He's had more to drink in the last two hours than he'd had in the last two months. And it's still not enough.
As a dancer, he knows what it can do to his body and that is exactly why he's switched to drinking straight out of the bottle. Tonight, he's using it as a means of punishment not pleasure. Besides he's afraid that if he stayed sober long enough he'd claw his own skin off. It feels too tight and he feels trapped inside.
Trapped. It's a feeling he should be used to by now. He's been feeling it for far too long, ever since she's come back - he feels like he's being constantly cornered. No matter where he runs, what he says, where he goes - she's there. Initially it was just her words and memories and now, it's her very presence. And if that wasn't enough - he sees glimpses of her in his closest friends and even his dream now.
He feels like he can't think of anything anymore without her slowly sneaking up on him. He was slowly getting used to it, he was. Had almost convinced himself he could do this. He could put on a brave (cold, harsh, crucial) front, keep her at an arm's length and he'd be able to do just fine. He'd survive.
But of course she had to go and snatch that from him. In the most novel way possible. She'd gotten under his skin and made his body hers. He remembers as he feels the vodka burn his throat. He remembers, remembers that it wasn't just her. He can still feel the hair at the back of his neck. Where her hand had been. Trusting, holding, burning. And his hands, they'd been everywhere. Supporting her, lifting her, spinning her, circling her, protecting her and yet it hadn't been enough. Like it never was. Like it never used to be.
He splutters suddenly as he takes in more than he can swallow and wets his shirt as he wheezes. His skin still burns where it had slapped against hers. Because he'd pulled her. Because he'd given up, lost control. He jumps back. The vodka feels like burning acid and he strips off his shirt. His body shakes in the face of the December chill and he lets it.
He still remembers the weight of her, the softness, the heat. He way her trembling flesh had felt beneath his hands and those eyes. He hated those eyes. They stole away his very being. As long as he didn't see her, he knew exactly what he wanted, how he felt but then he glimpse into them and he lost track of everything. He hated them. They defeated him without even blinking.
He knew she danced like she lived, by her rules, for the win. And all he wanted to do was beat her at her own game. He knows when it turned into a battle of wills, but he doesn't remember when it turned into a fight for survival. Where stopping meant dying and spinning her felt akin to flying.
He'd wanted to crush her then, consume her, inhale her, at least his body did. His mind of the other hand had gone hoarse yelling. Had been begging him to run, to leave, to just walk away and protect himself ever since he'd arrived. But his body - slave to dancing that it was, hadn't listened. He knows when it became something more than just dance but he'd been too far gone to stop. But when they did stop, her downcast eyes made him want to break himself apart.
Before he'd stepped onto that court, he had been trying to convince himself he hated her, but by the time he stepped out, he was struggling not to hate himself.
That was always the effect she had on him anyway.
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