𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄. 23 february 2024, somewhere between late morning and early afternoon 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄. seth's suite 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇. @cowboygreeting
It shouldn't have been this hard to find Seth's door, Rohan had only just been there last night, and yet his idiot compass proved way off, needle spinning senselessly around the rooftop terrace and nearly the sauna before he managed to right course.
All for the best. It would have been too mortifying for words, if not mortally dangerous, had Rohan kicked the door open and flopped face down onto someone else's bed, a groan into the pillow by way of greeting.
"We're so fucked." Rohan's face is still mouth-deep in pillow, and he doesn't actually know where Seth is, spatially speaking, in the room — god knows mentally, too, Ro's so off kilter in his own right — so he props up onto an elbow, side-long, and tries again.
"We're so fucked, dude. We're so, so massively out of our goddamned fucking depth — I don't even know. That analogy was supposed to go somewhere. Fuck."
He goes pillow-side for one more emphatic, "FUUUUUCK," entirely for his own benefit. Attempt at catharsis, maybe. Rohan recalls a paper, once, or maybe a PopSci article when he still read for fun on the positive correlation between cursing and pain tolerance. Feels about fucking right.
"The least you could do is come here and wallow with me. What the fuck did we get ourselves into?"
