How many vodka cranberries have they had? Idiot. You snort, completely out of dignity, as you take another sip of your drink. Some of it goes up your nose and god damn that hurts!
You just happen to glance up, towards the door. It's one of those unintentional things where you don't even notice you're doing it until BAM! Rockets explode behind your eyes at the swirl of blonde and ocean blue at the door, at the beautiful person who was once yours hangs on the arm of some silver haired moron looking so miserably forced-happy that it makes you sick. Your chest clenches, but it shouldn't; your eyes prickle, but they shouldn't. He's smiling, but's it's not real.
You're supposed to be over this. Supposed to be able to wave at him as he catches your eye amiably. The pleasant warmth that has been filling you vanishes, whoosh, in the half-second in takes for your breathing to stop. You bought him that shirt, on your first date, at that concert. The air you're breathing feels toxic.
You're not supposed to be feeling like this.
And the piano's this melancholy soundtrack to her smile.
And that white dress she's wearing
you haven't seen her for a while.
His eyes flit away from you, like you're not right there. He's watching you, though. You can feel it, feel the way his eyes burn into the side of your face as you try so hard to find someone to talk to. You do, some cute other blonde with a tattoo on his face and blue eyes that, in your drunken haze, if you squint, kind of look like his. This blonde laughs at your jokes. He touches your arm. And his eyes find yours after awhile and do you wanna get out of here?
And he's still watching, you know he is, and you think about it. You think about it really, really hard and evidently you think too long, too, because the blonde huffs and leaves. Just like that.
But you know, that she's watching.
She's laughing, she's turning.
She's holding her tonic like a cross.
The room's suddenly spinning.
A throat clears behind you. You turn and there he is, in all his glory, wearing that t-shirt (it must have shrunk in the wash because it wasn't that tight last time you saw him, when he broke your h – broke up with you) and smiling. It looks realer this time, but his eyes are screaming something and you don't know what.
"Hey," he says. "How are you?"
You don't answer for a couple seconds and you're pretty sure that your jaw is hanging open like a moron. Jesus, you're stupid. But that's okay, because he sort of giggles (you know he'd call it a chuckle, but it's too girly for that) and you can smell him, his cologne. It's spicy and makes your nose tingle (which isn't nearly as romantic as you think). I'm okay, you answer. How are you?
"Good. I'd love to talk, but I've got to get back. Nice to see you."
And god damn it, that's the biggest lie of the whole century because you know that it's not just nice to see him, it's fantastic, amazing, makes you float high with ecstasy. But he doesn't say that, just touches your shoulder. Then he's gone.
She walks up and asks how you are.
So you can smell her perfume.
You can see her lying naked in your arms.
You two didn't have sex for three whole months before he broke it off with you.
Well, no; that's not entirely true. You had sex. But you can remember that time when you first asked him if it would be alright and clear as day in your mind you hear, as if he's saying it right next to you:
"I don't ever want to have sex with you." At your disappointed and crestfallen face, he blushed and murmured, "I want to make love with you. Is that okay? Can we do that?"
You don't know why you're thinking about this, but nostalgia fills you with a dull throb in the back of your throat as you stare across the bar at him all wrapped up in the silver haired prick, you wonder if he said that same thing to him. And if he did, did the other guy agree, like you did? Did he brush back his hair and whisper how much that meant, like you did? Did he hold him in his arms as he fell asleep, kissing softly along his face? Like you did?
And so there's a change, in your emotions.
And all these memories come rushing
like feral waves to your mind.
Of the curl of your bodies,
like two perfect circles entwined.
And you feel hopeless and homeless
and lost in the haze of the wine.
He's leaving. He just got here and he's leaving because whoever it is he's with – whoever it is that he's with that isn't you – saw you and got this face¸ this look, like you're the scum of the earth when really, he's the one you should be looking down on because he's the one who stole something so very special away from you. That something special, he looks straight at you, is he apologetic? Then he leaves and god damn this all seems so wrong because you don't even know the other guy's name.
Somehow, you manage to stumble to your feet and tilt your head all the way back to a ninety-degree angle to slam the rest of your wine down your throat. The crowd is thick and heady with sweat and lust, with loneliness and alcohol. It's too much, it's overwhelming, and shit, you think you're gonna pass out –
Then she leaves, with someone you don't know.
But she makes sure you saw her.
She looks right at you and bolts.
"Woah, dude, are you okay? You don't look so good."
Your friend – what's his name, again? – has a hand on your chest and a look of concern on his face. Attached to him is that tattooed blonde you chatted up earlier and god, you must look bad (maybe even worse than you feel and that would be quite the feat because you think maybe you're going to puke than run then fall over) because even he has the expression of what's up with him? You shake your head, shake off the hand, and then you're out the door.
As she walks out the door,
your blood boiling
your stomach in ropes.
Oh and when your friends say,
"What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."
As you make your way outside, the cold sometime-around-midnight air hits you like a hard slap in the face, like a million sharp needles suddenly pricking your overheated skin. Not even the booze is keeping you warm now but that doesn't really matter, does it? Not when you're chasing after the one thing that you now realize is the most important thing you've ever had.
You think maybe people are staring at you. Maybe laughing. Who doesn't laugh at drunk people? Who really cares right now?
Then you walk, under the streetlights.
And you're too drunk to notice,
that everyone is staring at you.
You just don't care what you look like;
the world is falling around you.
Where is he?
Where is he?
Where is he?
Where is he?
Where is he?
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
The only thing he says when you finally catch up to him is:
"You're drunk."
No, you say, no I'm not. The silver haired guy is staring at you, confused, then glaring at you because isn't it obvious what you're doing here? You bend over at the waist, hands on your knees, panting. Running's never been your strong suit. Then you straighten up, look him straight in the eye, hold out your hand to him and for the first time in forever, it's like you can find your voice.
"Let's go."
He looks so torn, turns his pretty, pretty gaze from your hand to your face to the silver haired guy –
And.
You know that she'll break you in two.