(no subject)
Lately, Alex's dreams have stopped being the normal sort of schoolboy forgotten homework, underwear-in-class, everyone-I-know-thinks-I'm-a-freak type and switched over to the kind where people die, graphically, and he wakes up unsure if he's even still alive or not. Which is why, at what is (relative to his body, anyway) about three in the morning, he wandered downstairs to the bar proper, where at least he doesn't have to be alone.
He's found his way to the couches again, this time wrapped up in an extra-comfy gray sweatshirt that sort of hides the bruises around his neck and probably would cover up the bandage on his wrist if he didn't keep picking at it. He could use some distraction. And incentive to eat.
He's found his way to the couches again, this time wrapped up in an extra-comfy gray sweatshirt that sort of hides the bruises around his neck and probably would cover up the bandage on his wrist if he didn't keep picking at it. He could use some distraction. And incentive to eat.