Three drunken nights
Title: Three drunken nights
Genre: broken pieces
Rating: harmless
Written for dxs triangle drabble challenge , theme #19
...
1st drunken night. Pink: Long way to happy
Rice crackers and beer.
Spicy and bitter. He likes the combination.
He’s not sure if he’s having the third or the fourth beer by now and honestly, he’s not giving a damn.
His music (because it’s his at this moment) is loud and he likes that (thank gods for his neighbours who surely must think that loud beats are an inseparable part of his career. None of them has complained by now…well, not that he’s this loud too often.)
In the beginning, when he’d believed he’d have only one of the six-pack he’d been storing in his fridge for ages (miracles happen), he chose soft and slow melodies because he wanted this to be slow and peaceful evening.
It turned out to be completely different instead.
He feels that he’s slowly getting drunk and it’s not only the booze but the late May night itself: the smell, he tells himself, the smell, that’s it.
The lime tree, the warmth of this night, the smell of May and of his city, the people, the booze and the music.
He’s happy.
For the first time this year, he’s sitting on his small balcony. He’s bare-feet, with exposed skin of his arms, the breeze is softly lifting his hair and the music echoes in his veins.
He’s happy.
How simple happiness could be.
Lime tree, him, the warmth of this late May night, the hard guitar sounds, the breeze softly cooling his skin.
The city in front of him is full of lights and scents and sounds: he hears people talking, laughing, arguing and laughing in the streets, the air smells like lime tree and it smells sweet and wonderfully light the same time. His hair is still a little wet: he washed it in the late afternoon and tied it afterwards because it was getting into his face and he likes his cereals with no hair, please.
(It is simple, HE said to him. It’s really simple; you’re just trying too hard. Let go. Let go…just try to capture anything you’re feeling right in this moment: your feelings, your mood, your memories or wishes, the melody, the time, the feeling, the scent, the touch…anything…
…and it will be better in time.)
He reaches back and unties his hair and wind’s catching it straight off, it’s in his nose and mouth and eyes and it is not bothering him, not anymore.
He takes a few strands of his hair and inhales deeply.
World starts having clearly shapes again. Everything seems to be fine again.
His hair is a mixture of mint and lime tree and ginger, it smells like something sweet (mango, perhaps?) and like his skin; and he opens his eyes and it almost hurts for he’s trying not to blink and he wants to remember this moment, this evening, this lime tree night, this miniature breath of life.
And he does. He will.
Years later, whenever someone mentions the simple and short word of “May”, something deep inside of him moves in an almost delightful manner, he can smell lime and mint and feels breeze on his feet, he remembers this everything and he’s fine.
2nd drunken night. Sugizo: Synchronicity
I don’t feel like crying. I am not sad. I am not depressed. I guess I am…OK. Sort of. Not completely but sort of.
Once, I even tried to smoke because I’ve heard nicotine would calm you down. And, of course, everyone was smoking back then, we were teens and we wanted to try everything. But it didn’t work for me. Drugs are… drugs, I suppose. Yes, that was obviously a very smart thought. Everyone please remember it.
It didn’t help. The nicotine didn’t help. I didn’t felt any better. I still cared.
…
You know…It’s not about the oblivion, he tried to explain when I asked him about it. It’s more like…eh, you just feel you need to hold something while you’re drinking?)
Drunken logic is the best logic, I suppose.
Erm, the worst one.
Well, I don’t know. Nevermind.
…
*
“What is that,” The other asks and he doesn’t like the look in his eyes because something’s telling him it might become exactly what he wishes it wouldn’t become.
“Is it a diary”? The other asks again
He says, “Go away from me” and feels irritated because once again, someone tries to break through his shell.
Is it?
Persistent and stubborn and pestering him. Always did.
“I said GO AWAY FROM ME.”
He hears his voice and it sounds too aggressive and harsh even to himself, and as soon as silence becomes visible, he regret he didn’t manage his tone better and that he didn’t chose words more carefully.
He wants to say he’s sorry but of course he doesn’t.
