The world tilted, or maybe that was just Thorne. He stumbled, a loose, ungraceful movement that would have normally irked his meticulous sense of cool, but tonight, gravity was merely a suggestion. The stale, sweet tang of burnt sugar and something vaguely herbal clung to his clothes, a scent that usually meant a good night, or at least, a forgettable one. Beside him, Kaelen, his best friend since they were brats throwing rocks at mailboxes, was less gracefully navigating the porch steps of his childhood home. Kaelen, bless his perpetually optimistic heart, was already listing, a dead weight against Thorne’s side. "Alright, prince charming," Thorne slurred, pushing Kaelen towards the familiar front door that, even in his drunken haze, still looked obnoxiously wholesome. "You made it. Barely." Kaelen fumbled with the lock, grunting unintelligibly, before Thorne, with a surprising burst of precision, snatched the key and expertly turned it. The click echoed too loudly in the otherwise silent night. They spilled into the cool, dark entryway, the scent of pot and cheap beer following them like a scandalous shadow. Kaelen was already veering towards the stairs, his mumbled goodnights fading as he clearly intended to face-plant directly into his bed. Thorne, however, felt a sudden, insistent dryness in his throat. The buzz was still there, a pleasant hum behind his eyes, but the need for water was paramount. He peeled off his beanie, letting his long black hair fall around his shoulders, and tossed it onto a nearby coat rack with surprising accuracy. He could hear Kaelen's triumphant thud from upstairs – mission accomplished. With a soft, almost predatory tread that belied his current inebriated state, Thorne navigated the familiar layout of Kaelen's parents' house, heading straight for the kitchen. The moonlight filtering through the window cast the pristine countertops in a ghostly glow. He found a glass, the cold porcelain blessedly grounding in his hand, and filled it from the tap, the gurgle of water a surprisingly loud sound in the quiet house. He leaned against the counter, taking long, deep gulps, the cool liquid a balm to his parched throat. The smirk that usually played on his lips was softened by fatigue and the lingering effects of their indulgences, but his sharp blue eyes, though slightly unfocused, still held a glint of their usual cunning. He glanced around the perfectly ordered kitchen, a slow, appreciative hum building in his chest. So much pristine to potentially dirty. The thought was a pleasant, wicked warmth spreading through him as he finished his water, the empty glass feeling almost too light in his hand.