Toxic [A PewdieCry Fanfic] Discontinued

Prolouge - Felix

Board up your windows but I'm telling you that it's not gonna do a thing.
It always finds you, but it all depends
On how you battle with the pressure.
You take a left and it's standing in the way. You try to shake it off, but it seems to wanna stay
Your poker face could make them melt
Just sit back and deal with the hand you're dealt.
-

He sat alone at the bar, wallowing in misery and self pity. The waitress approached, offering a kind smile and a cool beer. He only replied with a weak, half-hearted smile; forced, out of politeness.
Taking the drink, Felix held it close, cradling the glass. It was cold, condensation clinging to the sides, sliding down onto his fingertips.

He raised the glass up, taking in the auburn liquid like one takes in air. Drinking: it's nothing but natural to him now.

He takes another gulp. Another breath. He's not suffocating so much anymore. The memories are leaving him, fading into the background with the blurred shapes and colours and he can't help but giggle.
For once since the incident, Felix is content. Content and happy and willing to smile. But the smile falls as he realises he's reached the bottom of his glass.

After lapping up the last few drops that cling to bottom, he gestures to the waitress. She walks over, her smile a little less friendly. A lot more concerned.
Her eyes; Felix looks into them and he can tell exactly what question's on her mind. Why are you here?
Honestly, he asks himself the same thing; every time he rounds the corner, closer to his local pub. Every time he pushes the doors open and strides over to that same, secluded stool.
Why?
Why am I here?

Felix orders the usual, a beer and a strong shot of straight vodka, before he waves the woman off. He knows she has questions, but he's not willing to give up answers.

While waiting Felix glances around, wondering momentarily, if anyone was here for the same reason he was. He started, mentally, narrating their lives, playing make believe with 'what if's.

The waitress comes back, interrupting his latest story about why the brunette by the bar has such sad eyes. Felix nods, giving her yet another weak, forced smile before turning his attention to his drink. Staring deep into the glass, thoughtfully. Felix retreats into himself. Away from the bar, the drunken voices and the people around him. He spaces out, focused wholly on his thoughts.

He thinks a lot, about nothing really. Just... Thoughts. Dreams, long since dead, desires that have been forgotten. Passions that burned out, reduced to dying embers.
He closed his eyes, one hand in his hair and the other bringing the glass to his lips. Felix drinks some more, and more. Until he can forget, he continues to drink.
He orders a third drink.
And then a fourth.
And a fifth.

Soon the buzz is back, and he's smiling and giggling and so fucking happy. His heart isn't so heavy, and his soul isn't so fucking broken.
He pushes certain thoughts to the back of his mind, ignoring the inevitable. Of course, when the buzz dies down they'll be back. She'll be back.

But for now Felix is content and ignorant and, god, it feels fantastic.
He pushes his fringe out his face using his left hand; then - for a reason in particular - takes a moment to stare at his hand. Specifically the golden band around his right middle finger.
Felix smiles, tracing over the gold ring with his thumb. He really had to take this thing off...

Heaving a great sigh, he forces himself to stand, pushing aside the empty glasses and shoving a bill into the woman's waiting hand.
"Put any change on my tab."
His breath is sour, stale with alcohol and reeking like death.
"See you tomorrow sir?"
"Of course."
Tomorrow, and the day after that. And the day after that day. Weeks after weeks, months after months. He'll be here. Wasting away and wallowing in regret, just like he has been for the past few weeks.

Felix doesn't bother to cast a glance to the other patrons, just ducks his head and makes a b-line for the door. Any women that try to approach, drunkenly sauntering over to cling to his arm, are indignantly pushed aside.
He's become a trophy to these drunks, both men and woman. For he's untouchable.
Never spoken a word to anyone that wasn't there to take his order.
He's allusive and mysterious in these people's misty eyes, and they crave to tear away at and dissect that mystery. To have it as there own.

But Felix knows he only belongs to one person, and that person lives in a rosewood casket, buried beneath the earth.
He glances quickly at the ring, a bad habit of his lately, then pushes the doors open and stumbles out into the humid night air.
The sun has dipped down and hidden behind the horizon and the moon is at it's peak, casting a silvery glow over the streets and pavement.

Kicking up a crumpled paper, Felix makes his way down the street.

The air tonight is rather unpredictable, stuffy one second, then cold and nipping at his exposed hands and face the next.
Quivering, Felix wraps his arms around himself.
He walks and walks, the silence gnawing at his psyche and eating away his patience, ceasing only when he's a block away from home.

And then he waits.

Eyes trained on the paper being meticulously pushed forward by his weak kicks, he listened. Finally, the weak footsteps pick up. Same as every other night.

At first, Felix was scared, unrelenting paranoia keeping him from turning around to come face to face with who or what may be following; but after three weeks he's come to expect the footsteps. Welcome them, even.
Unknowingly, Felix had fallen into a routine. Get drunk, go home, be followed by unseen weirdo, pass out.

The stalker, as he's been dubbed, never approaches the Swede, never makes an attempt to grab him or even follow him inside his apartment complex. He just follows, and then stops outside the front door to the blonde's building; and before Felix can catch so much as a glimpse he's gone.

Felix says 'he' because one night the follower did go outside their familiar routine, he chuckled when the Swede tripped over a crack.
The noise was deep, and somewhat pleasant; it left the Swede pining, pining for more sound to cut through the silence.

He should've reported the stalker after a week, Felix knew, but there was just something about him. Something curious; he'd become a conundrum, a puzzle that Felix so dearly needed to keep his mind off her.

But there's only so much space you can walk before you reach your destination, and no matter how slowly he may walk he'll always get to his apartment block eventually.
And that's the moment those footsteps stop, and he's swallowed back up in silence - left to crave that last beer in the bottom of the fridge, think of her, and wonder why the fuck a stalker has him so hooked.

-
Okay. Look. It's FINALLY up.
HOLY SHIT.
I ended up just writing up all that last part on a whim. It hasn't been proofread so spelling mistakes and horrible writing is to be expected.
Still, HOLY FUCK IT'S FINALLY UP.
TOOK ME LONG ENOUGH.
And still, it feels like we've gotten nowhere. Hmm...
Also, later chapters will most likely be in 1st person, somewhat shorter and less descriptive.