*
Sometimes, he can’t wait for the evening to come se he has an “officially accepted” reason to drink. Of course he could do it just like others, bring a bottle of this or that directly to the stage but he never does.
(Well, he did it once: he went drunk onstage. No one noticed, they simply thought he was just being weirder than usual and he didn’t want anyone to know. He never made the same mistake, the migraine he got afterwards mixed together with very sick stomach was the only lesson needed. He rarely makes the same mistake twice.)
…unless HE is involved. Then, he makes the same mistakes over and over.)
Finally, everything is over: his skin has cooled down from the cold refreshing shower and his TShirt is black (because black means invisible) and eventually, the right bottle ends in his hand.
Everyone is drinking some booze and he’s drinking, too. Tonight, he doesn’t want to think.
He has spent weeks on thinking. Now he feels like he deserved a night off, too.
…
If there’s something he feels grateful for, it is the fact that the other seems to be unable to stay away from him too long. Right now, it means: HE’s unable to feel angry with him for too long. He feels envious about such attitude and wishes he would learn one day. He wishes he would learn to let go easier.
“I think your main problem is that you think too much,” The other exclaims in an almost Freud-alike manner.
“And I think your main problem is that you drink too much,” he shoots back and swats the thieving hand away from his beer bottle.
Just as he expect, the sound of his laugh
(so easily to be amused, so easy the laugh…)
fills the night, some people look at them and smile back and he wraps his fingers around the bottle tightly.
“No, really,” The other says. “You think too much. The only moment when you talk more than I do - which is a miracle *he adds honestly* - is when you’re drunk.”
Give the Einstein his Nobel prize, he thinks sarcastically because he’s scared it was so easy to figure out. Seems like someone’s smarter than being given credits.
“Let go for a while,” HE says and suddenly HE’s not smiling anymore and his eyes are dark and unreadable and it almost looks like HIS irises were pulsing and maybe they indeed are.
“Let go.”
And he obeys.
*
In the morning, his head hurts like a bitch and he needs to walk very carefully so his stomach won’t start a rebellion. There is black leather cord (who did HE steal it from?) being tied around his wrist and fingers, building a complicated system of knots and he looks at it and there’s smile on his lips eventually, too.
That dork.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Playing bondage games with your hand.”
They’re both drunk and the night has just begun.
3rd drunken night. Rammstein: Der Frühling in Paris
“Please tell me you’re hangover is worse than mine,” he mumbles through brown hair (it’s not his hair but nevertheless it belongs to him, sort of) and whines when hearing the window shades being removed. Burying his face into pillows, protecting his eyes from the nasty sun.
A snicker is all he gets as his response. Of course HIS hangover is not as bad as his. It never was.
“Accusing me of mastering a voodoo doll of yours again? That I got you under a spell so you’d suffer from the booze negative effects for both of us?”
He replies, “Because that’s the only possible explanation since I definitely drank less than you did”; and it’s true: he did drink less than HIM and yet it’s him whose head feels as if being kissed by a baseball bat.
The window’s being opened slightly and he enjoys the cool morning air filling his nostrils. It was raining gently as they were walking home early morning hours and he still can smell the rain in the air.
His head’s becoming lighter with every breath. Thank gods.
“The party was really cool,” he hears HIM say almost dreamily and he can’t help but snort: yes, it was, indeed. Litres of alcohol (but he must appreciate the host’s generosity because the alcohol was no cheap poison) and the food was okay, too.
“Did you see X making out with Y,” HE asks and starts laughing. “Gods I wasn’t sure if I was that drunk so I was imaging things…”
“Eww. Don’t make me sick again with mentioning THAT nasty thing,” he scowls but yes, he was asking the same when he saw them the first time.
“Don’t be so tight-assed, Shinya,” and Shinya gets a playful smack on his shoulder. “Everyone deserves a little fun, sometimes…”
“And here I thought that being tight-assed actually means a good thing - at least for you,” he replies dryly but soon, he regrets it because the bed starts shaking as that idiot keeps laughing his ass off.
But sure, why not: everyone deserves a little fun every once in a while.
Why not.
