at the time, it seemed he hadn’t a choice. andrea had begged him to come, and flick had similarly cajoled him, saying, in her wonderfully blunt way, that if he kept hanging around dead bodies, he’d start to look like one. kit already thought he looked like a corpse, so flick kind of had a point.
kit was already beginning to regret his decision, though. the old barn was not only in the middle of nowhere, but it was also filled with drunk broadripple boys. in hindsight, going to the bbc’s headquarters was like entering the hornet’s nest, and kit was a fucking moron for coming anywhere close. even worse, he’d had a couple cookies before he came down, to keep him mellow, but nico must have given him a stronger strain than usual; it was hitting him heavy. or maybe it was just kit’s own anxiety at being here that was making it worse.
he’d lost his friends some thirty minutes ago, and his gut was screaming at him that this was bad, very bad, but his mind was moving too slow to pinpoint where, exactly, the danger could be. so, kit did what he always did when the world became too much; he tried to vanish. he’d found a small, empty horse stall, and sat himself down on the hay: knees to his chest, back to the wall, arms around his legs and face raised heavenward, trying to find his body again.
his eyes widened at a creak, gaze darting around trying to find the source. kit located it after what felt like an eternity; his roommate’s head, poking over the stall door. “this is some rough shit,” kit said, the high making his brain-to-mouth filter almost nonexistent. “seriously, what the fuck did you give me?”
