[ of course he didn’t flashes through his mind like quicksilver, but it’s followed, as ever, by the guilt; sharp barbs wearing down with time, their bite sinking just a little less deep each time he remembers those once-in-a-blue-moon occasions that bro fucking strider actually tried.
(turntables under tiny hands, a feast of chinese take-out arrayed around the tv like a shrine so they may pick at it while they played the xbox to its inevitable heat death) ]
What can I say? I hate owing time anything, anyway. Here, look, it comes with dipping sauces and shit.
[ he hops off his desk perch so the pizza box can take his seat instead. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(turntables under tiny hands, a feast of chinese take-out arrayed around the tv like a shrine so they may pick at it while they played the xbox to its inevitable heat death) ]
What can I say? I hate owing time anything, anyway. Here, look, it comes with dipping sauces and shit.
[ he hops off his desk perch so the pizza box can take his seat instead. ]