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The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where broken people came to drown their broken pieces. It smelled of stale cigarettes, cheap liquor, and desperation. Miles fit in perfectly.
“So what brings you here?” the bartender asked, his voice rough and indifferent, as if he had seen too many people like Miles to care anymore.
Miles blinked, his thoughts a tangled mess. “Dunno,” he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. The weight of the world hung around his shoulders like a noose. The bartender nodded, accepting the non-answer with a casualness that made Miles feel even emptier.
“What’s your strongest?” Miles asked, eyes dead, staring through the bar.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Strongest of what? Liquor? Cocktails? You looking to forget?”
“Strongest of it all,” Miles replied, voice flat, lifeless.
The bartender sighed, as if knowing what came next but powerless to stop it. “Polmos Spirytus Rektyfikowany,” he said, reaching for a bottle with a label that screamed danger. “96% alcohol. You’re playin’ with fire, kid.”
Miles let out a short, humorless laugh. “Sounds perfect.”
“You sure?” the bartender asked, eyes lingering on the hollow look in Miles’ gaze. Miles just nodded, slipping some cash onto the counter, but the bartender shook his head. “It’s on the house, kid. God knows you look like you need it.”
---
For six months, that bar had become Miles’ only constant. The bottle greeted him like an old friend, its burn familiar, numbing. Every night, he drank until he couldn’t feel anything. Until the gnawing pain inside him became just a distant hum. The alcohol was killing him, but that was the point, wasn’t it? He didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Maybe that’s what hurt the most. He should care. But there was nothing left in him to do so.
“You’re new here, ain’t ya?” a voice cut through the fog of alcohol one night. Miles didn’t even bother looking up. Another bartender, another meaningless voice.
“You sound like my best friend,” he slurred, his words tumbling out messily, like broken glass.
The bartender chuckled, a hollow sound. “Coincidence, innit?”
Miles took another swig, the burn in his throat barely registering anymore. “Yeah… maybe.” He paused, letting the silence stretch out. “His name’s Hobie.”
The name hung in the air, heavy, loaded with everything Miles had been trying to forget. Hobie—the only person who still felt like home, and the reason he was trying so hard to disappear.
“Oh, I know that lad,” the bartender said, wiping down the counter. “Funny guy. Stubborn.”
Before Miles could say anything, he felt it. That familiar presence. He didn’t need to turn around to know. Hobie had found him.
“Oi, mate,” Hobie’s voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of alcohol like a blade. “You know where you are?”
Miles laughed bitterly. “Yeah, ‘m in New York, at this shitty bar I’ve been comin’ to for six months.” His words were slurred, the edges of his sentences crumbling under the weight of intoxication.
Hobie froze, his jaw clenched tight. “Six months?” His voice was low, dangerous. “What the fuck, Miles? Six months? Every night?”
Miles shrugged, the apathy wrapping around him like a shield. “Yeah, so what? Don’t matter.”
“It *does* matter!” Hobie’s voice cracked, frustration bleeding through. “What the hell are you tryin’ to do, huh? Destroy yourself?”
Miles let out a bitter laugh, his smile twisted and ugly. “Maybe.”
Hobie’s face was a storm of emotions—anger, hurt, confusion. But mostly, pain. Deep, aching pain. “Why, mate? What have you been doin’ to yourself?”
Miles didn’t answer immediately. He took another sip, the liquid burning his throat, but he welcomed it. “I dunno… partying, drinking, smoking. Not eatin’, not sleepin’. Had a few one-night stands. Hurt myself. A lot.” He laughed, but it was empty. “Just… trying to feel something. Or nothing. It’s all the same now.”
Hobie’s expression shifted, his anger melting into something else. Something more fragile. “Miles…”
“You know I love you, right?” Miles’ voice broke, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. His hand reached out, trying to close the space between them, his lips brushing Hobie’s, desperate for something—anything—to pull him back from the edge.
