#ft. diego.

[antagonisms]

to → diego: sadako's here

[antagonisms]

location: the packhouse

time: some hours post ot4 spiderman meme ‘o clock

closed to @ofhumanities​

It must be an alright day, because he’s up before sunrise — and he’s never been much of a morning person, really. But this is nice.  He’s got the house to himself. Nobody’s watching, judging. Nobody bothers him when he slips into the kitchen and takes some tools out of the cupboard: a bowl, a whisk, some measuring cups. That he can find what he needs with very little effort is something of a comfort; if fate calls for it, one day Evan’s going to have to decide whether or not he wants to call this place a home. Which is hard, because it’s not like he knows what the word home really means — not in this body, at least — but he supposes it all boils down to how well a place can answer this simple question: Am I safe here?

Evan doesn’t know. Or, maybe he does, but he’s not really sure if he’s ready to admit it to himself. Right now, the answer’s a solid maybe, because this, admittedly, is nice: the blue of the dawn sky from the kitchen window, the wisps of morning breeze, how the sparrows hum, and how Diego’s obsession with maple syrup lending to an obsession with pancakes inevitably leaves Evan with (1) the ingredients for a simple fruit crepe and (2) the opportunity to experience the therapeutic effects of slipping into the role of a 1950’s housewife, but like, with human rights.

Except that peace is short-lived. The front door opens, and from the kitchen, he can hear  the shuffling of footsteps in the living room. He’s not sure who it is, but he’s sure that them coming home at ass-o-clock in the fucking morning can’t mean anything good. 

Evan steps into the living room. His eyes widen with concern. “Jesus,” he says. “You look like shit.”