pity partier

Tom Marvolo Riddle

the dark lord
Inactive
Jul 19, 2015
1,892
portland, oregon
mantacarlos.tumblr.com
Pronouns
he/him/his

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?"
 

Poppy

Well-Known Member
Inactive
Mar 18, 2015
3,930
Don't talk to me on August thirty-first, Rhys told him a while back, warning him about his birthday. August thirty-first. That was today. Neon got up at four that day, body aching all over, head in a daze. He buttoned up his shirt and thought of August thirty-first. August thirty-first, happy birthday, Rhysie. A greeting probably wouldn't be kosher.

Something was going to happen today. He could feel it in his gut.

But he couldn't clock off. It was a Wednesday. It was always a busy day at the brothel. He supposed it was his fault, coming into a business owned by two big names. Klaus Rosales knew how to hype people up. The brothel was packed during Dinner time, and he'd grown to accept that bartender didn't just mean solving alcoholic drinks. He made several milkshakes, memorizing the formula by now — ice and sugar first, ice cream later, then whipped cream. A little girl told him how pretty his hair was.

His phone was going crazy in his pocket.

After the last quirky family left the store, which was around nine, Neon served the real guests their drinks. He flirted a bit, paired people up with some of his co-workers, and teased that they should wait for him after Midnight, Cinderella. When things settled down, Neon hung out at the end of the counter, slouching and checking all his unread messages.

There were texts from a few people, but they were predominantly Rhys. There was that sinking gut feeling again, right on the money. Neon read them one by one, not sure which one to respond to first, really. It was all drunk, oversharing nonsense. He took a few sips of beer, sent Rhys some reassuring words. He didn't know what else to say to this. In the end, he set his phone aside for a few hours. Midnight hit, and Neon went to the backroom, changing out of his vest and slacks to something a little more provocative: leather pants, a high red thong, and what looked like a red shirt that exposed his midriff.

He checked his phone again. That seemed to be the end of it. It wasn't. It was a call this time, and Neon left the bar and went back to the employee lounge, heart racing a mile a minute. Don't talk to him, he said. But Rhys' state was so familiar. He was in a dark place. He remembered himself blacked out in that alley, covered in vomit and piss, despair over his head, threatening to destroy him. Neon didn't know Rhys, but he knew this. How could he say no to him when he'd been through all of that, too?

"Yeah, yeah," he said, running a hand through his hair. Neon was concerned. He wondered, what could he even offer Rhys? He hoped that the alcohol dulled things, and he could urge him to cry it out until he fell asleep. Anything else felt like it was going to be an utter disaster. "Meet me at Temptations at the Strip, Rhys. It's the brothel that looks like a church. I'll be at the bar."
 

Tom Marvolo Riddle

the dark lord
Inactive
Jul 19, 2015
1,892
portland, oregon
mantacarlos.tumblr.com
Pronouns
he/him/his
The surprise Rhys felt over Neon actually accepting his needy, needy request was a dull, cold version of the emotion, accompanied with the thought 'poor bastard'. Nobody should be so naive as to deal with him around this time of year, not by choice-- or at any time of the year, for that matter.

He always laughed at all the stupid men and women that were drawn in by his pretty face. He knew that if it weren't for his face, his money, the talent, they wouldn't bother. People loved to claim kindness and caring for others as human beings, but of course, the tragic individuals they were here to save always happened to be pretty. Rhys happened to be very, very pretty indeed, and the way he looked when in tears inspired cooing and exaggerated promises that wouldn't be fulfilled. A man only half as attractive would never get away with acting like Rhys did. This knowledge had settled in his gut with a great heaviness.

Temptations, huh? He knew the place, and remembered Neon worked there. Hadn't been in yet, himself. He loved his alcohol, but was a little shifty on Rosales businesses when they first popped up. Didn't want ol' Klaus to assume he was getting any ideas, so he tended to wait. It'd been a while since it opened, so he figured this would be fine. "Will do! Bar sounds perfect right about now." He laughed. "Can't get hungover if you never stop drinking, right? I want to see what kind of racy outfit they have you wear, too. I'll be over in a bit." He made sure to hang up before there could be any awkward, over the phone oh honey moments.

Rhys inhaled and exhaled deeply, hand pressed to his forehead. After a moment, he shoved his hands in his pockets and set off. He walked the whole way, as the distance wasn't too far, and fuck if he'd be able to stand being on public transportation right then. In the strip, Temptations wasn't something you could miss. Gothic church with swirls of roses, all lit up in the night like a beacon.

Rhys preened at his hair and adjusted his clothes while stepping inside, self conscious about being more presentable in this setting. He choked out a laugh at the combination of classy and absurd. He supposed, he supposed that he could fit here. His eyes lingered on a few paintings he saw on the wall, though he knew he couldn't risk it. The sexy devil waiters he saw received smiles, as did some of the prostitutes he saw interested in approaching him, though he also waved a hand at them and made straight for the bar.

Rhys dropped onto a barstool like a bag of bricks, slouching, resting his chin in a palm. He looked at Neon from under his drooping eyelashes, letting the soft music on settle into him. Uncharacteristically quiet, right then, though it was unlikely to last. His smile was more sheepish now. "Hey there. Nice look. So, you have any fun, demon themed beverages on the menu? The curiosity is killing me."
 
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