Strobe lights bursting like fire, like bullets, with the way it made his head pound and ache. Rhys' everything was spinning, but he could barely feel it with how numb his body was. He flip flopped between rooms and people, rambling and snapping and sobbing until he was bumped and pushed to the edge of a balcony, hands hitting the railing with an audible clap. Out into the dark blue blanket of the night, instead of noise and human contact. It was peaceful for the briefest of moments. Cold air nipping at his skin. Goosebumps. A shiver down his spine.
His hands slipped, and it was all a jolt of complete terror through his haze of alcohol and drug induced emptiness. Like electricity, touching an exposed, sparking wire and watching yourself come alight. He was alive, before he knew he'd be dead. He closed his eyes for just a second, wondering if hitting the pavement like this would be just as peaceful as the refreshing midnight was. How much would it hurt, when his head cracked open on the ground? How beautiful would it be, that color of red, with the sky's shade of blue?
Body contorted oddly, he caught himself on the railing again, swallowing thickly. He was frozen there for a moment, fear paralyzing. After a while, he slurred something about heart attacks and tried to move on. Go back inside to the party. Before he so much as stepped forward he had to turn back and vomit, down into the back alley, coughing and sputtering and tearing up a little. Whatever he'd had in his stomach looking absolutely disgusting. He whimpered and wiped his mouth on his sleeve pitifully. This was the fucking worst. He felt like human garbage. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be anywhere. He didn't know how he continued to do so.
He picked at cigarette butts on the ground after his knees gave out. In his odd moment of clarity, Rhys tried to figure out what time it was and where he'd even gone. He massaged one of his temples, hissing as it stung, and looked at his phone through blurred vision. It wasn't midnight yet, like he'd been telling himself. He took a flask out from his jacket and downed it. Then, he looked through his phone contacts, made bad decisions, and said stupid things. He'd blacked out by the time he was done.
It was way past midnight when Rhys regained consciousness again, and he woke up to someone trying to touch him. He recoiled instantly, whipped a pistol out, and shot them several times in the chest-- without even thinking. His breathing was shallow and he couldn't remember, at first, how he got here. Then he recalled.
It was August thirty-first, his birthday. That day he nearly drank himself into a coma every year. That day he fucked everything he could up, like a tradition. He dug into his pants pockets frantically for his phone while the corpse hit the floor. Checked it. Saw it was over. He didn't feel relief. He just felt… he… Christ, he'd sent a lot of texts. He stood, stepped over the body to hurry the fuck out of there, and read over them as he went. They were all so typical. Trash, trash, trash. Talk of his life story, issues, and childish attention seeking pity parties. Certainly made no secret of his state. He saw Neon there, and shrank into himself.
That was horrible. He hadn't wanted to make a fool out of himself in front of this guy. Still, as he stepped out into the city, he thought to himself, not out of his volatile state yet at all (but lying to himself that he was), that he'd already done so. Too late to not make a fool of himself. What would the harm be, now? He shakily called Neon.
"Hi," he said, voice small. He grinned, though nobody could see it. "I'm very lonely. Can I come see you?"