“ --- you. ”
mickey’s got a joint twirling between his thumb, and the head of his index finger. the black tie of his attire was unraveled; but he knows he’s SAFE, considering the current location. after approximately seven minutes of ballroom banter, he’d removed himself from the gala, instead wandering towards one of the thousands of hallways. in doing so, he’s found himself a ‘ friend. ’. ( and, jesus, could anyone blame him? YOUTUBERS weren’t supposed to attend this gala shit. --- were they ? was that in the proverbial contract ? lord knows mickey wouldn’t have read it. )
“ you look like you’re carryin’ a fuckin’ lighter. ” he’s got the trademark lopsided grin etched across his features, warmth in his voice that anyone could see was genuine.