After all, the night was great.
…
Genre: broken pieces
Rating: harmless
Written for dxs triangle drabble challenge , theme #19
...
1st drunken night. Pink: Long way to happy
Rice crackers and beer.
Spicy and bitter. He likes the combination.
He’s not sure if he’s having the third or the fourth beer by now and honestly, he’s not giving a damn.
His music (because it’s his at this moment) is loud and he likes that (thank gods for his neighbours who surely must think that loud beats are an inseparable part of his career. None of them has complained by now…well, not that he’s this loud too often.)
In the beginning, when he’d believed he’d have only one of the six-pack he’d been storing in his fridge for ages (miracles happen), he chose soft and slow melodies because he wanted this to be slow and peaceful evening.
It turned out to be completely different instead.
He feels that he’s slowly getting drunk and it’s not only the booze but the late May night itself: the smell, he tells himself, the smell, that’s it.
The lime tree, the warmth of this night, the smell of May and of his city, the people, the booze and the music.
He’s happy.
For the first time this year, he’s sitting on his small balcony. He’s bare-feet, with exposed skin of his arms, the breeze is softly lifting his hair and the music echoes in his veins.
He’s happy.
How simple happiness could be.
Lime tree, him, the warmth of this late May night, the hard guitar sounds, the breeze softly cooling his skin.
The city in front of him is full of lights and scents and sounds: he hears people talking, laughing, arguing and laughing in the streets, the air smells like lime tree and it smells sweet and wonderfully light the same time. His hair is still a little wet: he washed it in the late afternoon and tied it afterwards because it was getting into his face and he likes his cereals with no hair, please.
(It is simple, HE said to him. It’s really simple; you’re just trying too hard. Let go. Let go…just try to capture anything you’re feeling right in this moment: your feelings, your mood, your memories or wishes, the melody, the time, the feeling, the scent, the touch…anything…
…and it will be better in time.)
He reaches back and unties his hair and wind’s catching it straight off, it’s in his nose and mouth and eyes and it is not bothering him, not anymore.
He takes a few strands of his hair and inhales deeply.
World starts having clearly shapes again. Everything seems to be fine again.
His hair is a mixture of mint and lime tree and ginger, it smells like something sweet (mango, perhaps?) and like his skin; and he opens his eyes and it almost hurts for he’s trying not to blink and he wants to remember this moment, this evening, this lime tree night, this miniature breath of life.
And he does. He will.
Years later, whenever someone mentions the simple and short word of “May”, something deep inside of him moves in an almost delightful manner, he can smell lime and mint and feels breeze on his feet, he remembers this everything and he’s fine.
2nd drunken night. Sugizo: Synchronicity
I don’t feel like crying. I am not sad. I am not depressed. I guess I am…OK. Sort of. Not completely but sort of.
Once, I even tried to smoke because I’ve heard nicotine would calm you down. And, of course, everyone was smoking back then, we were teens and we wanted to try everything. But it didn’t work for me. Drugs are… drugs, I suppose. Yes, that was obviously a very smart thought. Everyone please remember it.
It didn’t help. The nicotine didn’t help. I didn’t felt any better. I still cared.
…
You know…It’s not about the oblivion, he tried to explain when I asked him about it. It’s more like…eh, you just feel you need to hold something while you’re drinking?)
Drunken logic is the best logic, I suppose.
Erm, the worst one.
Well, I don’t know. Nevermind.
…
*
“What is that,” The other asks and he doesn’t like the look in his eyes because something’s telling him it might become exactly what he wishes it wouldn’t become.
“Is it a diary”? The other asks again
He says, “Go away from me” and feels irritated because once again, someone tries to break through his shell.
Is it?
Persistent and stubborn and pestering him. Always did.
“I said GO AWAY FROM ME.”
He hears his voice and it sounds too aggressive and harsh even to himself, and as soon as silence becomes visible, he regret he didn’t manage his tone better and that he didn’t chose words more carefully.
He wants to say he’s sorry but of course he doesn’t.
