2. Vomit on shoes

"Eric, you're making a scene," Melissa growled, slapping the top of his head as he groaned, sniffing.

He raised his head from the table, the red on his cheekbones much more visible as he raised his hand, the waitress bringing him another shot.

Melissa frowned at him, "Why do you keep taking shots if you're just going to cry even harder?"

His eyes were a bold red, as he made a face before meeting Melissa's gaze, and bursting into tears again.

He breathed through his throat clogged, "He fired me without even asking me about my day, who I was or anything. I was made fun of throughout the entire time I was there."

"In his defence, and as I mentioned two seconds ago for the fiftieth time, you got there late and without any shoes?"

"He could even hear my explanation though?" he raised an eyebrow.

Melissa shrugged her shoulders, "I wouldn't either."

He hated when Melissa was right, but she usually was. Melissa oftentimes got on his nerves. She was his closest friend that remained with him after high school, and who moved four hours down from their home city to Rickpark, pursuing her own dreams and helping Eric achieve his. Eric's wanted to become a writer, and believed finding connections in the literary industry was an easier route, while Melissa wanted to become a dancer, and Rickpark was famous for having made dancers become known around their industry.

Hence why, as she saw Eric cry, she knew it stung him deep, since Draven H. Malcom was on the rise; his comic books were beginning to grow a large fandom, and even one of them was turning into a movie, in Hollywood. He was the only connection he would ever hope to receive with that status, and he had ruined it before he even got the chance to show his talent.

Suddenly, someone approached their table and pushed him, making room for himself.

"What did I miss?" he asked, waving his hand to the waitress and ordering a drink.

Melissa sighed, "He's just been drowning himself in tears."

"I would too," he snarled, "you're an idiot, Eric."

Justin Pitcher was the man who had gotten Eric the job, since he had connections with that agency. Having met Eric at a club, they had grown closer and became the best of friends within weeks. Hence why, when Eric told Justin about his dream, and Justin worked for that agency, he was able to find him an Editor's job for Draven H. Malcom, to which he absolutely ruined.

He knew he had ruined it, which is why he slammed his forehead on the table again, "I know I'm an idiot."

"He cussed me out too, and I'm not proud of that, I could've lost my job," he was angry as well, scoffing and reaching for his glass, taking a large gulp.

Eric's muscles tensed, "He yelled at you too?"

"Yes, he even called me a joke." He shook his head, "Look I still vouched for you, told him to at least look at your portfolio but he was not having it."

Another shot Eric needed; Melissa stopped him from raising his hand. He was filthy drunk by the end of the night, and although Justin lived at the opposite corner of the city. He helped Melissa carry him home. Once they reached their appartement, dropping Eric on the couch who was dead asleep, he turned to Melissa, "I feel sorry for him."

"I woke him up late," she shrugged her shoulders, "it's partially my fault as well."

Justin sighed, "It's not your fault. I'll come by tomorrow, and see how he's doing. Hopefully I can get him another job as editor with a different author but the agency is packed. There was only an open spot because that editor had leaked information about the new comic books, but editing openings are not as common anymore."

Melissa lowered her head sadly, "We'll figure something out, I hope."

As he opened the door, Justin turned back and said, "Take care."

Melissa sat beside Eric, who snored deeply, murmuring stuff in his sleep and shuffling a lot. It was evident his dream was vivid, and she caressed his face, snuggling underneath him for his head to be in his lap. She remained like that for about an hour, before there was knocks on the door. Assuming Justin had forgotten something, she reached the doorknob and opened it, only to be taken by surprise, gasping as she stepped backwards.

It was Draven H. Malcom.

He was wearing a large black sweater, his hood covering his eyes before he pulled it back, revealing his sharp bright very pigmented blue eyes that eyed her peculiarly, examining her features as well as she did. He was wearing a pair of joggers too, and his hair was randomly messed on his black head.

He was the first to speak, as he said, "Wife?"

It took a few moments for her to answer, as she gulped and shook her head, "No, he's my best friend—"

"Yea I didn't think so," he stepped inside without her permission, walking around her, "my gaydar is pretty perfect." His eyes observed the appartement, and she saw him make a face as he commented, "Small, pretty filthy. What do you do for work?"

"I dance at West Studio," it was evident she was nervous, her voice shaky.

He raised an eyebrow, "Well then of course you live in this sort of shack, that's barely an income."

She felt attacked by that comment, and although shaky, said, "We don't mind living here."

"Of course you don't mind," he shook his head and rolled his eyes, "it's the cheapest place you can live in. Anyways, where is he?"

She pointed towards the couch, and when Draven made his way around, he chuckled, "He's a slob."

Eric was a weird sleeper, his body always finding a distorted position and this time, since he was drunk, he was drooling and disturbingly moving in his dream, aggressively.

Draven laughed a bit, observing him a few more seconds before reaching for his shoulder, shaking him awake.

Eric's eyes fluttered open, unsure of his surroundings but when he met the blue icy gaze, his body immediately fell rigid after he jumped, fear instantly settling into his stomach. He could feel all the alcohol rise to his throat, and suddenly, vomit burst from his mouth and landed on Draven's joggers and shoes.

Afterwards, he pulled backwards, not daring to glance towards Draven's eyes.

Even Melissa in the back said, "Oh no."

As he squeezed his eyes shut, he waited for Draven to speak, which took a few minutes, but nonetheless he eventually said, "Can I get something to wear? You puked all over my shoes and most of my joggers."

Melissa sprinted to the bedroom, and quickly grabbed a pair of joggers from Eric, who was too shocked to even move. He had done too many wrongs in one day, and had not yet given him a good first impression.

Weirdly enough, Draven did not seem mad, maybe a bit annoyed that he had gotten puked on, but none of it was towards Eric. He quietly changed into the new pair of joggers Melissa brought him, and took off his shoes.

"You clean them since it's your throw up," he said to Eric, pushing the shoes towards him, "I would clean them but it's your throw up so it grosses me out."

Melissa grabbed him a rag, and a scrub to get rid of the vomit, water and a small sort of plastic bucket to rinse the shoes. Eric began cleaning them, still drunk as Draven day on the floor across from him, merely watching him as he scrubbed the vomit from his shoes.

As the minutes continued to passed, Draven eventually said, "I came to take you back."

Eric stopped scrubbing for a moment, inhaling sharply before muttering, "I want to have a fuck?" He was drunk, could barely hear properly and Draven's voice was low, and had been quieter when he said that, as if a bit nervous to admit that.

However, when that happened, Melissa slammed her palm in her forehead, and Draven simply frowned, raising her eyes towards Melissa who mouthed, he's drunk.

To both their surprise, Draven, who snickered and thought about it for a moment, replied, "Yes, actually I do."