narrative. Who: Neil. What: Falling off the wagon. Where: Vegas, Ocean's Eleven. When: Recently/Nowish. Warnings/Rating: Sads. Alcohol. Yk.
The hospital seemed loud.
It wasn't, really, but every sound was magnified in his ears and Neil had to curl his hands into fists to keep from covering them, blocking out the noise, rendering it muffled and far away. Sam and Cris were gone. Louis was there, but he resisted attempts at conversation and said nothing, nothing, nothing. One word answers if he had to. He'd washed off a little in the bathroom, refused to let the doctors check him out even when they insisted—he was fine. They had to take care of Mere. Take care of Louis. Not him, not him.
Mere was critical, they said. Emergency surgery, they said.
Louis left. Went home. Neil waited, and waited, and waited. His skin itched. Something was crawling beneath it, and he knew what that something wanted. (He knew.) He didn't smell antiseptic and sickness, he smelled booze and blood. He licked dry, cracked lips and imagined what it would taste like going down his throat, the alcohol, imagined welcoming that old demon back into his life, embracing it.
She was moved to the ICU. He couldn't see her. He didn't want to go home. Sam messaged, but Neil ignored it. He knew what he wanted. He knew where he'd go, even as a small part of himself valiantly fought to resist.
No.
Yes.
He left the hospital. Bought new clothes, instead of going to the penthouse to change. He walked the streets for hours, wandering, wandering, while an internal battle waged within.
In the end, Neil couldn't decide whether he'd won or lost.
He found a bar. Went inside. Sat himself down and ordered a scotch on the rocks, and when the drink was set down before him he picked up the glass, swirled it, ice tinkling, and inhaled. It was temptation and repulsion and failure, it was bitter and sharp and forgetfulness. He hated himself, but he wanted it. Ecstasy. He brought his lips to the edge, tasted droplets, and shuddered. God, he'd fucking missed this.
It took him less than a minute to down the scotch. He was a greedy thing, desperate, and his skin split open with self loathing that felt so damn good. Neil ordered another scotch, another, another. Then a whiskey.
Then a bottle.
The alcohol quenched his desire like water quenched a man dying of thirst. Heaven and hell, all in one. He couldn't fucking get enough. Drowning, drowning, and he didn't want to save himself. He let himself go under willingly.
He'd opened the door, let his old friend in, and now, now it didn't want to leave.
Neil was fine with that. He drank until he went numb, until he forgot everything; Mere, Sam, Louis, Silent Hill. It all went far, far away, and he didn't remember leaving the bar, didn't remember passing out in an alley beside a dumpster.