#luchiennez

{‘she digs into her bag, producing a stuffed bear in an apple costume} Tada! I made him for you!

  "Gel." She nodded, smiling as she tapped her nails on the table as she felt his eyes on them. "There are a whole slew of different nail polish types, honestly, no one can keep up with them all." 

[x]

luchiennez

    Partying is just another of Luka's habits. Perhaps it's his young age that draws him to clubs, to house parties, and to drink himself stupid. That being said, the man did have his limits, and knew them quite well. It didn't mean he always avoided reaching those said limits. He sees it as a challenge. Push, push, push, recede. Push again, gain a little ground. Trial and error.

    He never intended to pass. Not in college. High school was alright, but college is a nightmare. Perhaps that's another reason, besides his age, that he parties it all away. Another day, another hangover, another missed class. His roommate is used to that by now, and he appreciates her absences. She's out a lot, and it's almost fate that she's gone every single morning he's got a hangover. It works out wonderfully.  Luka doesn't care much for being nagged at, even by a roomie. It causes him to do the Bad Thing: Lose His Temper.

    It's nothing new, stumbling in after a night of partying-- although, this time, Luz is with him-- and collapsing on the first bed he sees. Of course, it's not his bed. It doesn't run through Luka's mind that he does not have a pink bedspread. For him it's just a bed, and a place to crash. He worries about everything later.

    Of course, the minute he collapses on that bed (which so happens to belong to Luz) he plunges into a dreamless sleep. He likes that. Dreaming is tedious, he thinks, so bring on the alcohol. It's a lullaby in a glass, and it prevents those frequent nightmares of his. Now, as we know, his blood-alcohol limit is far above normal. This means he's likely to be wearing less clothes than which he started with.

    In fact, before he hits the bed, he discards his pants, his hat, Lord knows why but even his socks. He's left to sleep in his shirt and underwear. He doesn't mind that. At least, not until he wakes up, head pounding with the same force of a jackhammer on cement.

    The wooziness clears slightly, but only enough to let him see that he isn't in his own room. The thick taste of his tongue is bland and sour, and he fights the nausea that arises with his abrupt movement. He can't figure out why only one arm is able to move, until he notices that it's around Luz --who else has that mass of pink hair -- and she's sleeping on it.