nomad without a home

Onderwerp: nomad without a home ma nov 05, 2012 10:15 am

As Graham watched the walls shift colours and alternatively close in around him and move away from him, he realised he probably had had just a little too much to drink. Just a little, because he couldn't be drunk—he didn't get drunk, ever. He got tipsy. That's all this was, he was just a little tipsy, nothing to worry about. It wasn't worrying in the least when he couldn't get up from the barstool without having to grab the bar for support, because he wasn't drunk. Just a little tipsy. He probably wasn't even swaying as badly as he thought he was. A bit strange, though, that the bar had two doors, but hey, no accounting for tastes and all that. He closed his hand around the door handle—oh, one after all—and pulled open the door, to be greeted by a gust of chilly autumn air. Graham felt himself shiver and contemplated going back inside, but the barstool hadn’t been very comfortable and he longed for a bed or a couch or anything he could lay down on that wasn’t a table or a floor, basically, so he pulled his coat closer around him like a makeshift cloak—who needed sleeves anyway—and staggered out into the darkness.

The street seemed endlessly long, which was ridiculous because Storybrooke was the tiniest village on the map of the United States—probably—and the street had no right being this long. The longer he walked—staggered—on, the more Graham grew annoyed with the way the sidewalk just wouldn’t stay still and the way it was higher than it seemed when his foot slipped past it on occasion. There was a voice in the back of his head which sounded eerily like Lucas that told him he wouldn’t be having this problem if he hadn’t gotten drunk. And thanks for that too, Lucas, but he really wasn’t drunk. Tipsy. …maybe a little more than tipsy, he decided when his foot caught the side of the sidewalk for the fifth time in less than a minute. Maybe a little more than tipsy but definitely not drunk, because his father got drunk and he wasn’t like his father. Besides, he’d had a perfectly valid reason for going out for a drink, if only he could remember it. Not work, work was fine, like usual, Lucas had even told him a couple of days ago that he was actually surprised at how well he was doing, and—

Oh. Lucas. Right.

With that in mind, it wasn’t that much of a surprise when he found himself standing at Lucas’ door a little while later and no one ask him how much later, his perception of time and distance was pretty much screwed at this point and he was surprised he had even made it here without causing an accident. He fumbled around for the key—Lucas had given him his, once upon a time, just like he’d practically wrestled Graham’s from him, ‘so that he could be sure Graham hadn’t actually died’ when he didn’t emerge from the workshop for a day—and lost several minutes or so by failing to jam it into the lock. He managed eventually, by sheer chance, and stumbled into the hallway. He winced when he door fell shut behind him with a loud thud. He only dwelled on that for a second, because he was groping his way around into the living room the next moment. “Lucas,” he called out—and no, he most definitely did not whine, thank you very much—and crashed down onto the sofa. He didn’t have a clue what time it was. Night-time, that’s for sure, and Lucas would most likely already be in bed because the lights were out, but Lucas had always gotten out of bed for him before, so he’d probably do it again, right? “Lucaaaaassss,” Graham repeated after a few moments, smothered into one of the cushions of the sofa, and gosh, Lucas’ sofa was comfy. He could live there for the rest of his life and die a happy man. He was still in the middle of mentally praising Lucas’ sofa and probably—definitely, Graham, who are you kidding—petting one of the cushions when he heard footsteps and he looked up.

Onderwerp: Re: nomad without a home wo nov 07, 2012 10:42 am

He had been asleep for a few hours, but a loud noise woke him up. What was it? The thud of the door-- Thieves? No, there was no way they would make so much noise. He got up and, switching on the light, he put on his nightgown. It took a few seconds for his eyes to get used to the light but in spite of this and the dizziness of getting up too fast he stumbled through the door to the stairs.

As soon as he got into the living room he noticed the source of all the commotion. Graham was lying on his couch, seemingly asleep but the sharp tang of alcohol seeping from his every pore. Lucas shook his head. Morning come, the guy would suffer a massive hangover. With a sigh he walked into the bathroom and took out a few pills from the cupboard, and grabbing a glass of water he put it on the table next to the couch. “Goodnight,” he muttered, taking out a blanket and covering the unexpected guest with it. After he was sure he did everything he could, he silently sneaked back to his room, hopeful to catch a few more hours of sleep.

Onderwerp: Re: nomad without a home wo nov 07, 2012 11:13 am

Turns out Lucas' living room was actually dark at night, which was basically a hassle, because that meant Graham couldn’t see anything other than his own hand, which—oh, he couldn’t actually see either. He could hear, though, and what he heard was that Lucas didn't say anything, which he really should've, but set something down next to him; Graham didn't have the energy to feel over to find out what it was. For a brief moment, he thought Lucas would say something then, that he'd only gone to get whatever it was he went to get and would give him a lecture on how it was not okay to get drunk again, Graham, and don't make so much noise or you'll wake up the neighbours, but honestly, Lucas, he wasn't drunk, really, he’d had far worse and you know that. But even after he’d set the… whatever down, he remained quiet, and settled a blanket over Graham’s shoulders, which Graham really wasn’t okay with, because, hey, hot. Only then did Lucas deign to open his mouth, murmuring a quiet ‘goodnight’, and that wasn’t what Graham had planned on at all, but he already heard Lucas’ footsteps going back up the stairs before he’d gathered the presence of mind to open his mouth. Well shit.

