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[wrackful]

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murphy

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[kobes]

[it’s sad, maybe, that it’s taken alcohol to do it, but – better that than slogging through the malaise of grief and fear that january’s been thus far. better to remember that there’s something beyond hurting all the time. nimbly, koby stays up on his toes, close enough that it’s easy to see the glitter’s been carefully applied over the scars on his chest, almost lovingly, if horrifically messy.]

You need to sleep, sleep’s important for you. [the fussiness amplified, fingercombing through the hair that falls into murphy’s heavy-lidded face, close enough that the scent of sugary booze that clings to koby like perfume is evident. one hand, surprisingly callused, drops to murphy’s cheek, cradles there for a moment as koby blinks slowly.

then, gloss-smeared mouth tilting to a grin:] Youuuu think I look hot? Really? [bouncing a bit on his toes.] Right now?