Somewhere between a club, another club, five shots of vodka, two redbulls and some chick licking the side of his face, Dante started to wonder why. Why he did any of this. Why he was addicted to waking up in unknown places with unknown people. He thought about it too much, which he really shouldn't have done. Thinking about things and getting wasted don't go well together, the second you lose your inhibitions—you lose the ability to understand what's okay to say out loud and what's not, everything goes down hill and you turn into one of those erratic drunks that lye out in the middle of the sidewalk at four o'clock in the morning, sobbing to some local cat about how fucked up their life is.

Dante found that to be the foundation of his first downward spiral, eyes glazed over as he trudged through the club, shoving anyone in his path. He wasn't supposed to get piss drunk, not here—getting piss drunk was reserved for overrated high school parties with red plastic cups and shitty pop music. This was a carded club, with bars of people staring at him—like they knew, they knew he was just a stupid kid that didn't understand anything—and he'd simply flip them off while demanding another drink.

It was at this point that Nero came to the rescue, like he so often did, pulling his best friend from being slumped over the bar and leaving behind a hundred and a apology. He wondered if Nero knew why. Knew why they kept on doing this. Kept on doing things that were adherently self destructive. He also wondered why his best friend kept putting up with his bullshit. "C'mon. We're going home before somebody calls the cops."

Somewhere in the back of his alcohol hazed mind, Dante was agreeing. Somewhere—but it was buried deep, deep down, beyond the point that kept screaming random expletives "No! I d'wanna leave! Stop it! Stop it!" Whining, bitching, kid-like tantrums. This is what he'd been reduced to. Worse than those drunken girls that threw themselves at him. God, that made him feel sour. "I dun fells so good."

Nero guided him to the bathroom—the single in the very back they knew about, the one the employees used—at that point, rubbing his arms a bit too soothingly, he noted. It felt nice.

And Dante collapsed somewhere close to a toilet once the door shut, so many vivid colors spilling into the clean white bowl. Puke. Always smelled like puke. If it didn't smell like puke then it smelled like sex. Nothing was certain about partying but sex and puke. Like death and taxes.

He was sobbing for some unknown reason he really couldn't understand at that point. Sobbing and puking and confirming that thinking and getting wasted didn't mix. But he was lucky enough to have around the one person that wouldn't care. Whereas the other guys on his team would've punched him across the face and told him to man up. Man the fuck up, you pussy, I'll shove a tampon down your throat if you don't stop crying like a bitch. Be this. Be that. Be yourself as long as it's exactly what we want.

Except—Nero wasn't saying that.

He was murmuring soft, unmanly stabs at comfort. Are you alright? Are you alright? Make sure you're alright. You gonna puke again? Need some water? Breathe. Just breathe. I think you've had enough to drink for one night; we should head back to your place after this so you can lye down.

Dante couldn't decide what it was at that moment.

Maybe it was the intoxicatingly putrid smell of puke just inches from his nose. Maybe it was way the tiled floor felt underneath his ass or the way the alcohol still burned at the back of his throat. Or maybe, probably, it the way the vivid lights spread over his best friend's tan skin that made him blurt out something as crazy as, "You're pretty." The aim wasn't right—ignoring the fact that a guy isn't allowed to physically compliment another dude without their masculinity (sexuality) being called into question—using something like 'handsome' instead, would have at least left room for his dignity. But Dante was grasping at straws here, flopping back and forth like a fish out of water, not quite sure where his brain went and when it'll possibly be back.

"You're drunk." Clear cut. Straight with no humor. Like vodka without a chaser—the tone of voice stung.

"Yeah." He leaned forward, thought about it. Couldn't dig much more of an explanation for why or how he felt at that moment. Figured it didn't really matter at this point. "Yeah."

"And yourbreath smells like puke." Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted that it hadn't been 'and you're a guy' or even 'and you're my best friend.' Noted this the same time that he noted the way Nero rubbed his nose, the way his lip would twitch, the little mannerisms he acquired when he was nervous.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Thinking again. Always thinking. Too much thinking. Dante couldn't understand how he'd gotten here, how life turned into one black-out after another. Okay, well, he knew how he had gotten there—he just couldn't understand when he had gotten to this point of resentment. His older brother had done this, all of it, had partied the years away and came out reminiscing what once was. He loved it, was a legend around school, had done it all and made it sound glorious. But Dante didn't want it—didn't want any of it.

He wanted Nero, though, that much had become clear at the moment.

Again he comes back to the fact that drinking and thinking didn't mix. Because when you started thinking too hard, you start realizing things. When you start thinking too hard, your underlying emotions start taking charge. When you start thinking too hard, you'll ultimately say stupid things like, "I love you." It wasn't even a manly 'I love you, man' with a half hug and a blank face. It was a straight forward, romance worthy, pussy confession.

He'd be surprised if Nero didn't kick his drunken ass. He deserved it. God, did he deserve it.

"Yeah." Nose rubbed hard, lip twitching erratically. "Yeah, I know." His best friend held out a lone hand—Dante almost flinching in expectance of a fist—trying to half smile but failing when his lips wouldn't stop shaking. "Ready to go?"

Fucked. That's what he was. So, so fucked. And he wondered how much of this he would evenremember in the morning. Couldn't decide if he wanted to or not.

Dante simply said fuck it, figured Nero would do enough figuring out for the both of them.