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It tasted like an over ripe grapefruit, through a misty haze that stirs across the living room. He remembers the loud music blasting across LED lights, pouring into his mind that slips further away from consciousness. The bones in his body started to feel more like the Jell-O shots he had just partaken in, as he sinks deeper into a haze.
He feels lips against his own, and tastes an artificial sweetness that was intoxicating at best. They were lazy, rolling against each other, pressing with gentle touches that always seemed to linger on. Icy fingers glide under a thick cardigan, and he stifles a giggle that feels like falling out.
He wanted more, to finally feel the buzz that he had been searching for this entire night. And so he licks his tongue, burning away like the fire in his soul. He forgets who he’s kissing, remembering only the way they sync with the edm track that booms across their bodies.
It is later that night when he’s sitting on a porch, smoking a blunt that rests comfortably between fingers. Laced with citrus and Indika, he notices the pink rolling that seemed to shine under fluorescent light. He was alone, and the distant noise from the back of him is slowly drowned out by static and white noise.
He was always the Center of attention, he had to be. Even at home, with two other brothers that needed to be taken care of. It was the only thing that could stop this dread that kept forcing its way out, something of a darkness that he will never want to acquaint. He was selfish, because he wanted the time that his family couldn’t provide, so he just started finding substitutes instead.
The drugs and the alcohol never meant to be a fixture in his life, but he had to admit that there was an itch in his head, persisting constantly until he got his first hit of the night.
And then he starts crying, because how fucking pathetic must he have looked right about now?
Wilbur used to have hobbies: singing, reading, playing board games with his family. So how did he end up here, at a house in the middle of nowhere, all alone? Or at least it felt like it. A teen desperate to understand his feelings and his body would have been a good enough excuse, but Wilbur knew too well that he could do better. He’s reminded of a sourness that seeps in everytime Phil asks where he’s gone, or who he’s been hanging out with as of recent. Blood red juice squeezing down his oesophagus when he lies, slipping out some believable excuse before dipping back into bed, ignoring anybody until pancakes are made the next day.
It had started off as a way to get loose, to be rid of all adolescent worries for just one night. And he knew that Phil must have known, stumbling through the front door, shit faced and head lolling against his neck. But when the bottle counts started to rise, and he’s started popping pills left and right Wilbur knew that he needed to stop.
Or rather, should have stopped.
Its a risky move when he pulls out his phone, blackout drunk and goes to his contact list. It’s a calculated one when he stares at the name that glows back at him. Phil would probably be pissed, but wilbur’s too far gone to really give much of a shit about the consequences of his actions.
A tangy, aromatic scent fills his lungs when the pink car pulls into the roundabout, and wilbur feels sugar syrup tears drip down his cheekbones. He wants to be hit, to be put in his place, he expects to be kicked out and put back into the system that he’d avoided for the last 2 years.
His mouth is filled with a bittersweet flavour when he’s pulled into a bone crushing hug, and it feels… safe and secure. They stand there for a moment, the taller shaking in the elder’s arms. The rose tinted vision that he wore has finally worn out, and he is left to reflect on his actions in the past few months.
When they do pull apart, Phil grabs a hold of wilbur’s hand, pulling the burnt out weed that was crushed in the palm of his hand.
“Was it fun?”
The glitter is iridescent under the pale moonlight.
“Probably not, I’m not sure.”
He notices the tracks left on the other’s face, surprised he’s not the only one emotional
“You wanna talk about it?”
Wilbur bites his lip, holding in a sob before he shakes his head.
With a nod, he watches the elder drop the stick onto the ground, smothering and smoothening it onto loose gravel. The glitter looked like gemstones, sparkling like crushed glass by a liquor store.
It tastes like an over ripe grapefruit, when Phil extends his hand, opening his palm up as an invitation, a way to revert from all his mistakes, a way that would help him onto the right path, and he feels himself smile with a sobriety that he hadn't felt in months
“Let’s go home son”