[ It's not the first time he's woken up in an alley with no memory of the day before sans hazy snippets. It's not the second time, either, though he supposes he should be a little alarmed that it's happening with more frequency.
But he wakes up, and asides from a wonderful moment spent throwing up behind a movie theatre's dumpster, he gets back to work. That's the great thing about a leather jacket; people usually pay attention to the statement piece rather than the fact that you're in clothes you've worn for a few days. That's the great thing about curls, too: people are usually too distracted by how big your hair is to look closer and see how much like shit you look.
But Daniel Molloy manages to haul ass to the Berkeley Barb through sheer luck and spite. Even manages to make it to one whole class at university, too, before the itch starts hitting him. It's a familiar crawling sensation, itchy without actually itching but still causing him to think of nothing but relaxing. It's not his fault. It's not his fault his classmates are all fucking stupid, it's not his fault the world is going to shit. It's not his fault he's done some questionable things to get some baseline level of 'not fucked' by going out and doing exactly that and getting fucked. He just needs to relax.
(The bruises on his jaw like someone's held him there to yell, the bruises on his back from where he'd definitely fallen into something? Daniel chalks that up to a bad night. Nothing new. Nothing serious. The thrumming pain in his rear if he sits for too long is the same sort of story.)
He's failing h is classes, of course. Probably he should get his grades up. Probably he should work on that story about the sex worker who's pimp beats her up real bad. Probably he shouldn't be thinking of heroin.
Probably Daniel should get more fucking drugs because he hates when he can't quiet his mind like this.
He holds out on actually buying some for at least a week--he scrapes some off of Alice, who owes him anyway and her boyfriend won't notice so it's fine, it's not good or anything but it'll get them by, and obviously don't mention this to anyone, Daniel--but eventually his cravings cave and he finds himself circling the parts of Haight-Ashbury he knows lets him score. It's weird, how he can't remember stepping into here in at least two weeks. He definitely has, though, because despite slinking in and taking his usual spot, the bartender has a look, the look that says he's already tired of Daniel's bullshit. It's a look that he only gets when Daniel's been cruising more than twice a week. One Daniel avoids since he rather enjoys this bar.
Well, fuck the bartender, because Daniel actually has enough money for a drink today: as he pointedly pulls out the wallet he can't help the smug smile floating across his face. ]
Grasshopper, please.
[ See? He's being polite. Saying please can be polite. The bartender rolls his eyes and Daniel's smile widens before it quickly fades, dissipating as realization kicks in. he has enough for a drink. He doesn't have enough to outright score, which means he needs to get clever. Again. But he's in Polynesian Mary's, and he's done this way more than once. It's just harder to ignore how desperate you are when you're stone cold sober. He exhales through his nose, glancing around casually, eyes flicking on person to person with a surprisingly sharp edge to it despite his junkie tendencies. There's Max, who he's at least sucked dick for 20 which got him somewhere. And there's Steven, who's a rough fuck but doable, but there's no one who's actively supplying. Fuck. Daniel keeps looking: regular, regular, newcomer, someone who's probably a narc, and--
--Daniel doesn't know why, but he knows he's seen the guy by the curtain before, standing there with a glass. He's beautiful in a way that most guys like that are, slender and poised and cherubic, but that's not what's stopping him. He just looks familiar, and he scrunches his brows up, pinching his face.
No. Definitely familiar. Is he staring? Probably he's staring. The stranger is definitely staring at him, or maybe he's just staring back? Daniel can't help it, he feels almost hypnotized. ]
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interviewings) wrote2023-07-14 11:32 pm
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But he wakes up, and asides from a wonderful moment spent throwing up behind a movie theatre's dumpster, he gets back to work. That's the great thing about a leather jacket; people usually pay attention to the statement piece rather than the fact that you're in clothes you've worn for a few days. That's the great thing about curls, too: people are usually too distracted by how big your hair is to look closer and see how much like shit you look.
But Daniel Molloy manages to haul ass to the Berkeley Barb through sheer luck and spite. Even manages to make it to one whole class at university, too, before the itch starts hitting him. It's a familiar crawling sensation, itchy without actually itching but still causing him to think of nothing but relaxing. It's not his fault. It's not his fault his classmates are all fucking stupid, it's not his fault the world is going to shit. It's not his fault he's done some questionable things to get some baseline level of 'not fucked' by going out and doing exactly that and getting fucked. He just needs to relax.
(The bruises on his jaw like someone's held him there to yell, the bruises on his back from where he'd definitely fallen into something? Daniel chalks that up to a bad night. Nothing new. Nothing serious. The thrumming pain in his rear if he sits for too long is the same sort of story.)
He's failing h is classes, of course. Probably he should get his grades up. Probably he should work on that story about the sex worker who's pimp beats her up real bad. Probably he shouldn't be thinking of heroin.
Probably Daniel should get more fucking drugs because he hates when he can't quiet his mind like this.
He holds out on actually buying some for at least a week--he scrapes some off of Alice, who owes him anyway and her boyfriend won't notice so it's fine, it's not good or anything but it'll get them by, and obviously don't mention this to anyone, Daniel--but eventually his cravings cave and he finds himself circling the parts of Haight-Ashbury he knows lets him score. It's weird, how he can't remember stepping into here in at least two weeks. He definitely has, though, because despite slinking in and taking his usual spot, the bartender has a look, the look that says he's already tired of Daniel's bullshit. It's a look that he only gets when Daniel's been cruising more than twice a week. One Daniel avoids since he rather enjoys this bar.
Well, fuck the bartender, because Daniel actually has enough money for a drink today: as he pointedly pulls out the wallet he can't help the smug smile floating across his face. ]
Grasshopper, please.
[ See? He's being polite. Saying please can be polite. The bartender rolls his eyes and Daniel's smile widens before it quickly fades, dissipating as realization kicks in. he has enough for a drink. He doesn't have enough to outright score, which means he needs to get clever. Again. But he's in Polynesian Mary's, and he's done this way more than once. It's just harder to ignore how desperate you are when you're stone cold sober. He exhales through his nose, glancing around casually, eyes flicking on person to person with a surprisingly sharp edge to it despite his junkie tendencies. There's Max, who he's at least sucked dick for 20 which got him somewhere. And there's Steven, who's a rough fuck but doable, but there's no one who's actively supplying. Fuck. Daniel keeps looking: regular, regular, newcomer, someone who's probably a narc, and--
--Daniel doesn't know why, but he knows he's seen the guy by the curtain before, standing there with a glass. He's beautiful in a way that most guys like that are, slender and poised and cherubic, but that's not what's stopping him. He just looks familiar, and he scrunches his brows up, pinching his face.
No. Definitely familiar. Is he staring? Probably he's staring. The stranger is definitely staring at him, or maybe he's just staring back? Daniel can't help it, he feels almost hypnotized. ]
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A MILLION YEARS LATER
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