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This wasn't supposed to be happening.

Marlowe wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kill something. But, most of all, he wanted to drown in a vat of alcohol.

It was later that evening, before he left for the All Ages Night, something he determined that he desperately needed, when he'd received a call from one particular individual. The individual he'd wanted so bad to go back to, but was too angry at to deal with. Ryan, when he spoke, was audibly tired, despite the fact that he was a night owl—he detested mornings, Mars recalled—and there was a strain in his voice like he'd been yelling at someone or something prior to calling. His sentences were short, concise, and to the point, in a hurry to get things out there and end the call at that. But, as Mars always did with him, he drew the conversation out until his voice was hoarse from a mixture of yelling and sobbing. He'd not had that opportunity before, to yell at him or being such an asshole and practically dumping him on the side of the road. Ryan had tried to instigate something, always tried to get a rise out of him, just because they fought so little and he'd felt Mars subconsciously pent everything up, all of his frustrations and worries. There was never any ill intent with Ryan, which was what irritated him most that night because they obviously had a lot to say to each other and they said it, but Ryan had a way of twisting those words to mean something entirely different. A simple, "I hate you," never meant what it should have. There was always something sincere about it, with no underlying malice. Why couldn't it ever be as simple as that, though? Why couldn't an, "I hate you," or, "I love you," mean what they were supposed to mean instead of going roundabout, hiding things he'd never thought to hide underneath those words and specific intonations. The sounds he made. The coarse lilt in his voice when he'd wished things were different and the keen understanding that it wouldn't be when Mars had drilled it in so harshly. The silence that had followed that moment, the kind of silence where you wish you didn't hear your lover's hand cup his mouth, fingers squeezing his jaw in a vain attempt to suppress a sob. The noise was so foreign to him, like it shouldn't have been coming from his lips. It was a firm punch to the gut, that squeezed the air from his lungs and made him want to keel over and vomit.

He'd hurriedly said he had to go, that he was late to an important event. Ryan only mumbled something and Marlowe had made the mistake of saying, "I love you," to which he was met with a brief pause before the line went dead.

It was well over time he should have been there, but Mars was currently stuck on his front porch staring at grass that needed cutting. He had to pry himself out of his mind and out of the chair before he became cognizant of his own actions. It didn't take long before he was pulling into the nightclub driveway, having completely lost track that he had even driven the distance. Looking into the rear view mirror, Marlowe gave his reflection the best smile he could give and failed miserably. He'd suffice with the sullen look and mark it off to the others as just needing some alcohol. Well, not just some, but a whole lot. He trusted himself drunk , just not enough to drive, which was leagues above most drunks. Plus, he had his powers to rely on; no one would get harmed in his venting process. Though, he didn't promise himself he wouldn't find the nearest individual, kid or not, sit them down and begin droning on about his sorrows. That brought more shame than he'd thought it would. He, who's worst ordeal was a divorce he was still working through, whining about it to someone who probably faced multiple tragedies in such a short span of time.

A sigh broke from his lips as he entered, flashing the worst smile he could at Art before finding his way to the bar where the lady behind served alcohol for the adults and virgin whatever to the kids. Seeing a kid with a margarita fly past him, he almost blew up, but was stopped when Ronnie called out to him, "Don't worry, it's just juice, hun. Like hell I'm gonna let a kid run off with an actual margarita."

Marlowe gave a slow nod as he slid onto one of the bar stools, smiling at Freddie as he did. "I don't suppose I could have some alcohol?"

"Course not, sweetheart," she replied with a flash of pearly white teeth. She didn't bother asking him what he wanted and gathered the biggest glass of hard liquor she could, sliding it forward into his awaiting hands.

"You know, the mind's a wonderful tool," he said, taking a large draw of the beverage, "That kid's going to run around thinking she's actually drunk."

Ronnie gave a soft chuckle before turning to tend to more students attempting to smooth talk her into trying a beer or whatever. She gave them both diet Cokes, put a lime wedge on the side of the glass and shooed them off before looking back at Marlowe, who'd all but downed the entire glass and was coughing into his sleeve. Two more glasses were slid in front of him, to which he nodded his thanks.

"You know, drinking away one's problems never helped anybody," she chided, uncorking herself a small glass of wine.

"It's the only feasible course of action, right now."

"Really? I'm sure there are better ways to deal."

"I'd rather forget and deal with it later."

"If I had a nickel for every time I heard that..."

"You'd be rich?"

"No, but I'd have a damn lotta nickels."

Marlowe chuckled, leaning over his drinks as he took the next ten or so minutes to down the two glasses and stomp off, waving by to Fred and Ronnie as he took the bottle of water she offered and thanked her.

Having powers specifically designed to sway certain things into happening was often helpful when you couldn't quite see clearly. Of course, Mars had a distinct way of acting when he was drunk and it didn't much differ from the way he usual did. He walked normal, looked normal, didn't give any clues as to his current state of mind unless he talked. When Mars talked after drinking his weight in alcohol, it would become blatantly obvious that he wasn't currently capable of doing much aside from menial things like eat, walk, and talk. A drunk Mars rambled, using whatever he could think of as a topic; drunk Mars wandered everywhere and anywhere he could, not caring that he shouldn't have been there in the first place; and drunk Mars did and suggested things that only someone unable to form coherent thoughts would think of or do. Like seek out Art after sneaking another beer into his system for her to draw the biggest, most obtrusive thing on his body. He'd pulled his shirt and pants off the moment he entered, pointing to her with a very hardened stare.

"I want you to give me a giant tattoo all over my body. Just one tattoo. I want it everywhere. Like. Literally. Everywhere. I don't want to see an ounce of my own skin that's not inked with this giant monster of a tattoo..." he demanded, though quickly paused in his advance toward her to think over this decision, "Maybe not literally every inch of my skin, but like... a lot of it? Fuck it, I don't even care right now; hit me with your best shot."

Marlowe paused, climbing onto the chair she used for her 'customers', before chiming in an off-key, sing-songy voice, "Hit me with your best shot!" He turned over onto his back, doing a very bad impression of an air guitar as he continued, "Fire awaaay!" He went on mumbling words he thought were the lyrics but wasn't quite sure enough to belt it out.