She was somewhere, the recollection of the actual location had long since left her, for it didn't matter anyway, she could feel like she was being ripped apart from the inside anywhere.

Wading through the crowd earlier that night she had felt alive and had forgotten her fear of the world around her, all the pain had gone away, faded into the rhythm of the drum, Freddie's voice and sweet guitar riffs. But now that she was obligated to be at this party, everything had come back.

Alone from anyone she knew well at the moment, Lena cradled the bottle of Jack in her fist, listing precariously as she moved through the crowded room. She couldn't decide if it would be better if someone she knew came and stopped her, or if she could just continue to destroy herself and make all the poor choices she had sworn never to make. Eventually a less than sober John joined her, throwing an arm around her in an effort to steady himself, but only ended up nearly knocking them both to the floor.

"Jesus Lena, usually you're the one we all can lean on. What's gotcha?"

"I couldn't really say, you know?" Lena answered, waving her bottle of whiskey, which she realized was a mistake, for as soon as she took her focus off it, her grip slipped and it smashed to the floor, sending glass and golden liquid across the floor.

The sound was just loud enough to cause a momentary silence and pause in the party but it didn't stay like that for long. John hurriedly helped her clean up the majority of the glass and by that time Roger had found them and took the obligation of the incoherent Lena away from John.

"Lena love, are you okay?" he said trying to direct her attention solely onto him. It wasn't exactly working.

"You know, the chandelier is particularly gorgeous tonight, but very bright."

Roger's eyes flitted upward without turning his head, assessing that the chandelier looked no different than on any other occasion at which they'd seen it.

Before he had a chance to respond a large group came up to them, engaging in a wandering conversation that Lena only mildly was able to follow, something about the latest fashion faux pas Freddie had made and how that had inherently become the new fashion trend. And on and on about the band and listless small talk about nothing. Eventually Lena excused herself from the circle in search of something else to quell the anxiety in her chest.

Nobody paid her much attention until she got to the bar set up on the far side of the room. The unfamiliar bartender blinked at her in recognition before asking what she wanted.

"I'd really like to stop feeling."

"Hmm, I recommend vodka."

When he turned away she snatched the open bottle of vodka just outside of his field of vision. She then accepted whatever he made her, poured it into her stolen bottle and moved back across the room where she settled on one of the overly decorative couches that adorned the too full living room. Drowning anything in alcohol was not a good choice she knew, and was not even a choice she could reprimand herself for; she had never made any rules against drowning sorrows like this because she'd never imagined that she would be in a place where she'd need to.

Someone eventually joined her, but she didn't care to discern who.

The person reached and took the bottle of vodka from her and took a swig themselves. They did not give it back.

"No one drinks a bottle of vodka for kicks I don't think," Roger said softly to her.

It took Lena too long to fully register what he said, or that it was him at all.

"No. I don't think they do."

Uncharacteristically, Lena realized, he was significantly more sober than she and he knew it too and knew it meant something bad. Neither said anything in response to this thought.

"Cigarette?" he offered.

"No", she said, but took it anyways. Her unsteady fingers had a difficult time holding it to his lighter.

"Lena-" Roger started, but she interrupted him, sounding far more coherent than he had anticipated her to be.

"I don't belong here, I am not worthy to be here. I love you, I love it, the lifestyle, the people, the places I get to go, but I don't think I'm cut out for it. I'm just not made to be able to live life like this, so fast and dirty all the time. Everyone continues to tell me that it's going to be alright and I just have to get through the rough patches and adjust to this, adjust to being in the spotlight, but I'm not strong enough for that. Even though people continue to tell me that over and over I continuously feel less worthy the more I fail to handle it and get used to it. This expectation that I feel, imaginary or not is breaking me. You are just out here creating music doing what you love. Enjoying this party, enjoying these people. And I am here with my face plastered on magazines solely because I am with you. My worth is defined by my attachment to you. And I feed into that and let myself find worth in that, as hard as I try not to. Music history will see me as... see right there, me caring what history has to say of me, me caring at all, when it should just be about us and who we are-"

She stopped her rambling and refocused on Roger wanting to see his response. He looked sad, his lips turned down and a little frown forming between his brows. It was cute.

"I wish I could go back to the way it was, the simplicity of us just being us, no one else to tell us what we should or should not be. I miss that. Now there's all these things, these people and they expect so much. And I just can't deal with that. Actually, that's not even true. I could deal with that. But Rog, I just can't do life with my face being plastered on magazine covers. Or the paparazzi. I know that sounds stupid, but like you've seen, it literally gives me anxiety attacks. You are meant to touch the stars, to be in the spotlight; and I am just not. I am meant to be the person who fades into the background, quite literally."

"I think you're the strongest woman I've ever met, and if there's anyone that can handle it, it's going to be you. We can change things, we can not go to these," Roger waved his hands and the commotion in the room, "we can just be us, go back to where we ignore the world a little."

"No we can't. We never even did. I just didn't realize they were watching, and it was once I became aware that they were watching was when it got bad."

"We can do whatever you want, I just want to keep you safe, to keep you from how you are now."

"I don't think you really can. Even in the midst of this, you can look at my destruction all you want, but it's nothing compared to what's in my head."

Some part of her incoherent brain knew she was hurting him, but she also knew sober Lena would never voice her concerns out of this fear of hurting him. Drunk Lena was honest to a fault.

"How can I help you then?"

"I don't know Rog."

The momentary seclusion from the party they had experienced suddenly vanished as some drunken onlooker responded with "How 'bout another drink?" and handed Lena a glass of something revoltingly strong. Before Roger could stop her, she downed it.

He looked at her sadly, not knowing how else to respond.

"Let's get you home."

"Are you sure? Don't you want to stay and enjoy the party?"

"Not with you like this."

"Hm what about like this?" Lena said, leaning his and sloppily kissing him, her hands tangling in his hair.

For a moment he reciprocated but then pulled away, her lipstick leaving his white shirt stained red.

"I think you really need to go home."

Falling all over him as he steered them through the crowded party, Lena lost any real sense of what was going on and let herself be all but carried. She did not recollect whom they said goodbye to or who looked at her with concern or who drove them home. Or even that it was raining, a cold ugly rain that should have mildly brought her out of her stupor. But it didn't. She barely even remembered Roger helping her pull off her concert clothes in exchange for sweatpants and a tshirt once within the confines of their home.

The next morning, or rather afternoon, when Lena awoke her whole body ached and her head was pounding. Her stomached stirred involuntarily and she launched herself from the bed and toward the bathroom, causing the room to start spinning. She barely made it before she spewed her insides into the toilet, the commotion causing Roger to come quickly up the stairs.

Guilt coursed through her, having more of an effect than the ripping pain in her head, and she could barely look at him as she vaughly recollected the words she'd said many hours before.

Later, sitting across from him in their little kitchen clutching her second cup of coffee and a bagel, he still looked at her with heavy concern etched on his face.

Their conversation this morning had been stiff and halting and dancing around the question she knew he wanted to ask. Finally he did.

"Did you mean what you said last night?"

"I don't remember all of it-"

"How much of it do you remember?"

"Enough to know," she paused, feeling her eyes beginning to water, "know that I meant it."

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a/n: finally an update?! what a concept. let me know what you think! and i swear, even if it takes an eternity, this story will eventually be completed, just don't expect that to occur anytime soon.