ย ย ย ย ย personal affairs. he fucking hates them. ๐ผ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ช๐ผ๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ช๐ท ๐ช๐พ๐ฐ๐พ๐ผ๐ฝ๐พ๐ผ ๐ถ๐ธ๐ป๐ช๐ท, rubber stamped and written off. this flat, rubber stamped and written off. the sight, the smell- jim has been displaced. rightly, no part of him should exist here.
ย ย ย ย ย there is no proper, bottled feeling. thatโs what fucks him off about it. no part of him should exist here, most certainly not him now. traipsing where he likes; opening cupboards, drawers, rifling, leaving a purposeful trail. the low evening sun lets off a glow through the high window that doesnโt touch him. jaw tight as he rips a few papers, lets the shreds fall to the floor before moving off down the hall... sebastianโs room first. moran- moran again, he wishes he could just hard reset, wishes he was more hardware than this made him fe-
ย ย ย ย ย moran. one sweep of an arm and heโs sent everything on top of the dresser onto the floor. it feels right, invading. it feels like unorthodox revenge. alone, he doesnโt have to fully address what this has done to him. he can just continue playing empty, even as his teeth bite against the inside of his cheeks, as hands pull every piece of clothing he hadnโt bought for him off of their respective hangers. jim had wanted to be smooth and righteous, not this.
ย ย ย ย ย checking his phone- itโs about time, considering the drive time between the pub and the flat. sebastian had really built his whole new life around this remnant, heโd ๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ step 2, thumb drawing (steadily) across โ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐โ; roughly ยฃ30 with a tip thatโs more than half of what heโd ordered (a cobb salad), for one jim moriarty, to jimโs old sebastian's flat.
@sniperwithasmoke, plotted.๐ค
