#will. ic.

[locustlace]

closed for @ncghtshifts. / there is yesterday to reckon with. the hangover is gone but will's on the market for another one, as evidenced by the vodka in his hand (beer is too slow; he stopped at a liquor store and showed up to gunner's well prepared to bypass the first floor of intoxication, though his tolerance dictates that he cannot yet be sky high).

"do you hate the homeless," he says, and while the very edge of his voice does slur, to catch it requires the auditory equivalent of squinting.

[locustlace]

closed for @juvinile. / exterior, night, one lit cigarette between will's teeth, ash dripping in intervals onto the pavement.

he hears caleb's approach and does a half turn. wordlessly reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack, holds it out one handed. he's pleasantly buzzed. on the wrong drugs to be his usual brand of abrasive - it isn't that will doesn't oft exist quietly, but this quiet carries a softness half foreign to him now. it was him, once, perhaps, but difficult to remember when and how and why.

[locustlace]

OPEN. / his eyes open in the grass. or rather he's in the grass, his eyes are in his skull, the grass is in a field, and he may be covered in parasitic arachnids by now but there's no helping it. eyelids feel coated in lead paint. neck, when it moves, might as well be creaking.

will sits up, sober.

there is someone beside him, though a strategically placed patch of tall weeds obscures their face. they're breathing, which is a good sign. will leans over - or through, rather - the weeds to get a better look.

"good morning, starshine."

[locustlace]

closed for @halfrest. / he swims through reality to the sands of irving and there is the back of freya's blonde head, which will believes he might know anywhere. this belief is founded on psychedelics and would not hold up to major scrutiny; it will be gone in the morning. this isn't a familiarity measuring contest, though - it's a get your high ass to the beach contest, and will has won.

he moves tonelessly until he's up against freya's side, arm brushing arm through cloth (will is not dressed for the beach, but clothes can be removed). the sand proves more inviting than greetings - reality washes him like an ocean wave and he stays under it, goes onto his knees in the day and begins to bury his phone. long time coming, by his reckoning.

[locustlace]

closed for @stainedcherub. / he's not going to talk about it. he's going to stare at the ceiling and wonder, but he won't ask questions. who can fathom the depths of gunner's mind? not will. will would like to, if given the option, and he has the sense that this is a problem with him, not with gunner (will can seldom find problems with gunner, or with lana, or with freya).

speaking of gunner and lana and freya - he's with lana now, sprawled out in a booth in some middle of the road diner (will, migrant that he is, has not yet learned the geography of this place, or has at least forgotten it).

"i am having," he begins, "trouble. navigating the fuckin' whims of. shit."

he sits upright in the booth and rifles around in his pocket. he's out of cigarettes, turns out. back to sprawling in the booth and sulking. he pulls out his phone, hands it over to lana. it's open on the text thread with gunner. "motherfucking indecipherable. this is why i don't text."