Drunk

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It doesn’t take long to get Michael drunk, thanks to vodka, an empty stomach, and the medication slipping through his bloodstream. And he’s thankful for that, because he didn’t have much money on hand. He’s so glad to be able to move through the room like a blur of only-just-contained tears, a flash of a smile trying to fight its way onto his face. The grief is barely out of sight, sedated but pulling its way back to the surface. It’s the best Michael can do.

Maybe it’s the strained feeling, or his aching throat, or the haze that could be alcohol or shock or guilt, but it doesn’t feel like it should. It feels like losing his grip.

He weaves through the dance floor, trying to cling to the memory of seeing Luke when they first went to this club, struggling to retain his grasp on the euphoria he felt when he saw the way Luke smiled. He wants to get back the feeling he got in his stomach when he saw Luke in a different light for the first time.

Every face he sees looks like Luke. Michael can’t think of Luke right now, he’s thinking of the wrong person, but if it gets his mind off his mother, then he has to, and fuck, Luke’s all he can think about. Luke would understand, see, Luke would sit down and listen to Michael. Luke’s heard him cry before. And Michael, he thinks he must have pushed away Luke or something, because he can’t remember, can’t keep a grip on his thoughts anymore. He can’t think. He’s not lucid at all, he’s sad and and he really wants Luke, even if he doesn’t know why.

But there were those moments when Luke was dancing, when Luke for once didn’t care if people were watching, when his face just lit up like the sunset coming up, that Michael really didn’t want to let go of that night. And all those moments from then to now, the little things Luke did, and all the times he didn’t tell Ashton to kick Michael out of the band, the way he laughed and smiled at Michael. Michael should have told him what was going on. Did he? Michael can’t remember.

He crashes into someone. They push him away. Michael rebounds from person to person until he’s pressed up against the wall by a mass of bodies. Michael turns and comes up face to face with a boy with blond hair and blue eyes, and Michael chokes in his alarm.

“Luke? Luke, I’m sorry I pushed you away, I’m sorry, but I think I’m going crazy, and--”

“Who the fuck is Luke?” the boy says, and Michael blinks.

Luke’s face fades away.

Michael turns away quickly, pushing through the crowd and getting away from almost-Luke. Michael’s so fucked for him, when did this happen?

Michael runs into another guy with blond hair. Confused, muddled, disoriented, he starts rambling again, but they shut him down too, and suddenly he’s feeling so sick, afraid.

Michael stumbles into the bathroom. His head is spinning, his stomach’s trying to reject everything. It’s the alcohol and it’s the horrible grief trying to force itself out. This it what comes with the delirium of being drunk, this is the price Michael will pay for using alcohol to forget. And he never did quite forget.

For the second time in 24 hours, Michael’s throwing up again, and it feels worse this time, sweating, but clammy and cold under his flannel, and completely out of it. Before it felt like something vile leaving his body, like he could breathe a little easier after, but now it’s like the bad inside won’t leave. Michael is made of bad, he can’t get rid of himself. He can’t get out of his head.

Michael doesn’t like the sliver of clarity he gets after throwing up, so he goes back out and takes one last drink, the last one before he’s out of money.

He thinks he likes feeling dizzy again up until the drink starts to rise in his throat and he gets off his stool to go to the bathroom again. A hand catches at his arm and holds him in place. Michael blinks at the blond, blue-eyed boy and says, “I don’t have time, maybe-Luke, I’m gonna be sick.”

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