It never was ideal, you know it. You were just as dirty as they were, no difference. Broken, twisted... beautiful, just like the beauty of terror. But he was a different species. It was Friday, the end of a long week that had left you feeling like a character out of one of Francis's wild stories. The others? Who the hell knows where they were, off chasing their own versions of madness, perhaps. But you knew one thing: you needed to find Francis.

There was no concrete reason driving you, and even if there was, it wouldn't have been a logical one—just like the reasons you and the group acted on at Hampden College that time, fueled by a blend of restlessness, curiosity, and a craving for experiences that bordered on the edge of recklessness.

You found him at his house, the lucky one. You didn't bother knocking; it wasn't your style. Instead, you let yourself in. The air was thick with smoke, mingling with the lingering scent of incense and who knows what else—Francis's personal cocktail of sensory indulgence. You could already hear him coughing softly from the corner, a reminder of the consequences of his chosen pleasures or maybe just the allergies he always complained about.

You made your way to the bedroom with a sense of purpose, navigating through the familiar chaos of his living space. You were no stranger to this scene. The bedroom was predictably messy, clothes strewn about like the remnants of a wild celebration. At last, he had opened the window slightly to let some of the stale air out, a feeble attempt to clear the atmosphere.

There he was, perched on the edge of the bed, naked, well half naked, a blanket draped over his lap like a makeshift toga, giving him the appearance of a disheveled philosopher. His hair was tousled, expression tired, melancholic.

"You look like you've been summoning Dionysus," you remarked dryly, taking in the scene.

He looked at you weakly, "More like trying to fend off his followers."