it was the last place he wanted to be tonight. the last place he should have been. a place of smoke and static, of colour and noise, bassline mimicking the ragged rhythm of a heart too long starved of silence. somewhere, there was a reason for all of this: surveillance, eyes on a mark, some thread of a mission wrapped around his presence here. but it dissolved on contact, swallowed by the storm brewing outside, and the louder one still inside his mind. theo kept to the edge of the room, a quiet figure, half-draped in shadow, as if the darkness might take pity and cloak him completely ( it didn’t. it never did. he couldn’t be so lucky ). there were fingers — invisible, imagined, memory-wrought — that brushed the back of his neck, pressing his ribs. not quite ghosts, but a thousand versions of fear. of ways he could still fall apart. the sharp line of his jaw was locked in place, clenched tight. somewhere between a stranger trying to make conversation, the drifting haze of gin and bud, and the furtive exchange of something, presumably pills, between the two figures beside him, the fault line he’d been standing on cracked. he blinked, and the world folded. this happened, sometimes. time unraveled like loose thread, and when it wove itself back together, he was somewhere else; his mind, fractured, rewired, had a way of ejecting him ( like the time he’d come to with a socialite’s arm bent at the wrong angle. he hadn’t forgotten. neither had they. ). now, here, the bar stood before him, backlit like a goddamn shrine. his pulse jumped. hands trembled, subtle, just enough to notice. mouth, dry as ash. and then — a voice. do you want something? familiar, cutting through the fog like a flare. he turned, slowly, and there she was. vivienne. probably as surprised as he himself was. his throat tightened. “no,” brows furrowed. what the fuck else could he say? “i shouldn’t’ve fucking done this.”
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