*Thom stands looking out at the lake, poised and still against the bleak bark of a tree.

He wears only a thin black shirt, and looks as if he should be very cold.*

On any of several long dark nights, it would be easy to find Thom shut away in his room.

A defensive silence pervades; all you have to do is knock and break it.

*Sunday night . . .

Not a good choice for excitement. Thom's cleaning.*

*Thom's sprawled across his bed, drawing idly.

When there's a knock at the door he says*

It's not locked, Dell.

Thom is being a reclusive hermit tonight.

As he is most nights.

There's a distinct impression of swearing and thumping noises from inside his room.

*Thom curls in on himself, dozing in silence.

And then: deeper sleep.

And then: a long hallway, twisted, ornate. Corus?

And then: a series of paintings, unrecognizable, in a foreign style. Not Corus.

And then: a door, covered in dust. He pushes it open; his handprint shines.

And then: he goes in.*

It's Todd's room. The dead are coming two by two, hurrah, hurrah, and also Todd. But he's alive, and also it's his room, so he goes first.

Thom leads Brennan into his room.

Thom is alone in his room.

Thom follows Todd into Todd's room.

CURSE YOU, PRONOUN CONFUSION. CURSE YOOOU.

[ETA: warning for bloodplay]