most excellent ❤️

Pre Permanent Record Chris Townsend

— Chris is handsy in the sense that he loves a playful jab to the shoulder or hair ruffle.

— Chris loves late night drives so much, and often takes you with him. Even if it's just around the block a few times with some music, he cherishes these moments like no other.

— He would also drop anything to attend whatever you invite him to, whether it be a hangout, a party, or just when you want someone to sit in your room and talk.

— His closet is filled with plaid flannel shirts, and he never hesitates to let you keep one when you need it (or when you just forget to return it…)

— Chris, the moment he hears you like a band or artist, buys their whole discography (or whatever he can get his hands on) and listens to it so he can relate to you. Sometimes, he even listens to tracks before you even get to.

— Chris loves a good kiss on the cheek or lip, and he could kiss you for hours if you wanted.

Post Permanent Record Chris Townsend

— After David Sinclair's death, his volume definitely gets turned down a considerable amount. He barely even speaks full sentences now if he's not snapping at or crying to someone. The only person he would still talk to is you.

— A small but noticeable thing about him is that he began to swear a lot more, but everytime he swore at you, he'd apologise immediately. You could swear that his eyes were glazed over with tears during most of those times.

— Chris didn't let anyone touch him for a good while, you included, however he quickly started to open back up to you specifically. At times, he felt even more physical than before, like he was holding onto you if you dared to slip away from him.

— His ability to pick up the phone and answer when you contact him oscillates rapidly. He either doesn't pick up until late at night, or he immediately picks up, barely letting the phone ring.

The earthy smell of rain filled the air, and the dim, flickering street lights illuminated the scene. The pavement was coated in a thin layer of water, and the puddles in the dips of concrete reflected the shine of car and traffic lights.

The weight of Chris' shoulders fell upon yours as he laid his head and wet eyes on you, the stream of tears seeping in through the thin material of your flannel. His words were unintelligible, every breath shallow and quick, as he choked on each syllable he tried to express. His arms wrapped around you like he swore to never let go, almost as if he'd lose someone else if he did.

The whole world around you began to stop. Passers-by and loud trucks faded into oblivion, and the only things that orbited you were Chris’ tears and the memories of David Sinclair.

“I should've told him. I should've… I'm his best friend…” He managed to speak, barely legible through his vigorous crying.

You reassuringly patted him on the back, but in his dazed state, he turned both of you around as he made you stare at the rusty metal car. The one he drove in. Drunk.

At this point, he bordered screaming rather than sobbing, “And I almost hit his fucking brother! I'm such an asshole! Fuck! Fuck me! I'm a fuc—”

More aggressive sobs. His string of cursing was immediately put to a halt by his cries, his grip on you becoming tighter, as if that could happen. It was hard to tell if it was the grief or alcohol that spoke in the moment, or maybe it was both, but either way, his mental state crumbled by the second.

“It's… it's not okay, I know, but David would've wanted this to be … perfect.” You whispered to him, his breathing slowly steadying.

“But… but…” His breathy rebuttals failed to come out.

You shushed him, “He's already gone. He told us what to do. He wanted us to continue.”