apricot had picked up a habit of sleeping through bellerose parties. now, he wasn’t invited, of course he wasn’t, he’d not set foot in the bellerose villa since he physically ran from it eight years ago. but he knew when their parties were, it was always the same thing, same time, his parents were stuck in their ways, their routines, and maybe apricot was too, now. he’d started going to bed early on those days, because for some reason, he’d be pacing his apartment if he didn’t -- like there was still some part of him stuck in that house, stuck at those parties, that got anxious at the idea of whatever was happening that he couldn’t escape from, or rather, whatever he was missing out on nowadays. and then satchel had called, and maybe it was a good thing that apricot had fallen asleep holding his phone, that it vibrated on his chest until he picked up and gruffly asked who the fuck had thought to call him.
maybe he just had an awful soft spot for kids -- that was what satchel was, still, really. because apricot had rolled himself off the sofa, gotten some joggers on, and -- low and behold, he actually opened the door by the time satchel showed up and knocked on it.
“what the fuck were you doing at a bellerose party ??” he inquired, tried to rub the sleep from his eyes still, looked up at satchel.
@satchel-mcqueen
