𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

His fingers shakily tap against the screen as he formulates a reply. A notification of Billie's reply pops up, and Ezra has a moment of clarity. He takes a moment to think, finger dismissing the notification before pressing backspace on his current text to Madison.

He just needed to be alone tonight. One night without everyone driving him fucking crazy.

Instead of replying, he moves to block Madison's number once more. Of course, that wouldn't stop her. Hell, it didn't even stop him in the past. Though threatening to call Jeff was a partially convincing attempt to get him to reply, Ezra knows that his manager wouldn't have trouble tracking him down. All she wants to do is scare him, and it won't work this time.

He's being good tonight by staying home. If anything, Jeff would probably find him sleeping like a baby by the time Madison made contact. Though, he doubts she will.

His lips press against the rim of the bottle before he takes a very long pull from it. The liquor burns the back of his throat, causing him to press his eyes shut for a moment. Ezra is so sick and tired of people pretending to give a shit about whether or not he was alright. He'd been mentally declining for a long time now and there hadn't been a single word from her.

Hell, the first time he heard anything from her in months was when she decided to let his team know she'd be debuting his recorded voice on one of her new songs. Though she promised to cut out any of the intimate or revealing parts, something about it didn't sit quite right with the male.

They had been very public about their relationship, so much so that they shamelessly put out music after their many messy break ups and consequent make ups. But for her to decide to share such a private part of their relationship, to show how vulnerable he'd been with her that night, was wrong.

She didn't care if he was dead on some bathroom floor, as long as she could collect her check from his demise. Tonight is no different. Madison just cares about seeing whether or not he's still caught in her web.

Still, begging her to take it off and admitting that he had been in the wrong is absolutely out of the question. He'd rather crash and burn than get on his knees and ask for forgiveness from her ever again.

Ezra moves to take another pull from the bottle, stomach churning from the quantity of liquor so quickly entering his system. He doesn't bother reaching for his phone again, mind completely absent to the fact that Billie is awaiting his reply. None of it fucking matters anyways.

No one actually gives a shit about him. The only time anyone ever does is when he's up on stage singing. So, for Billie to ask for the real Ezra Moore is the biggest joke of all because the last person he showed himself to nearly broke him to fucking pieces for it.

Maybe he's just inherently unlovable. Maybe, just maybe, the real Ezra Moore is exactly the monster Madison and everyone else makes him out to be. Or maybe there is nobody outside of his performing alterego. That thought is enough to make him reach for the bottle once more.

The alcohol finally begins to hit his bloodstream, and Ezra starts to feel a blanket of peace wrap around him. He needs his rest for this tour, and he isn't going to get it with a sober mind. Just for tonight he could slip back into his old habits, and tomorrow would be different.

Just for tonight he can pretend there is no Ezra Moore.

✧*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ

He's awakened by a hand roughly shaking his frame, and Ezra is unsure what time it is exactly. His eyes take a moment to adjust, vision centering on his drummer leaning over his limp body slumped on the couch. Ezra lets out a groan, attention peering over towards the window. It's barely the morning with the sky still a milky grayish blue before the sun rises.

"What the fuck did you do?" Ambrose croaks in a tone that borders fearful, "What did you take?"

Ezra furrows his brows, head aching from the mental strength it takes to remain coherent. "What?" he replies with much labor, "What time is it?"

His hands move to rub at his sockets, stomach lurching at the reminder that he's had far too much to drink. Almost instinctively, his body tips towards the floor to expel whatever has soured. A familiar hand places a small trash can in front of the singer, and Ezra begins to heave.

Even through his vomiting, he can hear Jeff let out an audible sigh. Now, his manager is kneeling beside the couch and pressing his hand against Ezra's back as a small comfort. "He just drank too much," he assures Ambrose.

Ezra spits out any remnants remaining in his mouth into the trash can before moving to rest back on the couch. "Go away," he moans, eyes pressed shut in an attempt to get the room to stop spinning.

"This is so typical," Jude states from an audible distance, and Ezra doesn't bother to find his exact location. Now, that's a tone he's familiar with.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," Ambrose replies through gritted teeth, voice quivering with worry. In fact, he even sounds as if he's on the verge of tears.

"This is so like him to send Madison on a fucking rampage blowing up all our phones," the guitarist states without remorse, "All over some drunken bullshit."

"You're an asshole," Ambrose spits at Jude, which causes the guitarist to scoff.

"Just go to sleep you two. We have a long trip to New York today, and I don't need you all killing each other before we get there," Jeff orders before turning his attention back to Ezra.

"What did she say?" Ezra presses before his stomach lurches once more, and he can hear his bandmates immediately begin to shuffle towards the back of the bus as he begins to vomit into the trashcan again.

"She was just worried, but you're fine," Jeff replies before patting his back once more, "You're fine." The words come out sort of like a thank you, as if his prayers have been answered.

Ezra nearly laughs at the thought of his own continuing to go ignored.

"You have to stop doing this," Jeff states in a tone low enough so that only Ezra hears.

He remains slumped over the side of the couch, stomach far too tender to move quite yet. The words sound familiar, as if he's heard them before. Ezra is so fucking sick and tired of this deja vu. It's as if his life is a CD that keeps skipping. He's been going in circles for what feels like years, and he just wants it to stop.

"I'm so fucking tired," he laments, tongue slipping on every syllable. He can feel hot tears begin to stream down his cheeks before his sobs begin to shudder through his frame. "I can't." The phrase stumbles out of his mouth repeatedly, as if the chant will make time stop long enough for him to catch his breath.

Jeff remains seated on the floor as Ezra lets his emotions flood out. For a long while, the two sit in silence as his tears subside. "You'll sober up," he assures, "and you'll feel better when you do. But you gotta start staying sober if you don't want to feel like this."

"I don't want an intervention," Ezra sputters before wiping at his nose, "I want a fucking minute to breathe."

"I know," Jeff replies after another long pause between them, "and maybe this tour wasn't good for you. I really thought it would be."

"Nothing's good for me," Ezra laments, "Nothing." Without another word, he shrugs off his manager's hand in order to shift back towards the couch. His eyes press shut in an attempt to block out everything and everyone.

But it's no use. Ezra's still here and he's still himself.