But the loneliness never left me
I always took it with me
You're scribbling when you hear the knock on the door, accompanied by the quiet voice. Red had been strangely distant ever since that night, giving you space and leaving you feel strangely anxious and on edge. Probably realized what a fuckup you are, and decided to give you space until he could go home- which you tell yourself is good, because it's what you wanted, and you definitely aren't disappointed by his insistence at staying in his room. And if you've been leaving teas and other random shit on the counter in an attempt at... peace offerings? bribery? apology? who can blame you for being a good host? Nothing more than that.
And if you've been out more often and later than usual... well, that, too, definitely has nothing to do with him.
Point being: you're taking a nap when he knocks on the door, and barely have time to register what's happening or that it's Red's voice or that this is strange. "C'min!" you call out , turning around in your chair, the book of little drawings and your other craft supplies scattered over the driftwood desk. The bed is unmade; shoes sit beside it in a messy pile, and your clothes are crumpled at the foot of it. There's some art on the walls and a large collection of half-finished woodworking in a myriad of almost-shapes lying around on the floor.
You, for your part, are barefoot with your shirt unbuttoned, the top floor being rather warm even in the dead of winter. Pushing your chair back you begin to pad toward the door, expecting that Red is unlikely to open it himself, timid thing that he is. Your hair's a mess from rubbing your hands through it, but at least your beard is trimmed; as you walk across the floor you kick some of the mess beneath the bed, bothered it and unsure why. Fuckin' slovenly, that's what you are. With a sigh of resignation (old dogs don't learn new tricks) you grab the knob of the door.
And if you've been out more often and later than usual... well, that, too, definitely has nothing to do with him.
Point being: you're taking a nap when he knocks on the door, and barely have time to register what's happening or that it's Red's voice or that this is strange. "C'min!" you call out , turning around in your chair, the book of little drawings and your other craft supplies scattered over the driftwood desk. The bed is unmade; shoes sit beside it in a messy pile, and your clothes are crumpled at the foot of it. There's some art on the walls and a large collection of half-finished woodworking in a myriad of almost-shapes lying around on the floor.
You, for your part, are barefoot with your shirt unbuttoned, the top floor being rather warm even in the dead of winter. Pushing your chair back you begin to pad toward the door, expecting that Red is unlikely to open it himself, timid thing that he is. Your hair's a mess from rubbing your hands through it, but at least your beard is trimmed; as you walk across the floor you kick some of the mess beneath the bed, bothered it and unsure why. Fuckin' slovenly, that's what you are. With a sigh of resignation (old dogs don't learn new tricks) you grab the knob of the door.
but I can put it down
in the pleasure of your company
ZEPHYR
Base Code by Sky!
