@gardcning wished ,
'' dennis , for the ten millionth time , will you shift that shit of yours up into the attic ? '' ( to dennis ! )
brooding eyes roll, an angry storm roiling between sockets ; seeping a dark stain of irritation against furrowing brows, where they knit together in tandem with a jagged, downward slant of mouth. can already guess what she’s whining about when stompimg over, squeezing past this haunted house’s narrow hallways -- shoulders pressed into himself too tight, a permanent slouch bending and warping his back beyond repair ( or so anne crones on about ) , practically just a faded leather jacket and a tuft of hair beneath sizzling tension which explodes from him in blood splatter. leaks out a crooked nose, a split lip, boils through gums and teeth and beads from knuckles broken beyond repair. but he’s whole when bursting into the scene : head jerking her way upon arrival, trying to ooze exasperation out of every breathing pore, before he lolls his neck towards whatever’s scattered across living room floor. records, meticulously & thoroughly tucked soundly into battered, soften edged covers, are strewn around like a hurricane rolled through … a mess specialized by a singular guitar propped up on couch arm, too red and too bold for what boring room it’s gotten stuck in.
bones pop where hands slowly creak into fists, weapons he sheaths deep into jacket pockets with a huff that flares nostrils. decides he won’t lose his god damn mind because it’ll ring consequences in her ears for fucking eternity -- muscles sensitive and swollen near fattening lobes where he’s already been forced to stomach anne’s practiced screeching. he dulls his usual barbs down sandpaper throat and he’s being so kind, seriously, when hissing out, “ hey, don’t blow a gasket! it’s not my fault it’s down here. ” and it isn’t, because dennis never hauls his instrument past bedroom lines unless he’s sneaking out for a show -- cradling it close like everything else deemed important, sleek metal marked by a scrawl of name. so once he finds out if it was megan or anthony elbows deep in his shit, there’s gonna be a purpling imprint for every album stolen straight outta his attic ; dusty and dark and kept strictly to his liking, where everything he quietly cares for is hidden around rotting beams and saved of any dust by a swipe of heavy hand, smeared and gleaming like ash underneath lamplight.
but his mouth keeps running, toothy as it always is, “ and what’s the big idea anyway? it’s just my shit. leave it alone if you hate it so much. ” emphasis places itself on his final snarl by action, bending down to swipe up his guitar by it’s long neck -- squeezing so tight there that the cords and strings groan when pressurized. gives her more attitude by sighing, extra loudly ( a skill learned by tanya’s influencing example ) , while he sets to shoving pieces of himself back into slumping cardboard, still curled in that harsh way of his, half-like all he wants is to disappear.
