(no subject)
For once, numbness wasn't setting in on its own. Two joints and a swig from a jug of moonshine long-ago commandeered from someplace or another, Roger was still feeling the guilt, the misery, the deep hurt. Fights with April had been either inconsequential or incoherent (especially the latter, toward the end), fights with Mark were... explosive, yeah, but never long-lasting (barring the present), and he and Brian simply didn't fight, same with him and Collins.
But it wasn't like it was an ordinary fight, and it wasn't like he was going to receive any kind of absolution. Yeah, OK, so he was honest, but what did that leave him with? Now his best friend was fucked off at him, his boyfriend had assumed a serious bolded ex before the 'boyfriend' part, and if he stopped showering, he was that much closer to dead. Maybe Ted had been right; maybe Brian Kinney really was the God of Destruction.
That thought earned the bottle of moonshine one more powerful swig that made Roger come up coughing and sputtering. He kicked the jug back under his bed and just started walking. He wasn't drunk enough to stumble, wasn't quite high enough to giggle (not that he would have even if he was), but he was wallowing enough to lose time, and the next thing he knew, he was seated at the bar of the Hub, not quite sure how he got there, and even less sure as to why he was there in the first place. Alcohol was becoming a precious commodity on the island (hence why Roger had become a hoarder as well as a cheating whore), and having some would have been nice. He just had to find someone nice enough to dip into their stash.
No. Fuck that. He just wanted to be left alone, as was illustrated by the scowl he wore as he leaned tiredly and not-quite-soberly against the bar. Really, if he'd actually wanted to be left alone, he would have gone to the caves or something, but his tired feet and screaming legs had brought him to the Hub, so what did that mean?
Roger bitterly suggested that his wheeling subconscious butt the fuck out for a night.
But it wasn't like it was an ordinary fight, and it wasn't like he was going to receive any kind of absolution. Yeah, OK, so he was honest, but what did that leave him with? Now his best friend was fucked off at him, his boyfriend had assumed a serious bolded ex before the 'boyfriend' part, and if he stopped showering, he was that much closer to dead. Maybe Ted had been right; maybe Brian Kinney really was the God of Destruction.
That thought earned the bottle of moonshine one more powerful swig that made Roger come up coughing and sputtering. He kicked the jug back under his bed and just started walking. He wasn't drunk enough to stumble, wasn't quite high enough to giggle (not that he would have even if he was), but he was wallowing enough to lose time, and the next thing he knew, he was seated at the bar of the Hub, not quite sure how he got there, and even less sure as to why he was there in the first place. Alcohol was becoming a precious commodity on the island (hence why Roger had become a hoarder as well as a cheating whore), and having some would have been nice. He just had to find someone nice enough to dip into their stash.
No. Fuck that. He just wanted to be left alone, as was illustrated by the scowl he wore as he leaned tiredly and not-quite-soberly against the bar. Really, if he'd actually wanted to be left alone, he would have gone to the caves or something, but his tired feet and screaming legs had brought him to the Hub, so what did that mean?
Roger bitterly suggested that his wheeling subconscious butt the fuck out for a night.