Hobie pulled away gently, shaking his head. “You’re drunk, mate. You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”
But the truth was, Hobie wasn’t sure if that was a lie.
---
The next morning, Miles woke with a pounding headache, his body heavy, useless. He blinked, his surroundings blurry, but the familiar warmth of Hobie’s arms around him was unmistakable.
The memories of the night before came flooding back, and with them, a crushing weight. “Fuck,” Miles whispered, his voice hoarse. “What… what did I do?”
“You said you loved me,” Hobie’s voice was soft, barely a whisper.
Miles froze. His stomach churned, guilt gnawing at him. “I… I didn’t—”
Hobie cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t try to take it back. Not now.”
Miles wanted to disappear. To crawl back into the nothingness he had been trying so hard to lose himself in. “I—” His voice cracked, the words choking in his throat.
“When’s the last time you ate?” Hobie asked, his tone firm but gentle.
Miles closed his eyes. He didn’t want to answer. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” Hobie shot back, frustration seeping through his words. “And you’re an alcoholic, whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I’m not an alcoholic,” Miles snapped, but even he could hear how pathetic it sounded. His voice wavered, weak. He wasn’t fooling anyone—not even himself.
Hobie sighed, the weight of the world in that single breath. “I ain’t gonna argue with you, mate. But you’re gonna eat. Whether you like it or not.”
Miles looked away, the guilt settling in his chest like a stone. He was hurting Hobie, dragging him down into this mess with him. “I’m sorry…” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Hobie’s hand rested on his shoulder, grounding him. “I ain’t mad at you, Miles. I’m just… I wish I could’ve helped you sooner.”
Miles felt his throat tighten, his vision blurring. But no tears came. He was empty. Hollow.
“I love you, sunflower,” Hobie murmured, the words soft, like a promise he wasn’t sure Miles could believe.
Miles’ heart clenched painfully at the nickname. “I… I love you too,” he whispered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. Because it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing did.
Hobie stood, heading toward the door. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
But as Hobie left the room, Miles curled up into himself, the crushing weight of his own self-loathing threatening to swallow him whole.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the emptiness, though he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to—Hobie, himself, or the universe for existing at all.
### Chapter Two: Drowning
The days blurred together. Hours, minutes, seconds—all of it bled into one long, unrelenting haze. Miles didn’t remember the last time he had felt anything other than this suffocating numbness. It wrapped around him like a second skin, tight and choking, leaving him breathless and hollow.
But worse than the numbness were the fleeting moments where he felt. When the dam holding back his emotions would crack, just for a second, and the flood of pain would hit him so hard he thought it might drown him.
And Hobie... Hobie was still here, standing in the flood, trying to pull him from the wreckage. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to either of them.
Miles stared at the bottle in his hand, the liquid inside sloshing gently with the motion of his shaking fingers. The apartment was silent except for the ticking of a clock on the wall—a mocking reminder of all the time slipping away from him, time he’d wasted in this miserable state.
He lifted the bottle to his lips, ready to drown out the voices in his head, ready to fall back into that blissful nothingness again, but before he could, the door swung open.
“Miles,” Hobie’s voice was hard this time. There was no room for softness. No room for gentle concern. Not anymore.
Miles didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. He just took another swig from the bottle, the burn in his throat doing little to dull the ache in his chest.
Hobie crossed the room in long, deliberate strides, and in one swift motion, he yanked the bottle from Miles’ hand, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the small apartment, loud and jarring.
“What the hell, Hobie?” Miles slurred, his head spinning from the sudden loss of his crutch.
“What the *hell*, Miles?” Hobie shot back, his voice sharp, a storm raging behind his eyes. “You’re killin’ yourself, and for what? To feel somethin’? To forget? How long are you gonna keep doin’ this until there’s nothin’ left of you to save?”
Miles laughed bitterly, the sound scraping out of him like broken glass. “Maybe that’s the point,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. “Maybe there’s nothing left worth saving.”
