continued // @chooseslife
SPUD was an observer. When he was sober, he was content to stay in the corners, shoulders hunched and brows brought together, merely observing the chaos around him. But he didn’t like silence. At least when he was sober. It was painful, the silence.
But he wasn’t a naturally talkative person. Anxiety took far too much of a hold of his chest, hands shaking and breath quickening. It’s why things like SPEED were often his best friend — powdered courage, one might say.
And he was scared SHITLESS of hospitals. Maybe it was the judging looks, the sharp smell, the silence— whatever it was, Spud hated them. But goddammit if he loved Rents.
So he hauled his ass to Renton’s ward every other day, snorting a line of meth whenever the anxiety got a little too strong. Which just had so happened to have occurred prior to today’s visit, eliciting a very talkative Spud.
“— N’ Tammy n’ Scott wur fookin’ bangin’ ilk ither in th’ ither room, richt? N’ Begbie haes a richt fookin’ hangover fae th’ nicht afore, decides enough is enough ‘n’ barges richt in thare—” He’s speaking a mile a minute, talking about nothing and everything, eyes alight with the power of speed. He has bony fingers draped over Renton’s equally bony arm — a soft, loving contrast to the madness that was his stories.
