it is 7 PM, the sun has set, and he’s fast asleep.
the rest of his ragtag crew are off being productive members of society (read: stealing the trio’s limited supply of candy while pretending to be doing real work), and the pink house had been established as his solo castle for the evening. wandering around fully naked, watching re-runs of classic spongebob, eating cold chow mein with crappy splintered wooden chopsticks (which rin had taught him how to use, though he’s still utterly abysmal at it).
truly, living the life of crown royalty.
and with a belly full of leftover chinese and body full of too much weed, he’d knocked out like a brick the second his body flopped down onto crusty sheets. days off were invented with the sole purpose of lazing around like an idle fool, right?
he’s only brought forth from this coma by the ringtone blaring from his phone — some random tune from a one-off bizarro game he had played on stream; he’d ripped the mp3 after she went on and on about how neat she found it — and he blinks awake, startled, dried drool streaked across a stubbled cheek. through bleary eyes he scopes the contact photo — her, smile shining like the sun, his jacket around her shoulders, snugly nestled into the coveted corner booth at rosie’s.
he’s never had the heart to change it.
(though, really, he’s just never wanted to. that smile doesn’t visit him anymore.)
the decision to answer is made on the final ring. perks (?) of a slightly stoned and sleep clouded brain: irrationality and awful decision making.
“oh… uh… yeah, sure, rin,” his voice is groggy, unsure, as he slowly sits up in bed, “what, uh… what do they… look like?” he runs a hand through absolutely unruly bedhead before heaving bare legs out of the comfort of warm blankets, pulling himself up onto freezing cold hardwood. “…tor and riv leave their shit layin’ around everywhere, and i don’t think they’ll like it much if i pawn off their tights.”
The apology is out of her mouth before she could reconsider it, the sincerity in her tone enough to make her want to fucking vomit. “Didn’t know you were asleep. Fuck, uh..”
Her hand raises to knead against her temples, as though the motion would brush away the cobwebs and get the gears running enough to come up with a response more intelligent than anything beginning with an ‘uh.’ A bad move, it seemed, as her mind restarting only meant a thousand flashes of a sleepy Clark waking up alongside her, a thousand flashes of that groggy tone mumbling sweet nothings as they drifted off to sleep, a thousand flashes of a thousand things with a boy who wasn’t even hers to be thinking about so intensely and--
“They’re just fully black. Tag’s pink. Pretty sure they’re, uh.. I’m pretty sure they might still be on the lamp unless.. Y’know, you moved them.”
God. God, she hated her voice like this. She was so uncertain, she was so hesitant, why was it so hard to talk to him? Oh, God, if she couldn’t even talk to him sober, how the fuck was she supposed to look him in the eye and keep it together for the twenty seconds it’d take to get handed her goddamn tights?
Those fucking tights. She hated those tights, anyway.
“Fuck, y’know-- It’s fine.” What? “If you can’t find it or whatever, it’s okay, like--” What was she, insane? The last thing she needed after this fuckin’ exchange was to get chewed out at work by a man who proudly manages a place called The Shit. “Go back to sleep, forget it.”
gracieabrams
tangentwithtanner
discoholicmusic
areudirty
turnnoffyourmind
jimmyeatworldofficial
romaincrisis