Hobie’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He didn’t move for a moment, just stood there, staring at Miles like he was trying to find the right words, the right way to reach him through the thick wall of self-destruction Miles had built around himself.
But there were no words. Not anymore.
“I love you, Miles,” Hobie finally said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “I’ve told you that a thousand times, but you don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re not just destroyin’ yourself—you’re destroyin’ me too.”
Miles flinched at the words, something inside him cracking, but not enough. It wasn’t enough to break through the haze. He turned his face away, staring at the broken shards of glass on the floor.
Hobie stepped closer, his hand hovering near Miles’ face like he wanted to touch him but couldn’t bring himself to. “You think you’re the only one sufferin’? You think you’re the only one who’s hurtin’? I’ve been watchin’ you fall apart for months, and I can’t— I *can’t* do this anymore.”
Miles’ chest tightened, a sharp pang of something—regret, maybe—cutting through him. But it was fleeting. Everything was fleeting.
“Then don’t,” Miles said, his voice hollow. “You don’t have to stay. No one’s forcing you to.”
Hobie’s face twisted, his eyes burning with something Miles couldn’t name. Hurt? Anger? Desperation? Maybe all of it. “I’m not stayin’ because I have to, you idiot. I’m stayin’ because I *want* to. Because I *love* you. But I can’t keep watchin’ you kill yourself like this. I can’t keep pickin’ up the pieces when you don’t even care enough to hold onto them.”
Miles looked up, meeting Hobie’s gaze for the first time since he’d walked into the room. “Maybe I don’t *want* to hold onto them,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the weight of those words slammed into Hobie like a punch to the gut.
Hobie took a step back, his expression crumbling, just for a second, before he regained his composure. “That’s it then?” he asked, his voice raw, like he was barely holding himself together. “You’re just gonna let go? Let everything fall apart?”
Miles swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Hobie that he wasn’t giving up, that he was just lost and scared and broken, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, all he could do was shrug, that same stupid, apathetic shrug that had become his default defense mechanism.
Hobie let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Christ, Miles. You don’t even fuckin’ care, do you?”
“I do care,” Miles mumbled, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie.
“Then *show* it!” Hobie yelled, his voice cracking with frustration. “Show me that you care. Stop drownin’ yourself in booze and drugs and whatever the fuck else you’re doin’ to avoid feelin’ anything. Stop pushin’ me away.”
“I’m not pushing you away,” Miles whispered, but he knew it wasn’t true. He’d been pushing Hobie away for months, maybe even longer.
Hobie took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “I can’t… I can’t keep doin’ this, Miles. I love you, but you gotta let me help you. You gotta *want* to be helped.”
Miles’ chest tightened, that familiar feeling of helplessness creeping back in. “I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice small, like a child lost in the dark.
Hobie stepped forward again, his hand finally resting on Miles’ cheek, the touch gentle but firm. “Then let me show you,” he whispered. “Let me help you, but you gotta stop fightin’ me. You gotta let me in.”
Miles closed his eyes, leaning into Hobie’s touch. He was so tired. So tired of fighting, of pretending, of trying to numb the pain that never really went away. He wanted to let Hobie in. He wanted to believe that things could get better. But deep down, he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
“I don’t know if I can,” Miles whispered, his voice trembling. “I don’t know if I’m worth it.”
Hobie’s hand tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing against Miles’ cheek in a tender, almost desperate gesture. “You are,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re worth every damn thing, Miles. You’re worth more than you know.”
Miles opened his eyes, staring into Hobie’s. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to feel—really feel—the weight of Hobie’s love for him. It was terrifying. Overwhelming. But maybe… just maybe… it was enough to pull him back from the edge.
Miles let out a shaky breath, nodding ever so slightly. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll try.”
And for the first time in six months, Miles felt something other than numbness. It was fragile, and fleeting, but it was there.
Hope.