"You're still up, Skate?" Long, restless hours dragged on Skateboard's soul—in his hands a thousand weights, on his feet a feather-light ascension. Extremities which climbed up and seized their chance to freeze him whole. Maybe he'd drown at dusk. Maybe the apartment kitchen at night, lights gone dark, would've given Skateboard some resemblance of mercy, of peace. But tonight, the void called with the voice blooming so sweet so gently. "I've been thinking," he concluded. Hunched over a counter. Thinking, sure. Boombox only repeated, "Thinking?" Soft rustles coerced Skateboard to look behind him, to face the one he'd embraced not twenty minutes ago. His head continued hanging low. Could it be a certain dampness in the air or in his hair which irked him even more as each tick of the clock ringed; tick, tick, tick, endlessly. How much time would pass until they're gone like dust amongst dinnerware? Like strings unplucked, still unstretched and tight? In-between the clock fingers, against the counts of Skateboard lingered, it'd be... it'd be... The smell engulfed him first; fresh, hints of daisies. Then a little flicker in a glass reflection. Then, Skateboard found himself slipping on top of his partner—weighted hands lifted on welcoming skin, feet grounded to the ground. "Aren't'cha tired?" Boombox shook as he giggled, sliding the cup full of milk closer. "Want some?" "...'m gonna later." It'd be in no doubt that the floor was icy, that the Sun had set, but Skateboard knew not of warmth sunnier than Boombox.
