~/You're {Crashing} But You're No Wave\~ [OPEN!]

There were some days when you just couldn't win.

Today had been one of those days, Luke noted, making a vain attempt to peer around all the smudges and grime coating the cracked mirror in his equally filthy bathroom, trying to distinguish the vague shape he saw into enough of a reflection to allow him to do something with his hair, still damp from a recent shower. The inconsistent flashing light of the bare, dying bulb overhead wasn't helping his lowered visibility or the raging one-two throbbing of a massive headache that had been plaguing him him all day, prompting him to give an irritable growl and paw half-blindly at the light switch, muttering something incoherent about his apartment's shoddy wiring interspersed with an impressive stream of profanity.

Still ruminating on the injustice of his less-than-reliable electricity, he grabbed quickly at the cord attached to the old blinds that hung over one of the two windows in the apartment and gave it a sharp yank - which promptly caused the entire setup to detach from the wall and fall on top of him. Hissing violently in pain from both the head trauma inflicted by the falling window dressings and the sudden, merciless attack of midday sunlight on his still very hungover eyes, Luke's cursing went from a mumble to something distinctly louder and more clearly enunciated as he made a halfhearted attempt at disentangling himself from the twisted metal-and-string contraption. A few seconds later he gave up, sinking to the yellowed linoleum and planting his head in his hands with a tortured groan of frustration.

His whole damn day had gone down the tubes, and ending up on the bathroom floor tangled up in a set of malfunctioning blinds, badly in need of a whole slew of illegal substances, preferably with a whiskey chaser, was just the icing on the whole shitty cake. True, he'd only been awake for about two hours, but Luke Marling was nothing if not a master of intuition (and a handsome devil, and God's gift to women, and a general badass of the highest caliber), and his gut was giving him the hunch that the remainder of his day was going to suck just as much, if not more than, it had so far. And his gut was never wrong. Or maybe that was just the withdrawal.

Anyhow, back to the heart-wrenching saga of Luke's Terrible-Awful-No-Good-Horrible-Very-Bad-Day. It had begun at dawn. Dawn, for Christ's sake. That alone would have been enough to put him in a sour mood, ever the consummate night owl, loathe to be woken for anything short of the apocalypse before noon on any given day. The crashing clamor from his kitchen had accosted his slumbering senses, making him wake up with the Headache to End All Headaches as his sole companion. Suckish part of the day number two: raging hangover. Slurring together incomprehensible half-sentences, he'd stumbled out of his bedroom, only to be greeted by the sight of a bright-eyed girl (he couldn't remember her name for the life of him) shoving a plate of food at him, too-perky entreaties of I made you breakfast and we should totally do that again sometime grating on his over-sensitized ears.

Still not entirely lucid, Luke had blinked blearily at her a few times, tilting his head curiously to the side."That's weird. You were way cuter last night."

He'd ended up wearing the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Not his best look. Not to mention the fact that she'd stormed out still wearing one of his shirts. Suckish parts of the day number two and three.

The hot water had been on the fritz again, resulting in a very uncomfortable shower that didn't do much to help with his headache, and he'd actually had to clean the spilled food that had been chucked with wicked aim at his face (he would have left it alone if he hadn't slipped in a puddle of bacon grease and landed rather unceremoniously on his ass). Suckish parts of the day number four and five. And now here he sat, caught up in a tangled mess on the bathroom floor looking and feeling like utter hell. Looking down, Luke noticed that the buttons of his shirt were done up wrong.

Six.

A few hours later, Luke was having the best day ever. His paradigm shift mainly had to deal with the fact that he was higher than a kite when he shouldered into the bar, his guitar slung over his shoulder, taking in a deep breath of the distinctive aroma of stale cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol. Place smelled like home. The thing about cocaine was that it made you feel fantastic, even if you'd had the worst day on the planet (he was fairly certain he had, but none of that mattered now), which meant that he'd knocked back three lines at the first opportunity after his inexcusably awful morning. The jitters that shot through his limbs like little electric currents weren't the most desirable side effect, but he was more than used to it by now.

"You're late, kid." It was the standard greeting from Old Man Hendrickson, accompanied by the same old beady glare from behind the worn surface of an ancient, scarred bar that made up one whole side of the room, mismatched stools standing single-file in front of it. It was just another night, so Luke gave his standard reply of a flippant smirk and humorless laugh as sauntered over to the corner that had become his after almost a year.

"You gonna fire me after all the business I've brought in?"

It wasn't like the old geezer knew that the real reason this little hole in the wall was thriving was that his lounge singer was running a drug ring under cover of pretty lyrics and admittedly skillful piano ballads. All he knew was that the Marling kid had a magic voice, and that was what had been drawing people in for miles around over the past twelve months. And to some extent, it was true. Not all of the shady clientele that crowded around Luke's corner when he walked into the place were addicts looking for their next deal. He'd be the first to spout off about his own talent to anyone who cared to listen. Witty words buoyed on a warm, rich tenor voice spread through the smoky atmosphere, gradually silencing the previous murmur from the bar's occupants and making something electric crackle in the air. Now this was the first really good part of his day.

Music was a different kind of drug. Just as addictive and almost as powerful as the rest of the stuff that was coursing through his veins most of the time, but somehow unique in the headiness it gave him. And there were no crashes, save the times when he was trying to write and nothing would come. But tonight, Luke was golden, baby. Every note, every riff, every subtle twist of the lips on a particular line was pure, unadulterated gold, polished to a gleam by the powdered happiness that was currently sullying his insides with deadly force, sending his heart thrumming pleasantly and his skin tingling in a way that felt like something good was coming (how could anything bad ever happen to him? He was on top of the world).

He took a break after about an hour, settling into an unoccupied barstool and nursing a whiskey on the rocks quietly as dark orbs roamed the room, searching out interesting prospects: pretty girls, potential customers, poor bastards who were so fall-down-drunk that they'd never miss their wallets until it was too late. Yes, there were plenty of opportunities for adventure crowding the bar tonight.

Just gotta kick back and let one come to me. They always do.