That meant he actually had to get up now to get Lucas’ attention, and wasn’t that just a hassle, because Lucas’ couch was still so very comfy and he actually sort of wanted to sleep now. Nevertheless, he pushed himself up on his arms with a groan, and took a few moments before his head stopped spinning as much before he dragged himself off the couch and towards the door to the hallway and the stairs. Oh yeah, stairs, those were great, especially with how they kept twisting and reshaping. At least there was some light, and where did that even come from? Determined, Graham set his foot on the first step, clutching the railing like a lifeline, and slowly dragged himself up to the first floor, stumbling as he went. Well. Screw the neighbours anyway, he was sure Lucas could smooth things over with them, he was good at that. Graham would take the blame if he needed to, anyway. (Take the blame, hear that, he was actually trying to be a good person. Because this totally wasn’t his fault and he’d say it was if that’d help Lucas. See that, daddy, he was good.)

Lucas’ bedroom was actually surprisingly easy to locate. Probably because he was an expert at finding bedrooms in other people’s houses, now. And of course it would figure that Lucas slept in pitch-dark. Really, it wasn’t Graham’s fault if he managed to walk into the side of the door, or the edge of the bed, which he did. Lucas’ fault for not keeping a light on. Walking into the side of the bed, though, meant that he’d at least found the bed, and that was just about as perfect as the evening would get. Oh, and Lucas’ bed was even softer than the couch, so that was a huge plus. Graham fell down on it without much ado, moving around a little so that he wouldn’t accidentally squash any of Lucas’ limbs under his weight. A shiver wrecked his body, and really, why was it so cold here and so very hot downstairs? He stole a bit of Lucas’ blankets, shuffling a little closer to him to leech a little bit of body heat. His brain would inform him in the morning what a monumentally stupid idea that was, he was sure, but the added warmth was nice, for now, so he let out a contented hum and tapped an absent rhythm on his chest.

Onderwerp: Re: nomad without a home vr nov 09, 2012 11:42 am

That night he slept deeply. He had worked hard all day -more like all week- losing sleep because of an overactive brain. Now that he had finished his job, his body needed to catch up. And so it was only in the morning when he woke up that he wasn't alone in his bed- like usual. It took a few moments for him to realise it was actually Graham, perfumed with the bitter smell of alcohol. Lucas pulled a face. He'd have to wash the sheets to get the smell out.

He decided to get up, but he felt heavy and his eyelids were still drooping. A quick look at the clock told him it was barely after six. Okay, still early and it was a Saturday. He could sleep in a bit, do the household stuff in the afternoon and relax at night. The only 'problem' was Graham. He hoped the massive hangover wouldn't be too massive, so he would be spared at least some extra trouble. Lucas sighed deeply. Of course, he knew, he'd help the guy. He was his friend after all. With this last thought his eyes eventually drooped shut and he was sleeping again.

Onderwerp: Re: nomad without a home za nov 10, 2012 8:39 am

When he wakes up, he feels like he’s been run over by a freight train, then got hit by a bus, and hit his head hard against a concrete wall. He squints against the light and lets out a soft groan of dismay, hiding his face in his pillow, which—huh, isn’t his pillow. He takes a deep breath, recognises Lucas’ scent on the pillow his face is currently mashed into, and is immediately struck by the almost uncontrollable desire to hit himself. This is why drinking is a bad idea, Graham, you do stupid things like crawl into your best friend and secretly life-time crush’ bed. And really, that’s so monumentally stupid even for his drunken mind that he has the urge to get up and drown himself in the sink. (He doesn’t know how and/or if that’s possible, but if anyone could manage, it’d be him, so he isn’t too worried.) As it is, however, the mere thought of getting up sends a wave of nausea from his stomach to his throat, and he curls in on himself a little more. Yeah, let’s try not getting up for the rest of the day and see how that goes.

Now that he’s turned, he’s facing Lucas’ back, and it’s at least a relief that he hasn’t snuggled up to him, because wouldn’t that be embarrassing? (Well. Only a little more embarrassing than crawling into his bed, Graham supposes.) God, he hopes he didn’t say anything, he knows how he gets when he’s had a little too much to drink, and by this point, with his head pounding away and his stomach voicing its explicit dislike, he’s ready to admit that yes, maybe there might be a slight chance that he was drunk. And there’s every possibility that he said something stupid, like proclaiming how much he likes Lucas, or how nice his hair is, or how he has the best chest in the history of mankind, or how his waist should be illegal, and he really should stop thinking about that now, because he does have the tendency to babble out loud without noticing that he’s doing so until someone points it out. So yep. No more thinking about how his current bed mate (oh my God, brain, shut up) is basically the pinnacle of human perfection, because that’s not going to end well.

Through the haze of his hangover (as bad as it is, he’s had worse, he’ll be fine in an hour or two) he remembers Lucas setting something down on the coffee table, last night, when he was still on the couch, and his brain only now makes the connection between hangover and painkillers, and shit, see coming up here was a stupid idea. He rather doesn’t want to get up at any point within the next two hours, and even though an aspirin isn’t likely to cut it, it’s nice to pretend, so he straightens out a little and touches his index finger to one of the muscles in Lucas’ back. “Lucas.” He waits for a response, pokes again. “Lucas, my head hurts.” And that is probably the most pathetic thing he’s said in his entire life, but hey, hangover, he can forgive himself for it. For good measure, he pokes again, just to be sure Lucas is awake. “Will you be the good Samaritan you always are and get me some aspirin?” He pauses, adds: “And maybe close the blinds, because seriously, being blinded is probably the worst way of waking up of all time.” And that is maybe pushing it, but he doesn’t really care as long as Lucas will actually get up and do as Graham asked.