It's okay, I didn't live with a lot of stuff either for a while.
[You can't, when you're dead. You can stash a few things away in cubby holes and under floorboards, but you can't have possessions the way you used to in life. He watched his room get torn apart but unlike Nora, he didn't really feel anything toward it. It was repurposed and rearranged to suit someone else. And then someone after that, rinse repeat. It actually looked good for Violet, better than it ever did for him.
Tate takes the water, looking at it before narrowing his eyes. He sips, lip brushing the ice before he's already looking for somewhere to set it down. He backs toward the bed, still in his sneakers and jeans when he perches against it and puts the glass on the night stand. He didn't come here on purpose, but he's not going to shy away from the solitude and the tension in his heart. He leans back, arms behind him on the bed. But then his stomach flips and he sits forward suddenly, a bit paler.]
I don't like ice in my water.
[He murmurs, like talking is going to take him out of his own head where memories of a seedy motel and Kavinsky between his knees aren't at the forefront of his thoughts. He scratches at his knee and looks up through the veil of blond hair that sticks to his face in parts, feeling like he's hollowing out. Crashing. Soon to burn out.]
no subject
[You can't, when you're dead. You can stash a few things away in cubby holes and under floorboards, but you can't have possessions the way you used to in life. He watched his room get torn apart but unlike Nora, he didn't really feel anything toward it. It was repurposed and rearranged to suit someone else. And then someone after that, rinse repeat. It actually looked good for Violet, better than it ever did for him.
Tate takes the water, looking at it before narrowing his eyes. He sips, lip brushing the ice before he's already looking for somewhere to set it down. He backs toward the bed, still in his sneakers and jeans when he perches against it and puts the glass on the night stand. He didn't come here on purpose, but he's not going to shy away from the solitude and the tension in his heart. He leans back, arms behind him on the bed. But then his stomach flips and he sits forward suddenly, a bit paler.]
I don't like ice in my water.
[He murmurs, like talking is going to take him out of his own head where memories of a seedy motel and Kavinsky between his knees aren't at the forefront of his thoughts. He scratches at his knee and looks up through the veil of blond hair that sticks to his face in parts, feeling like he's hollowing out. Crashing. Soon to burn out.]
So what are we doing?