for @fmdrioh | early morning of september 1
four shots of “celebratory” hotel minibar tequila after the end of a long tour down and there’s music playing from somewhere across the room, a playlist of sad indie songs that all bleed into one. the dark sky outside the window of his fifty-first floor tokyo hotel room is flooded with the city lights, but he’s on his way into lapsing into a place where time doesn’t exist.
a few more and the music has become nothing but background noise in ash’s brain as he doomscrolls through his instagram explore page and falls down an ominous path to some half-legitimate news account and then, naturally, a post with a face from his past.
he’s lost count of the number of shots he’s had by the time booze-drowsy neurons fixating on fuck-ups of years gone by lead him to his head slung over the edge of his hotel bed, eyes staring at his phone screen through dizzy vision. he doesn’t even bother to check the time before he lets his finger land on one of the countless names in his phone.
(honestly, he’s not sure the numbers would stay still long enough for him to read them anyway. hell — he’s only about 35% sure he’s calling rioh at all.)
his breath stills in his mouth as the ring from his phone echoes into the air from his phone, put on speaker because he’s not so sure in his own ability to hold the phone to his ear when his neck is already starting to ache from his position.
you need to apologize, he repeats in his head to the rhythm of the ringing. maybe see how he’s doing lately. it’s the least you can do.
he waits, wondering if he’ll even get the chance.