#scriptspoke

‘i drank the last of the coffee...’

and he doesnt know how to brew a new pot with the kind that Sascha has. The one he and his dad used was ages old and didnt work half the time, but neither of them used it enough to warrent replacement. So Abel usually went to the coffee shop or...

There’s a pause at the door frame, and the redhead looks back for a moment to gaze back at the brunet. He was donned in black, and a few minor weapons concealed on his person. He knows Fane is waiting outside with their mode of transport and the rest of their weapons. It was a serious lead they were following with the potential of either forsaken or a demon.

The chances of them coming back in one piece were slim, but with Fane and Abel’s combined ability, there was a high chance of it working out. Hopefully.

There’s a split second where he’s quite conflicted. He wants to laugh, because... well it was kind of funny. Not that pain was funny -- just the fact he misjudged and wiped out. But there was also that rising concern of; did Sascha just hurt himself? 

Swallowing the silent laughter, the redhead picked his way over to Sascha, making sure not to slip in his own socks. There wasn’t any real need to sign as he crouched over the other and offered his hand to help him up. The motion and look in his eyes both spoke the same message to the brunet.

   Fane drank often. It worked, it helped, it relaxed him. When he drank like this -- he couldn’t think. His brain was so quiet, so very quiet. It was so peaceful. The raging storm was defeated but the poison he put into his body. He couldn’t stop -- the feeling was NUMBING. Fane fought to feel numb, most would run from it but he welcomed it with open arms. He needed it.

     He needed it so desperately that he would get it from whatever source he could get it from. Liquor? It was the easiest and quickest route. 

    Fane glanced up at Sascha as he planted his legs on either side of him. “Do you think the angels cry for men like me?” He closes his eyes as the other beings to fool with his hair. “Or, do you think they have turned their backs on me?” The question was a simple one but it held so much dept. It held a cry for help. “Would they welcome me?”

   “Just kidding. Who believes in angels, yeah?” Fane welcomes the close contact with the other, burying his face deeper in the other’s chest as he wrapped his arms around Sascha. It was warm. The warmth was comforting -- it was just as intoxicating as the liquor he had consumed. Fane recognized the song almost right away.

    He hums the rest of the tune before giving his own two cents; 

              “-- LOVE is NOT a victory march. It’s a COLD and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”