The One Shot Book Of IT Gay Couples.

from the dining table. | bichie.

woke up alone in this hotel room,
played with myself,
where were you?

Lately, it had always been this way.

Richie would wake up on a bed, a room, a place he didn't recognise, nor remember how or why he's there.

Looking around, he realises where he currently is; a bed of a bad motel, but no one is around him today. As he was getting up, he noticed a piece of paper scrambled on the pillow.

"thank for last night. payed for the room. sorry to live you hanging, i had important things to do."

'Important things to do' meaning, more important than you.

So, he didn't get there by himself. 

He must've been drunk, or high, or both, because he truly didn't remember a thing.

Falling back into bed, he saw what the person who left the note was referring to when they said 'leave you hanging' between his legs. He might still have a few minutes to do something before leaving.

He looked at the window, wondering what is he doing right now. 

Releasing himself, not wanting to do anything any more, tears covered his eyes.

"Where the fuck are you when I need you?"

went back to sleep
i got drunk by noon
i've never felt less cool

Not even noticing it, he had felt asleep. When he woke up, he repeated the routine to figure out where the fuck he was. Once he knew, he got up, but ignoring the note this time.

After a shower, and making sure he didn't smell nor seem like a tramp, he managed to go out of the room, leaving as sneakily as he could.

This was when he felt shame. When he wanted to change everything that happened or change everything that he is now.

This is when he starts feeling too much.

This is when Richie goes to a bar. The same bar everytime, and not only because the barman is his friend, but he knows Richie has nothing to pay with, and let him drink whatever he wants if he can be the barman a few hours. 

That's what it takes him to be too drunk to function.

Following the schedule, it was now one o'clock, and he was already on the back steps of the local, with a beer in hand. 

This is probably the less alcoholic drink he has had in a few weeks, maybe months. And he hates it. 

He hates how alcoholic he had become, he hates how less alcohol there's on it to make him forget, he just hates it.

This wasn't him. When did he became this? The light and warm everyone remembers him for having is now long gone, and its replaced with the coolness of an iced beer.