The Fragility of Hope (Mavi)

Chapter 16

Updating early because Super Bowl L is on tonight and I will not miss my home team getting absolutely crushed like they do every year. #GoBroncos

(not heavily edited because it made me cry too much to read again)

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He inhaled the brisk air of the icy cold night, and for once it felt like he could actually breathe. His eyes squinted against the harsh light of the convenience store as he waited for one of his friends to hurry up and get outside, so he wouldn't have to go back to the bus alone. Usually he'd be fine with it, but he didn't want to pass the front lounge by himself when Mitch was there huddled up on the couch, watching a movie with a blanket.

Thankfully, Scott trailed out of the store not long after he had the thought and the loud ding of the door echoed throughout the quiet lot.

"Ready?" Scott asked him, grinning brightly at the bass. He held up a bottle of some shitty gas station champagne, and raised an eyebrow in excitement. "Mitch is down in the dumps and this is literally the only alcohol they had."

Avi scrunched up his nose and hid away the gut wrenching feeling inside. So that's where Mitch got the idea of using alcohol to ignore the world -- not even that was their thing. "Not tonight. I already have a headache." It wasn't a lie, either. It just wasn't the real reason, because he always had a headache, but Scott didn't know that.

"What'd you get?" Scott asked, finally heading towards their parked bus where it was being filled with gas.

Avi held up a bottle of Advil and didn't even feel guilty as he did so. Ibuprofen could kill a person, right? It was a simple way to go, if not a little bit juvenile. It's not like he had all that many options in the middle of nowhere on a moving bus.

Scott hummed in approval, but squinted as he looked closer at the bottle. "200 tablets? Jesus, Avi. That's one mighty headache."

He shrugged his shoulders in agreement. "It was a better deal." If only Scott knew that the majority of the 200 would be in his bloodstream tonight.

He trailed behind Scott as they walked to the bus and wondered how long the man would mourn. Days? Weeks? Months? Years? Would he feel guilty that he didn't talk to Avi when he needed help? Would he look back on tonight ten years from now and realize that he could've stopped his death? They were all good questions that Avi would never get the answer to. He was already a dead man, and dead men didn't get their questions answered.

He didn't bother to look at Mitch as he strode right past the front lounge and into his own bunk. It would be stupid to tempt tempt fate by looking at him -- he might accidentally change his mind, and he didn't really have the energy for "getting better" right now.

The privacy of his bunk wasn't what he was really looking for, though. He traded the bottle of pills for his notebook at the foot of the bed and carried it with him to the back lounge, where Kevin and Kirstie were talking animatedly. Kevin didn't miss his entrance, and grinned brightly when he saw him enter the room. "So the bass man finally makes an appearance!" He said loudly, and Avi wanted to roll his eyes. "What's good, Avi?"

Avi shrugged and smiled back, no matter how much he didn't really want to. "Busy with songwriting, man. Lots of ideas." Blatant lie. He didn't have any ideas.

Kirstie smiled in that sweet way of hers, and he didn't feel guilty about what he was about to do until she did. "That's good, Avi," she chirped. "We were starting to get worried about you. Show us when you're finished?"

He nodded and sat on the tiny chair opposite of them, only slightly reconsidering what he was about to do. Choose happiness, as Kirstie always promoted. He definitely wasn't choosing happiness.