Pre-drinking was something Yves had vowed never to do again after the last time, when he’d woken up in somebody’s garden with a missing shoe and ‘TWAT’ written across the bridge of his nose, yet here he was: jumping around like a mad man, after recovering from the stupid dive he’d made onto the crowd of sweating bodies, who all carried him… straight to the back of the club. It had been unsuccessful in that regard, but he hadn’t been dropped and he was still very much alive (even if he felt like he was slowly deteriorating), so it was a win. Well… it was, until he was hurtling towards the bathrooms to fall into a cubicle and throw up, but even in such a state, he wanted someone — and he knew who it would be, specifically. Grunting as he wiped his mouth, hair matted with sweat and swept out of his face, Yves pulled his phone out of his pocket as he fell back against the cubicle wall, his eyes half-lidded and hardly focusing as he pressed on the one name he favoured the most. Aiden. It dialled, and as soon as he heard the familiar greeting, the boy’s mouth began to run — without a pause for breath. “Aiden, I’m so—so glad you’re h–ere, I’m so lonely,” he began, hicupping mid-sentence. And again. “I kept… getting touched, and I told them… I told—told them no. No, 'cause I have… I have someone waitin’ for me,” he rambled, mindless and stupid and he probably sounded fucking desperate, but wasn’t anyone at this stage of being drunk? Although, regarding Aiden, Yves had been surprisingly good. “You,” he added, and it was a tiny voice. Barely audible. “See? You’re up now, and it’s… fuck, I don’t know the time, but it’s late… e–early, it’s early… and I need'ta go home, but I missed you and—” Pausing as someone stumbled into the restrooms, the music briefly getting louder before drowning out again behind the closed door, Yves frowned. “Are you there? Did you fall asleep?” Silence, while someone laughed themselves to death with their friend over a drunken joke in the background. It appeared that Yves had began speaking before hearing the beep, but this was, in fact, a voicemail. And he was confused, but he wasn’t feeling well, neither. “I’m… byeeee… good night, daff—…daffodil.” Pausing to yawn, Yves attempted a sluggish kiss into the air to mimic the noise into the phone, before ending the call and tilting his head back, feeling unbelievably tired.
