Now this, is where he’s meant to be…
Legally dead, surrounded by those who have truly passed. It’s no wonder he’s on the VIP list. He may not be bones yet, but he belongs nonetheless. At times this skin of his, this armor of scales, really does feel like a suit to shed. At times he’d rather conform to the dress code than spend another second stuck like this. In this.
No one here to bother him tonight. No demands, no deals, no questions and no nagging. Nothing to be expected. The skeletal masses bear no burdens of the cruelty of life and humanity and for tonight, neither does he. Not if he can get away from it all for just one second.
It’s quiet in the bar, and dark too. Vacant, save for the bartender and Sebastian himself. A perfect setting for the best night he can manage right now. He orders a drink, and it goes down like air. Another, then another, and another. Eventually the bartender doesn’t bother to count.
Still, there’s no change. No burn, no haze. He goes for bottles now, not leaving room for the bartender to object. There’s no protest to be heard regardless.
The haze never comes, as bottles empty and are frustratedly tossed aside. He can’t seem to go numb, as broken glass litters the floor. After enough bottles, it stops tasting like anything, but he’s still lucid. Too much clarity, still. Agonizing alertness despite his exhaustion.
Coiled tightly where he sat, Sebastian slams a bottle on the counter, seething. Though it didn’t shatter upon smacking the counter, it did under his tightening grip. He doesn’t open his fist afterwards, letting the shards sink in. If he can’t go numb, he’s at least owed the right to control the pain. He still has control.
Blood swirls with melted ice and drops of gin as Sebastian slumps, head hanging low, esca grazing the countertop.
He didn’t used to drink all that much. Nor smoke. Is it even worth it now?
It’s supposed to taste like better times. Like a barely-adult’s idea of rebellion, of… freedom. It was supposed to be the most illegal thing he’d ever done. Just a drink or two.
He doesn’t open his eyes, or his fists. Those aren’t his fists anyways. Not his hands. He can still feel it. It still works, doesn’t it? He can feel it. The glass is cold and slick with condensation, the liquid smooth, silky.
How much will it take for it to work?
This was inspired by both the new Hazbin Hotel song “Love In A Bottle”, as well as by some of the things the Urbanshade Writing Division (now deleted, unfortunately) said about Sebastian’s drinking/smoking habits post-mutation. I also have it on ao3 (among some of my other works) if you’re interested!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
