Re: Bar: Sam & Neil
[Neil was seated at the bar, a glass of amber liquid (no ice, he was past the fucking ice) in front of him. He looked disheveled—clothes rumpled, jeans and a t-shirt and sneakers, hair messy, pale and dark circles under his eyes. Half hungover, half drunk, he didn't make a pretty picture. This kind of place was familiar to him, dark and smokey and the kind of place self-loathing flourished alongside booze and cigars. There was a sick kind of pleasure in hating yourself, he found, and hell if he didn't love the booze; of course he did. It was an addiction, waiting nearly seven years to be let back in.
Even as he sat there, sipping his drink, he regretted telling Sam where he was. Shame was an extra layer atop his skin; he didn't want anyone to see him like this. Especially not Louis or Ash, god, they'd be so disappointed. They deserved better than him. And Mere... she deserved better, too. Sobering up and going back to the hospital seemed an insurmountable task.
He happened to glance toward the door and caught sight of her, pupils wide, and it made him sad. Sad that she was using, sad that they were both disasters. He downed the rest of his drink and waved her over, because why the fuck not?]