Fuck it. Writing time. Here's some small Lewis lore, just him being a miserable mess of a past.
Content warning for slight alcoholic reference, it's slightly implied:
Letting out a deep breath out in the cold December air. Months. It's been months. He's known so. The calender beared his marks of counting, all X's from the one day onward. He won't forget. The house was cold without the aid of their bodies to warm it, the hallways barren of happy faces and laughter. Lewis marked off every. Single. Picture. Here he was, holding them. Paper crinkled slightly under the tightening grasp of his hands, the faces on the missing posters distorting with the pressure. He didn't bear look at them anymore, he couldn't handle being without them. His headaches when they're gone, only pain. He put them in a box, he'd burn the pictures if he could, but watching them burn felt like a disgrace upon his end. He shoved that damned TV onto it, crushing them, suffocating them. He didn't want to see either of those things. He pushed it far into the corner, moving everything else to hide them. He wouldn't want anything crawling out for him. There. Done. Gone.
He will never graze the attic, no, it bared his guilt. Instead he dragged himself miserably to the living room, knocking over the bottles wrecklessly scewwed about.
