One of those nights: Thom sleeps calmly, one thin forearm flung across his face, wrist depending gently into his hair. His breath comes slow and even, lips parted, dry ( Read more... )

Thom's door isn't locked tonight. He isn't doing anything suspicious: just sleeping fitfully, as if he had a fever.

*The door isn't locked.

Thom must be bored.*

Thom lies sprawled on the floor of his room, one arm flung carelessly over his face. His other hand is wrapped around a bottle of something rather stronger than wine.

It's not long afterwards.

Thom's long since struggled out of what's left of his black shirt, however; sits against the foot of his bed, twisting the cloth in his hands.

So that's what all the fuss was about.

Thom presses his face into War's shoulder, against the smooth white skin, so that he doesn't have to look at her. Just for a moment.

He just needs a moment.

Thom's sitting in the middle of his floor, looking at stuff that he got for his birthday. Some of it more than the rest. He's drunk. And disoriented. And still wearing purple swim trunks. And kind of wet.

Weird night.

The weather's getting better, you know? Thom sits by the shore of the lake, barefoot, looking thoughtful. No telling how long he's been out here.

*Thom turns away from Santino in his sleep as the night wears on, but doesn't move out of his reach.*

*Thom is in.

He almost always is.*