“When the party's over” | Open RP
Wayne Tower seemed infinite like this. Devoid of any other sign of life as Cain sat on the cold cement watching the first slither of sunrise.
The Gala had wound down slowly. Sluggish even, as the last guests dragged themselves out of the venue.
His shoes sat abandoned beside him as he nursed a bottle of water, stuffing the last of the hors d'oeuvres into his face. He felt pretty gross. Not new after a long night, bone tired. Cold.
And so sickeningly lonely.
The crash often came after entertaining for the evening. Laughing so carefree and relaxed. Then the drop came and the heavy thoughts creeped in quietly. Gently wrapping themselves around his throat. So warm and careful that he wouldn't realise how heavy his chest felt or the lump in his throat, until it was too late. —Sure he had friends now. People who attended his shiny galas and played dressup with him. All indulging his little fantasies that he is anything else than the performer he was forged to be.
But at the end of the night, he'd be sat alone on the floor, wondering if anyone truly liked him outside of this glossy shell. He wished he could leave this tender ache in the year before. That the new sunrise would have him feeling a bit lighter. It ended as it started.
With him cold and alone on the floor, burning with loneliness after force-feeding himself the sweet lie that it doesn't have to be this way. He had Tim back home — well— kind of? Sometimes? Maybe? That was just as a silly joke he told himself to feel a little more human. He branched out really far this year! He made progress! He has Eden who he loved more than anything!
He tried. He worked so hard. Why couldn't it be enough? Why did no one want to stick around once the curtain fell? Was he not worth knowing outside the glow of stage lights?
He was tired. Things were supposed to get better. They said if he tried, if he put in the work. Went out, made friends, became kinder, it would get better. Why didn't it get better?
Well. There's no use to sitting in his own self pity so he quickly wiped his eyes and heaved up his heavy body. Cleaning because it's all he can do—"ah shit" —
Allegedly. He apparently isn't really good at that wither as the champagne flutes go tumbling down. He wills himself to not start crying again at the scattered shattered glass, taking a deep breath on his way down. Collecting each peace carefully, so caught in his own thoughts, he doesn't hear the set of footsteps tapping lightly against the concrete.
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