"Breathe. You have to fucking<i>breathe."</i>Closing his eyes, the man took a long, deep breath. The only thing breaking the silence was the agitated tapping of a shoe against the linoleum floor of the dressing room. Ritsuka was set to go on any minute, but he could hardly gather his thoughts. Another useless gig at another no-name club, booked by an agent that was only barely tolerating him at this point. Who could blame them, though? Ritsuka was a fucking disaster. Despite his talent for music, drugs had found a way into his life and were slowly starting to become more important than his craft. Rubbing a trackmarked arm, Ritsuka cursed under his breath.<br/><br/>Looking down, he spied a brown stain on the inner arch of his black Chuck Taylors. Looking around for a tissue, he finally picked up a discarded, forgotten shirt and scoured away at the stain until it disappeared. Everything had to be perfect tonight, and he had to fucking be sober. Ritsuka bit the inside of his cheek and tasted his own blood. That was fine. It kept him awake and alert, and he had to be awake and alert. This gig had to go well.<br/><br/>This was probably his last chance.