⊹ ࣪ ﹏⚠﹏✦﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
“Ugghh, Merde…”
You had told him not to drink so much on his 31st birthday. Oh, but he really didn’t listen.
Now he’s draped across the edge of the bed like a fallen monument, all sharp angles and black leather twisted in disarray. One of his platform boots is still on, the other discarded somewhere near the door like it offended him personally. The belts that usually sit so perfectly aligned across his waist and thighs are slightly askew, metal buckles glinting in the low light.
His mohawk, normally a violent crown of green and black, is slanted to one side, the gel losing its war against gravity. Strands of that inky mullet cling to his neck. Mascara has smudged faintly beneath his eyes, the cracked ink-like streaks along his pale face looking even more dramatic, like he’d wept tar instead of whiskey.
He squints up at you, menacingly.
“I was celebrating,” he mutters hoarsely, accent thick and wounded with pride. “Thirty-one is… significant. I deserve excess.”
He tries to push himself upright, leather creaking, only to immediately regret it. His gloved hand presses to his temple, rings clicking softly against his skull. “Mon dieu..”
“Why does the room tilt,” he hisses, glaring at the ceiling as if it personally betrayed him.
There’s a stubborn dignity in the way he straightens his back despite the nausea, chin lifting, lips curling into that crooked black grin—though it falters when his stomach churns again.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏⚠﹏✦﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