Irony is: finding himself walking to Bonnie's on a Saturday evening without having called ahead.
He's dressed the part of a guy eager for a night out, as much as his scheme relies on staying in for-- well, he's too... bashful? to want to presume he's staying in for the night. There's too many emotions running with his blood and making him feel too warm for the borrowed-slash-stolen jacket that's over his button-down. His hair's tamed and gelled, his jeans are pressed and just the right amount of, uhh, restrictive? and a part of Tim that he's struggled to bury alongside all the parts of himself that have died and decayed
is disappointed.
Knows this is the wrong way to get what he's chasing. Knows he's muddling waters that may be better left unchurned.
But time is never on his side, and besides--
he's grown the fuck up.
He can do this. And maybe not sacrifice some scraps of fun, or thrill, or whatever may be kin to those emotions he wishes he could be feeling instead. He can survive the utter whirlwind that is Jeff Calhoun, and better yet, learn his part. Lean into his role. He can thrive on the total disconnect between loose reins and absolute control. He hikes the backpack up his shoulder and breathes out and wonders what the hell is happening. And that's about all the pause he'll allow himself. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne lies like he breathes-- lies to himself, most of all. Maybe. He knocks on the door he's sure is Jeff's. It'll be alright.
He knocks again, for good measure, and leans into the doorframe just ever so slightly out of consideration for neighbors as he announces, "It's Saturday!"
(Frankly he's never one-hundred percent on whether or not Jeff knows what day he lives in.)
"Put a shirt on and open up. We have plans, and I have discount bin flicks."
A Saturday (leading to potential NSFW oh no)
He's dressed the part of a guy eager for a night out, as much as his scheme relies on staying in for-- well, he's too... bashful? to want to presume he's staying in for the night. There's too many emotions running with his blood and making him feel too warm for the borrowed-slash-stolen jacket that's over his button-down. His hair's tamed and gelled, his jeans are pressed and just the right amount of, uhh, restrictive? and a part of Tim that he's struggled to bury alongside all the parts of himself that have died and decayed
is disappointed.
Knows this is the wrong way to get what he's chasing. Knows he's muddling waters that may be better left unchurned.
But time is never on his side, and besides--
he's grown the fuck up.
He can do this. And maybe not sacrifice some scraps of fun, or thrill, or whatever may be kin to those emotions he wishes he could be feeling instead. He can survive the utter whirlwind that is Jeff Calhoun, and better yet, learn his part. Lean into his role. He can thrive on the total disconnect between loose reins and absolute control. He hikes the backpack up his shoulder and breathes out and wonders what the hell is happening. And that's about all the pause he'll allow himself. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne lies like he breathes-- lies to himself, most of all. Maybe. He knocks on the door he's sure is Jeff's. It'll be alright.
He knocks again, for good measure, and leans into the doorframe just ever so slightly out of consideration for neighbors as he announces, "It's Saturday!"
(Frankly he's never one-hundred percent on whether or not Jeff knows what day he lives in.)
"Put a shirt on and open up. We have plans, and I have discount bin flicks."
(God, he misses his friends.)