None of the lights could blind Ryuzai anymore.

He’s been standing on this stage for years— from 14 to 27— been yelling into the microphone to different crowds in different locations with different drugs and alcohol being passed around like notes being passed in class. He’s on stage now, body trembling and shaking in all sorts of rhythms, he didn’t even feel like he was here right now.

He stumbles a back a bit, smile slowly tugging on his face in the way that has the girls in the crowd screaming and cheering. Words layer over words until it’s all just a blur in his mind. His tongue darts out to lick along his lower lip, eyes dazed with pupils jittering, trailing over everyone in the crowd before his band finished their last song of the cold night.

His hand tightens on the mic and he brings it close to his lips, speaking lowly into it. “Thank youu, thank you,” he giggles as if he’s tweaking whatever’s being passed around in the crowd, “please, please, come watch us play again soon,” he whispers yet his voice is loud and clear, a whimper forcing out of his throat. He giggles again, “bye-bye.” is all he gives out as a farewell before following his band off of the stage.

It’s almost freezing outside when he manages to get out, going his own way away from his band for some sort of fresh air. His lungs always felt clogged for some reason during performances, ears always ringing, eyes always unfocused— everything, really. He’s so fucked up it feels overstimulating, and the cold stabbing at his skin does nothing to help sober him up.