𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

The harsh knocks on the bathroom barely register the first time with the bass blaring from the first floor. Meanwhile, Ezra is nose deep in white powder, a precisely rolled bill cut short of its path as another blast of knocks echo against the bathroom tile.

"Fuck," he groans, slamming the makeshift straw down. "Occupied!' He yells towards the door, dilated pupils momentarily catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He's a mess, silk button up nearly slipping off his tattooed chest and shoulders. His eyes are sunken in, dark circles adorning them. The coke and pills keep him up for hours on end. He's like a machine running without any oil, as if the gears in his mind are smashing together. All he needs is a little —

"Open the fuckin' door, Ez!" Jude calls from outside the bathroom, "We've been calling all damn night. Jeff is going to ream your ass tomorrow if you don't tell all these people to go home."

Ezra lets out a groan. Fucking, of course. He hadn't heard from the boys in weeks. Hell, they hadn't really talked in months. Their only mode of communication was during official band meetings, recordings, and whenever the two felt like giving a shit about him outside of that.

If he were sober, maybe he wouldn't be such a prick. Maybe he wouldn't let his anger get the better of him. Ezra's life, as of late, felt like a shit ton of those maybe's. 

His calloused hands reach for the door, practically ripping it out of its hinges to face the male. "Call up Jeff, then," he challenges, barely even registering that Ambrose, his other bandmate, is standing right behind the guitarist.

"You've got coke all over your nose," Ambrose points out slowly, as if knowing exactly where his comment is going to land him. His posture even stiffens in preparation for the blow.

Ezra scoffs, fingertips pinching at his nostrils while his other hand continues to white knuckle the bathroom door. Maybe if they'd caught him two hours prior he'd be more reasonable, maybe he would even feel ashamed. "Last I recalled, you used to be right there with me doin' lines."

Ambrose nearly flinches, arms moving to cross over his chest in mock indifference as his attention averts to the floor. Meanwhile, Jude is preoccupied with cataloguing the current scene in the bathroom from his view behind Ezra's shoulder. "Looks like you've been doing enough for all three of us." The words aren't meant to be antagonistic. In fact, his tone carries more concern than anything else.

"Oh, fuck off, Jude," Ezra retorts, bitter laughter caught in his throat. How fucking ironic that his two biggest enablers are now trying their hand at yet another pathetic intervention. He moves to slam the door in their face before Jude's hand presses against it, stopping him entirely.

"We've got a very important meeting in eight hours," Jude reminds, pushing harder against the door, "Tell all your leeches to go home. Sober up and be on time tomorrow. I'm not coming here again to tell you to do your fuckin' job."

The final words cause Ambrose to physically wince, tattooed hands instinctively reaching for the shoulder of the blonde guitarist. It's a warning for Jude to back off before the singer loses his cool. "We're worried about you, man," the drummer adds softly, as if to negate Jude's words.

The comment nearly sets Ezra over the edge, a scoff escaping his lips. They don't really care. "Don't worry about me doing my job," he assures, "because last time I fuckin' checked, I'm the only one they buy tickets to see."

Jude lets out a dry laugh of his own, shrugging off Ambrose's grip. "Yeah," he taunts, "I'm sure the state you're in is exactly what they wanna see. Not the guy from five years ago who actually knows what day it is." 

The words hit harder than expected, as if they slip through his veil of intoxication. He realizes that they're looking at a stranger rather than the guy they knew in high school. That version of Ezra Moore is long gone now. Hell, he can't even really remember when it all changed. Before this, it used to about the music and their friendship. Now, the male can't say what he's doing it for, and that empty feeling enrages him. 

Maybe if they cared sooner, he wouldn't be like this. Yet, Ezra knows that isn't true.

"You wanna get up there and sing? Be my fucking guest," he challenges while turning his features to stone in order to mask any palpable sign of hurt. 

Ambrose can barely contain his discomfort now, body shifting between the two males to relieve the tension. "Enough," he warns, "We just came here to check on you, Ez. That's it."

"Nah," Ezra retorts, "You came to check on your goddamn cash cow." His head cocks towards the bathroom, as if to check if the powder got up and left. How fucking pathetic. "Don't worry. I'll be at the meeting tomorrow to sign your paycheck."

Jude blindly takes a step forward but is soon jolted back by Ambrose's sturdy frame. "There's not gonna be any checks to sign if you don't get your shit together. No one wants to hear a washed up singer whine on the mic," Jude spits, "and I sure as hell don't want to play for one either."

"I said enough!" Ambrose's voice booms over the noise of the house causing both males to flinch. Rarely does he raise his voice, and it's enough to end the fight right then and there. "We're leaving. I already called your security team before we got here. They're giving you an hour to send everyone home before they do. Your call. Just please keep a low profile for this tour. We're already on thin ice."

"Next time, have Jeff do your dirty work," Ezra practically spits in return, unable to let the current situation go entirely.

Yet, his two bandmates are unwilling to indulge him any longer. By the time the words leave his mouth, Ambrose is already dragging Jude down the hall and out of the house. Though there has to be dozens of people down below, Ezra has never felt more alone.

He can't exactly pinpoint his next moves after returning to the bathroom to finish what he started. It's almost an out of body experience as he stumbles down the hall and stairs to the main atrium of the house. Like clockwork, hundreds of eyes stare at him as if he's on exhibit. Still, it feels like no one is really looking at him. 

"Get the fuck out!" he slurs, attention focused on the sudden weight in his right hand. How did he get this bottle of amber liquid? The taste in his mouth is clue enough that he's taken a few pulls. Eyes flicker back to the sea of people, only a few capturing his attention while the rest continue on in their escapades. 

He moves towards the sound system and makeshift DJ booth with the intent of pouring every last ounce of liquor on the cables. Anything to get this noise in his head to stop. As his body shifts, it practically collides with another male. "Watch it, man," the stranger warns, and something in Ezra switches. 

No one even knows who he is. No one even cares. 

He drops the bottle, glass shattering across the marble floor. His dominant hand flexes, eyes darkening as they center in on the stranger. "The fuck did you just say to me?" 

The second Ezra's fist connects with the other's jaw, the world goes dark and becomes a blur.