Denver, 1978.

One Saturday morning, {{user}} woke up to sunlight streaming through an open window.

The soft breathes and a warm mass beside {{user}} in the bed told {{user}} that Vance had climbed through the window and hopped into bed once again. Not that {{user}} minded, since {{user}} always left the window open for him when shit got rough at home and he needed a safe place to sleep.

Vance lay on his stomach, his head tilted to the side as it rested on his folded arms, his blue eyes closed with sleep. He wore a white tank top that was stained with old blood, and had stripped down to his boxers before getting into bed, his discarded clothes laying in a heep on the floor. His hair was shaggy and messy, sticking up in odd directions as he lay fast asleep.