*inspired by a thought of someone drunk trying to successfully make it home on the subway*
Everything was spinning to say the least. Connor could barely see five feet in front of him and stumbled endlessly like someone kept tripping him. It hadn't been the best day for him and he's gone to the bar to forget it all, a place he never usually went to face his problems. Connor only planned to chug a few shots, stay an hour or two, meet a couple people—it didn't turn out that way.
He was wasted on alcohol; had lost count of how many drinks he had downed three hours in (he stayed for six). Connor met more than plenty, even had twenty or so new numbers in his phone. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't given at least one or two a quickie in the bathroom.
But finally a bartender had convinced him to leave, told him that the amount of alcohol he had consumed wasn't healthy and escorted him out, wishing him a safe trip home.
Now, the bartender knew in the back of his mind that it certainly would not be a safe trip home. It was New York, five minutes he would probably be buying some scam off the street without knowing it or jaywalking and almost be hit by a car. Though he knew this he couldn't help the man, he wished him the best of luck.
Connor was an absolute mess. He stumbled down the streets, feet tripping over each other and any cracks in the sidewalk. He'd run into a few people who hadn't been so happy, and one who helped straighten him and sent him back in his way. (Straighten him as to say his center of gravity, not his sexuality because Connor knew that wouldn't change.)
He stepped in a puddle while admiring the nine eleven memorial that he passed, wiping a small tear at his grandfather that had passed during the attack. The water had been absolutely nasty, not the typical rain puddle you'd step in anywhere else.
He continued on though, cringe set deep into his face at the squishing sound and feel of his shoe. Connor sighed in relief when he finally came upon the stairs down to the subway station. He carefully stepped down them—well as carefully as he could drunk—holding onto the hand rail with a tight grip.
He fumbled his hand into his pocket to find his metro card, watching as a few people walked past him through another turnstile. Connor finally found it, smiling and congratulating himself before sliding it through the slot and pushing his way through the turnstile in front of him. (He may or may not have started to turn it the wrong way in his drunken haze but nobody needed to know that.)
Connor stood, waiting to get onto the subway that would finally take him back to his overpriced apartment. When the train rushed by, pulling to a stop in front of him he hurried inside before the doors could close.
Now, Connor had been on the subway many times before and it was not his first rodeo. By then, he'd been able to stand without holding onto anything, even through the stops and starts and turns. So, Connor didn't think he'd have any trouble doing it then.
But, that was sober Connor.
He'd been able to make it through the first start, gripping onto the back of a chair so that he wouldn't fall completely. By the time of the stop his ego had forced him to let go, causing him to fall face first into the floor (which—is very off topic but he'd mention it anyway—is a lot cleaner than people perceive it to be).
He winced as his nose collided with the hard ground, seeing a couple drops of blood spill out. Someone was rushing to his side and that's the first time he noticed that there was actually someone there with him. He'd thought it was an awfully empty train with it just being him, only to find out it wasn't as he made a fool of himself.
"Oh my god! Are you okay?" The man asked, turning him so he laid on his back. He pulled a Kleenex out of his pocket, dabbing it at Connor's nose. Connor was about to push him away at the thought of the tissue being used but the boy pushed him back, blue eyes shining,
