Mamoru was drunk. In fact, he was piss drunk. He was in a bar,
tottering precariously on a stool, staring at the empty shot glass in front
of him. How long have I been here, staring at an empty shot glass? Better
fill it up. He waved to the bartender, a tall brunette, who eyed him
suspiciously but filled the glass without a word.
Now he was staring at a full shot glass. Mamoru was suddenly nauseous. He shifted on his stool, attempted to stand, failed miserably, and crashed to the ground in a heap. His senses were so dulled that he barely noticed the transition—he only dimly realized that he was on the floor. His stomach was no better off for the fall. Mamoru was too weak to move, and simply let his head sag against the bar. He closed his eyes.
And woke up to the bartender shaking him rudely by the shoulder. She was saying something about the management, and he thought he heard the word "worthless," and then she went on for some time in a loud, aggravated tone. She looked very angry. Mamoru tried to say "all right" and choked. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"All right," he muttered. Then, only slightly more clearly, "All right!" The bartender quit shaking him.
"You okay?" she asked, still pissed off but calmer now that he was responding.
"Yeah," he mumbled. He didn't dare try anything more complicated than that just yet.
"Manager doesn't like bums. You want to stay, you stay on your seat. If you're gonna pass out again, you have to leave." If Mamoru had been able to hear the tone of her voice, he might have treated her with more respect.
Instead, he just said, "Yeah."
The bartender huffed, annoyed, and went off, probably to find a bouncer.
Mamoru tried to stand. After a lengthy period of clumsily fumbling about, he was successful. His stomach felt a little better. Somehow, he managed to scoot himself back onto the stool that he'd fallen off of some time before.
And he was staring at a full shot glass.
What am I doing here? he asked himself.
The answer came from somewhere in the back of his mind; running. You're running from your memories.
So many memories. Mamoru could see blonde hair, blue eyes, a sea of rose bushes and starlight. But the happy image quickly faded into nightmare; Usagi falling to her death, Usagi drowning beneath ice, Usagi screaming horrifically as she was murdered. Worst of all he could see Usagi sobbing quietly as she steeled herself for the end, and then ran herself through with his sword. I can't let her die again. She died for me before. I couldn't save her. I killed her. I killed her once but I won't do it again, I can't let it happen again.... He was staring at a full shot glass. Mamoru felt helpless. He willed his sluggish arm toward the glass, forced his unresponsive fingers to close around it. Somehow, he found the strength to raise the drink toward his lips. There's nothing I can do, he thought, staring at the brown liquid—tequila?—that sloshed unsteadily out of the cup. I couldn't save her before. How can I save her now? Mamoru looked into his glass, feeling useless and worthless, and really drunk. He took the shot.
Now he was staring at a full shot glass. Mamoru was suddenly nauseous. He shifted on his stool, attempted to stand, failed miserably, and crashed to the ground in a heap. His senses were so dulled that he barely noticed the transition—he only dimly realized that he was on the floor. His stomach was no better off for the fall. Mamoru was too weak to move, and simply let his head sag against the bar. He closed his eyes.
And woke up to the bartender shaking him rudely by the shoulder. She was saying something about the management, and he thought he heard the word "worthless," and then she went on for some time in a loud, aggravated tone. She looked very angry. Mamoru tried to say "all right" and choked. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"All right," he muttered. Then, only slightly more clearly, "All right!" The bartender quit shaking him.
"You okay?" she asked, still pissed off but calmer now that he was responding.
"Yeah," he mumbled. He didn't dare try anything more complicated than that just yet.
"Manager doesn't like bums. You want to stay, you stay on your seat. If you're gonna pass out again, you have to leave." If Mamoru had been able to hear the tone of her voice, he might have treated her with more respect.
Instead, he just said, "Yeah."
The bartender huffed, annoyed, and went off, probably to find a bouncer.
Mamoru tried to stand. After a lengthy period of clumsily fumbling about, he was successful. His stomach felt a little better. Somehow, he managed to scoot himself back onto the stool that he'd fallen off of some time before.
And he was staring at a full shot glass.
What am I doing here? he asked himself.
The answer came from somewhere in the back of his mind; running. You're running from your memories.
So many memories. Mamoru could see blonde hair, blue eyes, a sea of rose bushes and starlight. But the happy image quickly faded into nightmare; Usagi falling to her death, Usagi drowning beneath ice, Usagi screaming horrifically as she was murdered. Worst of all he could see Usagi sobbing quietly as she steeled herself for the end, and then ran herself through with his sword. I can't let her die again. She died for me before. I couldn't save her. I killed her. I killed her once but I won't do it again, I can't let it happen again.... He was staring at a full shot glass. Mamoru felt helpless. He willed his sluggish arm toward the glass, forced his unresponsive fingers to close around it. Somehow, he found the strength to raise the drink toward his lips. There's nothing I can do, he thought, staring at the brown liquid—tequila?—that sloshed unsteadily out of the cup. I couldn't save her before. How can I save her now? Mamoru looked into his glass, feeling useless and worthless, and really drunk. He took the shot.