*
Sometimes, he can’t wait for the evening to come se he has an “officially accepted” reason to drink. Of course he could do it just like others, bring a bottle of this or that directly to the stage but he never does.
(Well, he did it once: he went drunk onstage. No one noticed, they simply thought he was just being weirder than usual and he didn’t want anyone to know. He never made the same mistake, the migraine he got afterwards mixed together with very sick stomach was the only lesson needed. He rarely makes the same mistake twice.)
…unless HE is involved. Then, he makes the same mistakes over and over.)
Finally, everything is over: his skin has cooled down from the cold refreshing shower and his TShirt is black (because black means invisible) and eventually, the right bottle ends in his hand.
Everyone is drinking some booze and he’s drinking, too. Tonight, he doesn’t want to think.
He has spent weeks on thinking. Now he feels like he deserved a night off, too.
…
If there’s something he feels grateful for, it is the fact that the other seems to be unable to stay away from him too long. Right now, it means: HE’s unable to feel angry with him for too long. He feels envious about such attitude and wishes he would learn one day. He wishes he would learn to let go easier.
“I think your main problem is that you think too much,” The other exclaims in an almost Freud-alike manner.
“And I think your main problem is that you drink too much,” he shoots back and swats the thieving hand away from his beer bottle.
Just as he expect, the sound of his laugh
(so easily to be amused, so easy the laugh…)
fills the night, some people look at them and smile back and he wraps his fingers around the bottle tightly.
“No, really,” The other says. “You think too much. The only moment when you talk more than I do - which is a miracle *he adds honestly* - is when you’re drunk.”
Give the Einstein his Nobel prize, he thinks sarcastically because he’s scared it was so easy to figure out. Seems like someone’s smarter than being given credits.
“Let go for a while,” HE says and suddenly HE’s not smiling anymore and his eyes are dark and unreadable and it almost looks like HIS irises were pulsing and maybe they indeed are.
“Let go.”
And he obeys.
*
In the morning, his head hurts like a bitch and he needs to walk very carefully so his stomach won’t start a rebellion. There is black leather cord (who did HE steal it from?) being tied around his wrist and fingers, building a complicated system of knots and he looks at it and there’s smile on his lips eventually, too.
That dork.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Playing bondage games with your hand.”
They’re both drunk and the night has just begun.
3rd drunken night. Rammstein: Der Frühling in Paris
“Please tell me you’re hangover is worse than mine,” he mumbles through brown hair (it’s not his hair but nevertheless it belongs to him, sort of) and whines when hearing the window shades being removed. Burying his face into pillows, protecting his eyes from the nasty sun.
A snicker is all he gets as his response. Of course HIS hangover is not as bad as his. It never was.
“Accusing me of mastering a voodoo doll of yours again? That I got you under a spell so you’d suffer from the booze negative effects for both of us?”
He replies, “Because that’s the only possible explanation since I definitely drank less than you did”; and it’s true: he did drink less than HIM and yet it’s him whose head feels as if being kissed by a baseball bat.
The window’s being opened slightly and he enjoys the cool morning air filling his nostrils. It was raining gently as they were walking home early morning hours and he still can smell the rain in the air.
His head’s becoming lighter with every breath. Thank gods.
“The party was really cool,” he hears HIM say almost dreamily and he can’t help but snort: yes, it was, indeed. Litres of alcohol (but he must appreciate the host’s generosity because the alcohol was no cheap poison) and the food was okay, too.
“Did you see X making out with Y,” HE asks and starts laughing. “Gods I wasn’t sure if I was that drunk so I was imaging things…”
“Eww. Don’t make me sick again with mentioning THAT nasty thing,” he scowls but yes, he was asking the same when he saw them the first time.
“Don’t be so tight-assed, Shinya,” and Shinya gets a playful smack on his shoulder. “Everyone deserves a little fun, sometimes…”
“And here I thought that being tight-assed actually means a good thing - at least for you,” he replies dryly but soon, he regrets it because the bed starts shaking as that idiot keeps laughing his ass off.
But sure, why not: everyone deserves a little fun every once in a while.
Why not.
After all, the night was great.
…