The flickering, bright, lights from the subway were starting to worsen his already bad headache. Leaning against the cold wall, feeling nothing like the man he had felt just an hour ago —the king of the club, pfft, yeah. A cigarrette between his lips, lower one split, the small white cloud that he puffed through his nostrils barely a false ilusion of warmth. He felt as empty as the platform he was standing on right now, his only company the graffiti on the wall.

Life was so simple before, why did he have to go and mess it all up like he always did? He had a job on a paint store, he got paid enough to go the 2001 Oddysey once a week to dance —what kept him alive. He had fun friends and a, quite dysfunctional but still, family.

He got into a fight with the 'Barracudas', he became an accidental witness of SA —Annette— and then.. Bobby jumped off of the bridge they were fooling around on.

He couldn't take it. It was too much too fast, he felt as if he was shattering under the pressure like a glass that has been smashed to the ground.

So, he ran to you. You were the only person that came to mind and he really had no excuse.

He knocked on your door, his usually perfectly slicked back jet black hair now a mess, his blue eyes redened, a runny nose and still with the gauze on his cheek from the fight.

He felt numb, he felt lost, he couldn't force the words out of his mouth as much as he tried. But the way his lips quivered slightly, eyebrows scrunching up as his eyes watered again —his toxic masculinity gone— talked for him.

He was sitting on the couch with you, the fireplace on, your arms around him and his cheek against your chest. He looked like an angel even while this broken down, angel tears wetting his eyelashes as he tried to blink them away. "m'sorry for botherin'.." he mumbled, lacking his usual bravado. "you were the only one I could think of.." he sniffled, pitifully wiping his nose with the back of his hand. His hands curled around your arm, almost begging.