Location: Outside Fox Tower Date: Friday, January 14 Time: Late Night, Post-Fight (open)
It's been a long night.
Hours ago, he was on the Gamecocks' court after the buzzer sounded, grabbing the jersey of whichever teammate was closest him to pull them in close and scream his elation and disbelief right into their face, because after five long years of losing every year he'd finally punched his ticket to the Championships. Just a few hours after that and he was grabbing the shirt of whatever Gamecock was closest to him in middle of an all-out brawl, doing his best to swing and hit them before they could hit him.
He was one of the lucky ones. He got out. He made his way back to Palmetto. If there's one thing he knows how to do, it's run.
Now it's so late it's basically early, and he feels like shit: he played almost a full game of Exy earlier tonight, and whatever pleasant buzz he had going at Eden's is long, long gone. But even though his eyes are drooping and it's cold sitting out here on the stoop outside the door to Fox Tower, he doesn't want to go inside and collapse in his bed until he's seen at least a few more of his teammates with his own eyes.
He's only ever smoked cigarettes because someone handed them to him—usually because it gave him an excuse to lean in close if he wanted to, or because it could give the other person an excuse to look at his mouth—but there's no one here outside with him to hand him one now. If there were, he thinks he'd take one. Maybe it'd do something for the jittery feeling inside of him. At the very least, it'd give him something to do with his hands.
His muscles are tight, stiff, and his hand hurts, knuckles bruised and scraped raw on some asshole Gamecock's face. It's not that he's never fought on the court, but he's usually happy enough to leave it to the players who get more of a kick out of it than he does—on the Foxes, there have always been enough of those. But at least on the court there are rules, referees outside the doors just waiting to break things up. Fights in the real world don't have any of those things—unless you count the fucking cops, which Colin would rather not. It's not like a cop has ever done shit for him.
He had an icepack when he first came out here, but it's melting and abandoned next to him now, moisture slowing leeching into the asphalt as he sits and waits.
"Fuck," he says softly to himself, scrubbing a hand at his eyes like that'll take the gritty feeling out of them and keep him awake. "What a fucking night."
