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prompt ft. ' angel eyes '
PROMPT:
" do you have somewhere safe to stay? "
and it's just so typical, isn't it? the way ankles cross and weight shuffles among his feet, how he's nearly stumbling with every step against the pavement.
is it somewhere in Nevada that is supposed to be a vortex of good energy? no, no - that's Arizona. of course it could not be where his feet have taken him. there is no sunshine, the warmth of a positive air. there are only clouds that hang over his head, illuminated with the cracking of thunder and lightning. a deep shade of gray that threatens to pour over him.
but how can he think about that, when whiskey is buzzing in his veins? that, and something else - but he won't admit it out loud. the last six months without the use of any substance ( give or take . . . alcohol doesn't count. " ain't a substance, s'a liquid. ". ) has been incredible, rejuvenating. so shouldn't he celebrate such a momentous occasion? it makes sense, in his head. just one bump to forget the rest, only one more to honor all of the nights he could have partaken, but chose not to.
it can't be that bad, can it? look at how colorful the world around them is. even in the darkness, the glow cast by neon lights saturates the concrete and brick of the alleyways. of the streets. of himself. black leather reflects a shade of pink, of green when the signs alternate through the rainbow and he's only able to focus on the hues of color covering his hands when --
"watch it!" and "dude, what the fuck?" pull him out from a euphoric coma of thoughts. has he run into somebody? oh, two people. both of their drinks spilled on the ground beneath them. Jameson parts his lips to say he's sorry, but can't help but let a snicker pass through crooked teeth when he's lifting his hands in a truce. some of the drinks spilled onto his shirt, drip down leather sleeves and he's not bothered when he's spinning around on his heels. ( if he faces the other way, maybe they'll leave. ) but then he's met with a vague sense of familiarity.
". . .Jameson?"
"huh?"
rebel, that's what she said her name was? no, no. she did not like that comment. it was Rebelle, though she'd told him to just call her Belle after an excess use of the former.
"what are you. . .doing here?"
"ain't doin' shit." easy. ". . .what are you?"
they'd only met once before, perhaps the day prior - or was it earlier tonight? hell, it could have been a week ago, for all he knows. tongue twists between his cheek, an attempt to collect composure. to present himself as sober - or attempt to when she asks: "do you have somewhere safe to stay?"
when is the last time somebody asked him that? has anyone ever? fuck, he must look horrendous. his reflection is warped in the gloss of an adjacent window, rippled and stained with age, but he can't miss the bags and how boldly they hang in the sockets of heavy eyes. how the ringlets on top of his head have tangled and knotted into themselves. at least everything looks a bit more flattering when under the glow of a " BAR " sign, right?
"i, uh. . ." the answer is no, i can't even remember where i'm staying or how far i've walked. he knows that it was a shitty hotel room, the bed as stiff as a rock and the ceiling coated in an array of crimson splatters from the junkie before him. so his head shakes, pads of fingers pressing into his eyes as though he could rub the high away. "no, i don't."
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