It's funny, isn't it? You think you've lost it all [( you think, you think )] and then you get it all back—— only, not »all« of it not the part that really m a t t e r s [( he'd known it was broken, he'd known. he'd hoped, he'd known. )] The empty silence of that borrowed home still echoes somewhere between Callum's ribs, a cold quiet that feels as if it should be filled with something (anything) Broken, though together, he'd thought they could find a way (together). They had passed through corruption and death and come out the other side. Surely this will fall before them. ❝Dear Callum.❞ Knock, knock. The sound is hollow, muffled; the door sways. No, that's not right. It's Callum that's swaying, enough that he places one hand on the door frame. Bleary eyes try to focus on the door's number again, not even entirely sure he's knocking on the right one. But, no, Logan had said three-oh-six, and here he is. The Nuwisha removes his hand from the door frame to reach into his jacket and nearly loses his balance. A slender shoulder presses to the door instead, allowing the young man to pull the small bottle of whisky from his pocket. It's only polite to offer alcohol to your host, yes? Knock, knock, this time a little louder, and Callum does try to stand up straight. Nice and straight, with the door frame to support him, arms hanging at his sides, temple pressed to the wood. There's something making him sad, he knows it. There's heat in his eyes every time he holds still for too long. But his head is swimming too much now for him to quite hold onto the sadness. Well. Almost, he thinks as he clumsily unscrews the cap and brings the small bottle to his lips. Another drink, that will help to banish the despair creeping at the edges, whispering his name, pulling him d o w n.