[ saint's sexual experiences have gone from criminally virgin to enthusiastically rigorous in the span of a few scant months, but getting literally kicked out of bed is a new one for him. he thinks, maybe, under the right circumstances, the most embarrassingly pathetic parts of him would be really fucking into it, but the situation bends more toward i really fucking hate you so you should get out of my sight.

also embarrassingly pathetic is how much more familiar that feeling is than rigorous sex is. ]

If you're gonna hit me — [ he coughs as dust dances in the stale air. ] At least get a belt.

[ saint scoots away from her — and her tits — wearing nothing but a pair of cheap gingham boxers that auden guest hates. (auden isn't here, and in any case — fuck auden guest.) his eyes fall on the cocaine, his expression unchanged. ]

Sort of? [ to answer her question about living like this. his house, once full of jennifer martinez's light and love despite their poverty, is now a silent box of misery and gas station receipts, because apparently his mother never threw anything away in her entire life, and he hasn't mustered the fortitude to go through her belongings for years. ] I usually have the essentials available when I wake up, though. Gin and cereal.