It's weird when it happens. Papers are signed, things are divided and packed, dust collects. It's just weird. But the weirdest thing? Their table stays empty. There's something so odd about it. Carlos the bartender called him once and asked him if his life was turning out to be the plot of a Bette Midler film. ("Ah, no.")
But the weirdest thing is how quiet it is. How quiet it gets. There's no more laser tag. No more high fives. No more "All riiiiiiight, Scherbotskay!" There's just silence and cleared throats and "Well, if that's all, I'm just...gonna go." And this shouldn't be happening to them because, well, they're BarneyandRobin and MarshallandLily-and-Ted don't work without them.
Robin moves to Queens, for God's sake, and Barney switches to a new building in Midtown. And there's so much traveling, going here and there, the sound of steel trains against rusty tracks and the squealing of brakes that aren't quite hydraulic--their break-up is too much like New York. Loud until it isn't.
He remembers the wine glasses against the wall, the breaking of objects. She even lit something on fire. But there was always make-up sex. Angry make-up sex. Angry fantastic make-up sex that he would have to hear about in excruciating detail while they smiled at each other. But the smiles were fragile and the make-up sex a little too rough and now, there's nothing.
He meets Barney at McClaren's for the first time in a long time, but Barney got there early and is starting the night with a bottle of tequila. Each shot is a bullet. "What's up?" It's been a while since concern showed up at their table. Marshall and Lily are away--kids at summer camp or regional championships or something. Away, away, away.
His words are interwoven with the sound of shot glasses hitting table, loud and crisp.
"She's." Slam. "Getting." Slam. "Married." Slam.
And he should not be drinking this much this quickly, but Barney always was one for self-destruction. He sees a bit of the hippie Barney again, the one who had his heart broken and swept the pieces under the rug rather than trying to piece it together because it was easier. Easier. And the second time he dances, it breaks again.
There's not enough scotch tape in the world. Not enough scotch.
By the end of the night, Barney can barely stand up and he has to drag him back to his Midtown apartment, which tries to recreate his former apartment's glory. But it's a shambles. Not literally. His place is practically like Lex Luthor's (ohmigod, Barney is Lex...all right, maybe not), but--it's devoid of spirit.
Barney collapses on the sofa with a, "Leamme 'lone, I'b fine." The slight sound of snoring.
And he leaves, letting the door click shut behind him. That'll be a hell of a hangover he'll have tomorrow.
But it's not quite as bad as the hangover he has from living the life he did. And no amount of slutty wasted chicks or real Armani is going to fix it. But God knows he'll try. But not with Bon Jovi. He threw those away.