33 Apocalypse Ave., Saturday Morning
Jack had skipped out on prom the night before. Watching children fumble toward each other in formalwear simply didn't sound very appealing, and anyhow there was a certain club in Baltimore that seemed much more deserving of his still-somewhat-one-note attention. (There were .... dancers. Very talented dancers. Though none, he had to admit, quite as flexible as Navaan.) He was on the hazy line between hungover and still drunk when he stumbled downstairs this morning.
He poured a mound of coffee into the brewer, turned it on, and sat at the table, trying to decide if the pleasure of a hit of nicotine was worth the trouble of figuring out where he'd last left his cigarettes. A small pink feather fell out of his hair and landed just beyond his fingertips, and he looked at it stupidly. He didn't remember getting that close to the stage.
[OOC: For housemates, visitors and AU kiddoes. Navaan link NSFW.]
He poured a mound of coffee into the brewer, turned it on, and sat at the table, trying to decide if the pleasure of a hit of nicotine was worth the trouble of figuring out where he'd last left his cigarettes. A small pink feather fell out of his hair and landed just beyond his fingertips, and he looked at it stupidly. He didn't remember getting that close to the stage.
[OOC: For housemates, visitors and AU kiddoes. Navaan link NSFW.]