John was, not to put too fine a point on it, drunk off his ass. He also reeked of sex -- a complicated mix of come, latex and lube.
He'd walked away from his conversation with Went with the vague idea that if he was going to be called a whore, and treated like one, he may as well act like one. There was a wild sort of desperation that fueled his actions. The need to find *something* to grab onto and pull himself back to center. Sex and alcohol and pain and a frenzy of activity that hadn't -- couldn't -- make him actually believe that he was more than fury and sound. Couldn't make him feel like a person instead of figment of someone else's imagination, brought to life just to bleed out on the stage of an empty house.
He *hurt*. He'd hit the breaking point, and he hadn't just broken, he'd shattered into a thousand sharp edged pieces. It was dramatic, it was melodramatic, but it was John. He felt with his whole heart, and he'd made a life of his drama.
He ended up on his porch at 3 a.m. Jack was barking inside but otherwise the house was dark and silent and he could not make himself go in. Besides, his keys were apparently not in his pants. At least he still had his pants, aand his phone The first number that popped up was James', so he called it -- just hit send. "I need you to help me break into my house. I lost my keys."
Then he hung up again, buried his face in his arms and waited on either James to come or the sun to rise.