𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚜 // 𝚊𝚡𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎 [𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎]

XIII: Just A Come On In The Dark

Wow, it's been over a year since this story was first published! Thanks for sticking with me and hope you enjoy this chapter, sorry it's been a while :)

Estay/Layla POV

It's your fault.

The voice in Estay's head wouldn't cease in its insistence that Liana's state was down to her. As she nursed a bottle of vodka, the only thoughts swirling around her head were worries about her best friend's health and the painful whispers of you should have been there for her. She wished that thinking, damnit, there's nothing I can do, would make them go away; but the demons were strong tonight. 

Hence the alcohol.

It wasn't a good idea, Estay knew that. She'd once buried her sorrows in other drugs, and that had only led to pain, and having to abandon everything she'd known - the boys she'd loved. She wanted to blame Will and Jeff, needed it to be someone's fault, but she knew it hadn't been. 

You must have hurt them so much. They must hate you.

Raising the bottle to her lips, she took another swig, wishing it would hurry up and dull the intrusive thoughts that she didn't want to listen to, despite their truth. The bar's ambience, she dully acknowledged, was provided by the jukebox's playing of Don't Stop Believin', the lyrics swimming through her perception. 

For a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and on...

There was something beautiful about that, she thought. Understanding without explanation, acknowledgement without words, shared experience without care. But it didn't seem to acknowledge the grief that came afterwards, in whose fallout she seemed unable to escape. She'd escaped once, but where had it gotten her? Here. Sitting alone with a bottle of vodka in a bar, wishing to start again. 

Some life you've made yourself. The thoughts were back.

Damnit. She couldn't sit here all night. 

Filled with a sudden restlessness, Estay took one last gulp of vodka and stood up, ignoring the slight sway in her balance as she walked out of the bar and into the refreshingly cold night air. Renewed purpose filled her as her destination solidified in her mind. It was stupid, but she couldn't make anything much worse right now.

Her vision faded in and out as streetlights and car headlights passed her by, ignoring the others milling around the streets in the darkness of the late hour as she continued on her course. Arriving at the correct building, she took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer for Roger's apartment.

"Hello?" His voice didn't even sound tired. Did the boy ever sleep?

"Hey Rog, it's Layla. Can I come up?"

The door opened immediately, Roger knowing from the times they'd done this before that a conversation at the door wasn't what she was here for - or an appropriate place to talk about things. It was a ritual, albeit one she hadn't indulged in for a while; that, she supposed, was a good thing. She and Roger had yet to meet in good circumstances.

As she mused this, her feet carried her to the apartment door, which she knocked on before he opened it up with a gentle smile. "It's been a while, huh?"

"Guess that's a sign that things have been less shit lately," she stared at the carpeted floor as she mumbled, suddenly sheepish to use him as she'd done before. "They've definitely turned back to shit now, though."

Finding the courage to look up at him, Estay was met with a sympathetic expression and an arm that wrapped around her waist as they stood, both melancholy and anticipation swimming in the air. Taking a deep breath, she moved to stand in front of him, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

"Promise you don't hate me for using you like this every time." She whispered, trying to shove down guilt.

"I could never hate you. Besides, Lafayette screwed me over too." He responded, placing his hand gently over her hip as they looked into each other's eyes, brown on blue. This was the beautiful, terrible freezeframe of their relationship: only when everything was wrong could they be right. That was why they'd never actually tried to make a romance work - no, they were each cobbled together from the broken pieces of a separate shattered masterpiece, and those pieces could never fit together into one. 

But in the sepia hours of night, that didn't matter, and as their lips met, both knew they were as bad as each other.