Alcoholic Manacles

•CHAPTER 1•

•Underground Bar•

3984 words.

He rested a hand on the rough paintwork that coated the door, then pulled. It revealed a set of stairs that led the whole way down deep into the ground. The hinges squealed as though they were a warning, but their plea is silenced by a wall of noise. On his way down, laughter overpowered the jukebox; conversations swirled in a dirty cloud of smoke; the stagnant stench of cigarettes hid within the collaboration of mephitic odors. A sharp smell of drinks wafted towards him, like black plumes billowing from the windows of a burning house. There's even a hint of sickness tainting the fragrance of the room.

He scurried down the stairs. His sneakers weighed peculiarly on the tiled floor while his bag was wagging on his back, clutched by his left hand. Sweat trickled down his face, shining and flickering at the squinting lights of the underground bar.

The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights when the adult passed through it. He took a look around, eyes touring the place to find the eye-candy he's longing for. He stopped to admire the architecture of the bar on his way. Whoever the man that made the architecture of this bar is a genius. The surface is simply a circle, a huge circle. In the middle, stands the cylindrical wall with every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles, embedded deep in the slots of the wall. They were clunked from the bottom to six feet high while the rest of the wall extends to the ceiling. Tables were positioned all around the main circular bar, then the classic jukebox rested in the nearby corner of a puny dance area. That area would be a place for a jokester at certain times.

"GON!" He yelled and slumped on a barstool, panting and flinging his bag on the floor. His tight black leather pants squeaked at the friction of the red leather barstool when he rested his elbows on the smooth black granite of the bar surface.

"Oh. Heyya, Killua." Amber lights illuminated and twinkled over a handsome tan male, who was inclined to Killua's demanding tone. He scrubbed the glass behind the bar that was recently re-stuffed with those stupid garish alco-pops all the teens were slurping faster than coca-cola. He inquired about Killua's order, eyeing the fiery look of his deep icy stare. "Your favorite?" His wavy spiked hair attracted Killua's cerulean irises in admiration. The hair that defied gravity with its green tips urged Killua's stomach to digest all the fuzziness of adulation. His hand scrunched into that tumble of his silver hair, those curls that defied rules and gravity with equal contempt; the curls have finally found a rival in beauty.

"No. Whiskey." While tossing a strand of hair behind his ear, he mumbled his answer.

This urged the hazel-eyed male to let out an embittered sigh. He glowered and asked, "What happened today?" He put the glass down and leaned to face Killua who was calming his breaths. Amber irises - that glimmered in gold whenever the lights flickered on - were locked with the deep icy stare of Killua's struggling eyes.

"Like always: my fucked up family." Killua's fingers ran through his bangs and raised them off his face out of bother. His curls were squished backward at his touch, but rebellious short strands escaped his grip and fell back down on his now shown and smooth forehead.

"What did they do today?" Gon asked after he shimmered for his coworker to cover for him and help another customer.

"Gon, give me my whiskey. On the rocks."

Gon rolled his eyes, then adjusted his vest and tie before pouring Killua his glass and slid it towards him. The ice inside the tawny whiskey jingled when it slid on the bar surface before approaching Killua's sickly pale palm, absorbing Killua's thoughts into his dark memories again.