Worry about yourself first. The dying emit a stronger stench.
[it's a rather macabre choice in how to part ways with someone, especially when the intention is to caution them to be careful during their return trip, but somehow it seems to suit Vincent perfectly. he doesn't return the other boy's wave, but Kit may catch the soft inclination of his head out of the corner of his eye if he's fast enough.
there had been flashes of concern earlier, but he doesn't feel any of them now. the sleeping quarters weren't that far off. his companion would make it there without issue, or else be found quickly enough to prevent any real harm. things were back to the usual, with Vincent's thoughts mostly preoccupied with just himself.
he mounts the rest of the stairs at a leisurely pace, taking his time now that there aren't any prying eyes to put up a front for. the idea of sleeping on a bench or the floor isn't exactly thrilling, but it's far and away better than having to return to the same room as the constant reminder of that fucking laughter.
by the time he manages to hobble through the lobby doors, he suspects that the discomfort of his future 'beds' won't be able to stand up against the lethal mixture of fatigue and soreness. reaching the trash bin to toss his soda can alone is a herculean effort, one from which he seriously considers simply not returning at all. only the proximity to the soft glow of the vending machine dissuades him.
truth be told, he couldn't help feeling a little nostalgic as he painfully settled himself down onto one of the benches scattered throughout the lobby. few things in his life had been premeditated, chief among those his departure from home. there had been no safe haven waiting for his stormy presence, and the shift from home to his current place of residence had been nothing but rocky. it was a reminder of what he's managed to defeat in his life already, wrapped up in a slightly more palatable bow.
there was nothing in this world capable of cowing him. Kit Florentine was no exception.
unfortunately, it seemed that his own body was interested in making a bid for the title anyway. the minutes drag by into hours as he tries and fails to fall asleep, constantly hounded by the throbbing of his own flesh - and the general uneasiness he felt whenever he glanced too long at the lobby doors.
time after time he runs through the same cycle of rising from the bench, wandering idly, then trying to stretch out on a clean-looking patch of floor before giving up and returning to his original resting place. it's maddening, but he refuses to give in. after several hours pass he at last manages to induce something vaguely resembling a doze, his surroundings fading away into nothing more than a hazy suggestion as idle thoughts and memories of headache visions stretch out in his mind...]
no subject
[it's a rather macabre choice in how to part ways with someone, especially when the intention is to caution them to be careful during their return trip, but somehow it seems to suit Vincent perfectly. he doesn't return the other boy's wave, but Kit may catch the soft inclination of his head out of the corner of his eye if he's fast enough.
there had been flashes of concern earlier, but he doesn't feel any of them now. the sleeping quarters weren't that far off. his companion would make it there without issue, or else be found quickly enough to prevent any real harm. things were back to the usual, with Vincent's thoughts mostly preoccupied with just himself.
he mounts the rest of the stairs at a leisurely pace, taking his time now that there aren't any prying eyes to put up a front for. the idea of sleeping on a bench or the floor isn't exactly thrilling, but it's far and away better than having to return to the same room as the constant reminder of that fucking laughter.
by the time he manages to hobble through the lobby doors, he suspects that the discomfort of his future 'beds' won't be able to stand up against the lethal mixture of fatigue and soreness. reaching the trash bin to toss his soda can alone is a herculean effort, one from which he seriously considers simply not returning at all. only the proximity to the soft glow of the vending machine dissuades him.
truth be told, he couldn't help feeling a little nostalgic as he painfully settled himself down onto one of the benches scattered throughout the lobby. few things in his life had been premeditated, chief among those his departure from home. there had been no safe haven waiting for his stormy presence, and the shift from home to his current place of residence had been nothing but rocky. it was a reminder of what he's managed to defeat in his life already, wrapped up in a slightly more palatable bow.
there was nothing in this world capable of cowing him. Kit Florentine was no exception.
unfortunately, it seemed that his own body was interested in making a bid for the title anyway. the minutes drag by into hours as he tries and fails to fall asleep, constantly hounded by the throbbing of his own flesh - and the general uneasiness he felt whenever he glanced too long at the lobby doors.
time after time he runs through the same cycle of rising from the bench, wandering idly, then trying to stretch out on a clean-looking patch of floor before giving up and returning to his original resting place. it's maddening, but he refuses to give in. after several hours pass he at last manages to induce something vaguely resembling a doze, his surroundings fading away into nothing more than a hazy suggestion as idle thoughts and memories of headache visions stretch out in his mind...]