@goodtouch 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 "i get off on getting hurt."
"drink," he slurs, waving a hand in angel's face. "that's a lie."
it's a game pentious and nifty have coined, keeping themselves occupied in the hollow halls of the hotel. if you're caught out, you drink. if you aren't, they drink. simple rules, simple premise - and yet angel and husk have been here for hours, long since the others took themselves to bed, burning up the stock like flashpaper and fighting to keep their eyes open. angel's statements have only gotten more outlandish (once hooked up with ten people in a single night in hell, truth, i had four boyfriends at once when i was alive, a lie, okay, three, a lie) and husk's more vague (i was married, a lie, my parents were married, true, my sister was married, a lie) as the night has worn on, the warm buzz of cheap whiskey turning into the gnawing weight of syrupy shots and the pulsing skull that vodka brings.
the both of them are too stubborn to call it a day while the score rests solidly equally; there needs to be a winner and a loser for the game to end. it kisses the part of his mind that's wounded, soothes it over with something temporary and gentle, a mother to a feverish child. not as good, but close. "i don't buy that bullshit."
