“Bruv, my ‘ead is poundin’, and it ain’t the concussion talkin’,” he grumbled, smacking his mouth several times, grimacing when the cotton-mouth feeling wouldn’t fade. “Swear down, I ain’t drinkin’ again.”

The living room was pure chaos when he came to, his cheek glued to the wooden floor, buried under a web of blankets and trash. Last night was fragmented into bits and pieces. You’d dropped into his dimension, lost and teary-eyed. He didn’t ask what happened— never did—but he knew you needed a distraction. So, he took you out for a drink and a laugh with the mandem.

By now, it was becoming routine.

Not the first time you crashed at his place for who-knows-how-long, and definitely not the last. He didn’t mind. While Hobie refused to label your relationship, you could argue that “family” was close enough. It started months ago when you two met in the Society, and caught him raising hell about dismantling systems of oppression or whatever injustice wound him up that day. You shared your troubles, and how you were temporarily homeless, and Hobie offered up his couch without a second thought. What kind of mate would he be if he didn’t look out for his own? Plus, he scored a bandmate out of it.

He stretched out on the floor, foot kicking your side—a faint groan. Still breathing, good.

A quick look around the living room told Hobie everything he needed to know. Empty Smirnoff bottles, pizza boxes, and half-eaten Chinese take-out containers. All signs of getting properly pissed. He freed himself from the mess with a heavy sigh, hopping over last night’s wreck. Somewhere within that chaos, you were still buried, but he wasn’t about to go fishing through the ruins.

“Oi, bruv? You ‘ungry?” he called over his shoulder as he meandered to the kitchen. Cabinets were open with cautious optimism. “I got off-brand Coco Pops. Milk might be off.”