The Naked Truth [Ryden]

Thirteen: Dallon's Biggest Mistake Yet

Dallon was drunk. He'd already thrown up once, but that didn't deter him; what he'd puked out, he put back in, but that didn't stop the pain in his chest.

He sat on the bathroom floor, legs splayed this way and that, practically hugging the toilet bowl as he struggled to keep himself vaguely upright. He'd completely skipped past happy drunk, diving straight into depressed drunk, which, for him, was easy to do. If he knew better, which he should've, but of course this was Dallon and he was hopelessly in love with Brendon Urie so he didn't, he'd have gone to hospital. Everything hurt. He wanted it all to go away. However, if he had gone to hospital, all the doctors would've told him to do was pull himself together and get the fuck over Brendon. Or maybe that was Spencer.

And Spencer was right, Spencer was painfully right, Spencer was more right than wrong and that made him feel pathetic.

Dallon was drowning, he was drowning in himself and he was drowning in self-hatred and he was drowning in alcohol. He never meant for this to happen. He never meant for everyone to hate him. He just got involved with someone who meant too much to him but meant nothing to in return.

He retched into the toilet, his eyes watering, the porcelain warming beneath his hands due to how long he'd clutched it for. He was a mess, a fucking mess, and everything hurt. His stomach felt like it was being stabbed, ripped at from the inside. His heart was being crushed as he thought about Brendon and Ryan and how well they were getting along.

It hurt so much. Brendon never loved him, he never will. Brendon never cared. Besides, he had a new toy to play with now.

Dallon began to sob with his forehead against the toilet seat, his throat hurting and his mouth dry. He was so drunk, beyond drunk, why hadn't he passed out by now?

After ten minutes of solid, pathetic sobbing, he managed to heave himself to his feet. It was a tremendous effort, and he swayed unsteadily, but he was upright, more upright than he'd been for the past hour, and he came to a shocking conclusion as his eyes focused and unfocused on the bathtub.

He needed to drink more.

He stumbled towards the kitchen, holding onto the walls, and he was passing his bedroom when something inside it caught his eye.

A small clear plastic pouch on the nightstand, half-full of white powder, left over from when Brendon was last here. That had to have been at least a week ago. Transfixed, Dallon walked slowly towards his bed, sitting down on the edge of it and picking up the pouch. He knew exactly what it was, what it had to be; even drunk, he wasn't stupid.

His fingers felt numb as he opened the pouch, tipping some of the powder onto his nightstand, white on wood and in a messy line. He neatened it up with some sort of card - bank card, business card, birthday card; he didn't know - and smiled to himself. Brendon wouldn't miss it.

~

It was two am, and Brendon really didn't appreciate having someone banging relentlessly on the door. Especially seeing as how he was curled up quite affectionately with Ryan Ross, and if he were to be asked what position, he'd unashamedly say that he was the little spoon.

And then the whining started, the wheedling little voice that drifted through the letterbox, and with a heavy sigh, Brendon disentangled himself from Ryan and headed downstairs, to the front door. He unlocked it and practically threw it open, ready to give whatever drunken prick was there a piece of his mind (seriously, who wakes Brendon Urie up at two am?), but his words faltered when he saw an incredibly wrecked Dallon Weekes slumped against the doorframe.