You wake up only to discover that your delightful guest is gone. Once again, there is an empty space on your bed, and a very distinguished one at that. Not only are you alone, but it's also afternoonish. It's a little dark outside, meaning you must have been sleeping for quite a while. You sigh and get out of bed, not bothering to change out of the hoodie or even shower. You aren't sure why, but you kind of miss the kid. He made a nice addition to this shitty apartment of yours. You wonder where he's gone, if he's safe. Then you notice it; the bag of weed right by the front door. You grin at the gesture and walk over to the bag, lifting it up as if it were fucking gold because to you, it is.
You dig into one of your pockets and get out a lighter and a ripped piece of paper. All you could really afford to wrap it in was paper, but hey, weed is weed. It doesn't matter all that much to you. You open the bag and pour a little onto the paper, then close up the bag and set it aside. You roll the paper until in resembles the ideal blunt, then take a moment to stare at its beauty. A miracle left by a miracle. Who'd have thought?
After pondering that for a total of fifteen seconds, you light one end of the makeshift blunt, bring it to your lips, and inhale. The taste is an acquired one, and luckily, you acquired it nicely. The blissful smoke enters your lungs and you can already feel the numbness spreading to your mind. It's nice, not having to worry about anything. You lost your job last week, but with this miracle, that ain't even an issue right now. You haven't had sex in about a year, but that's not a priority anymore. The rent for your apartment is due in a week, but who even cares?
Thoughts like these continue to drift to the back of your mind as you smoke until there isn't anything left. The paper and the weed inside of it are gone, and so are many of your brain cells, but again: back of your mind right now. You smile like a dope and decide that going on a walk is the best thing to do right now, despite the fact that you aren't 100% sure what's going on around you. Higher than a fucking plane (screw kites), you put the bag of weed and the lighter in the pocket of your hoodie. Then you stumble out the door, not even bothering to lock it. Although, you do remember to shut it, so kudos to you on that aspect.
Then you head down the stairs to the poor excuse for a lobby, nearly tripping over every other step. Once you've reached the bottom floor, you exit the building, only to be met with cold autumn air. You huddle as you walk, trying to protect yourself from the harsh wind. If you were in your right mind, you'd have worried about what you'd do come winter, but then again, back of your mind. You continue to walk for a while, not daring to make eye contact with the local drug dealers, until you see a mutilated park. The state had thought a park for the children would help decrease crime rate among growing adults, but all they did was spray paint the hell out of it. Then, once it was covered in miraculous colors, everyone ignored its presence.
Only today, you won't be ignoring it's presence like most do. You decide that the bench over there with the green gang sign looks pretty fucking comfortable right about now, and that you're going to sit on it. As soon as you do, a stranger in a teal jacket comes up to you with a bottle of something in her hand. She's cackling like a hyena, and you aren't really sure what she's saying. All you know is that her red glasses are awesome and she's offering you a drink, which means that not only is she cool, but she's also generous. What a kind bitch.
You smile, or at least try to, and grab the bottle to take a swig. You give it back to her and immediately feel funny, but before you can ask what's going on, she's snickering and running off with the bottle. You just shrug and decide to take a nap on this mirthful bench, shutting your eyelids and allowing whatever that drink was to take over your consciousness.
…
You wake up to the sounds of gunshots, and you can feel the bullets pelting down on you. Your eyes widen to an unnatural position and you instantly sit up, but the bullets are still coming… From the sky? Your clothes are heavy and sticking to you for some reason, and your hair is clinging to your forehead for dear life. What was going on?
Then it hits you: it's raining. Those aren't bullets pelting you, it's rain. That wasn't a gunshot, it was thunder. And your clothes are sticking to you because they're wet. You sigh, but then other issues rear their ugly heads: it's October, you're soaking wet, it's freezing, and you aren't sure how to get home from here. You've never actually walked to this park before, plus it's super dark and hard to see. You wonder what time it is, which is strange. Shouldn't a question like that be in the back of your mind? Unless… Fuck, there's yet another issue: you aren't high.
You groan and rub your temples because holy fuck does your head hurt. Actually, your everything hurts. You try to stand up, but only wind up flopping back onto the bench because you currently lack the strength to stand on your own. You hate to admit it, but you're so screwed right now.
"Um… What the fuck are you doing?" comes a voice from behind, and you could swear you know it. It's just so familiar, like you've known it your whole life, but still unique, like no other motherfucker could pull it off. You swivel to look at the speaker and, sure enough, you do know it: it's the cute motherfucker from earlier. Same outfit, same duffel bag, only right now everything of his is soaked. You watch the rain attack him, dripping off his face and down to his tank top, which is clinging even tighter to his chest. Damn, how you wish you could just stare at this forever.
Only, a part of you doesn't like seeing him soaked because one thing was off: his hair. The boy from yesterday, or this morning, or whatever had fluffy hair that you could sleep in forever. This time his hair was wet and sticking to his head, which was a true disgrace to everything you knew. He deserved to have fluffy brown or black hair (you still aren't sure what his hair color is). Most of the Mexicans in this city didn't have fluffy hair like his, and you sort of liked how special it made him. Tavros: the only Mexican in Detroit with fluffy hair. It suited someone like him.
"I don't up and motherfucking know brother. I just sort of… Drank something that some red sis done gave me, then passed the motherfuck out on this here bench," you explain to the best of your abilities. He raises an eyebrow, then shakes his head side to side before rounding the bench so he's in front of it. You swivel once more, now facing the direction you'd been originally. He extends a hand to help you up, which you quickly take. He pulls you off the bench, then wraps his arm under your arms to support you.
"How'd a motherfucker know I couldn't be walking?" you ask, surprised since even you couldn't tell that you lacked the energy/strength to. He starts forward, making you walk alongside him unless you wanna fall back down.
"Even you wouldn't, uh, sit here in the rain," he reasons, which makes perfect sense to you. You chuckle, but other than that you're both silent the entire way to your apartment. How did he remember where you lived? Motherfucking must be one smart guy to be recalling that shit. Even you forget most the time, and you actually live there!
He helps you up the stairs, all the way to your floor and then some, even willing to assist you to your apartment. He stops when you get to the door, probably expecting you to unlock it, and when you simply open it without a key he just sighs like he's given up on something. You were going to wonder what, but then a pressing situation occurs: your microwave is gone. Motherfuckers didn't touch anything else, just up and took your microwave.
"Why did you, um… Why'd you fall asleep on the bench anyway?" Tavros asks, obviously not noticing the absence of your microwave. You tear your gaze from the now empty spot that belonged to the machine and stare at the shower that you so desperately want right now. It's cold, seeing as you don't really pay for heating either, and that shower was the other source of warmth you had. Well, there WAS the oven, but that didn't really work out so well the first time. Or the second and third times, for that matter.
"Well brother, ya know how them motherfuckers say don't be mixing the sweet cocktail of liquor and drugs? Guess I up and ignored that by drinking some strangers liquid mirth after smoking the wicked shit," you tell him, seriously wanting that shower. You pull away from Tavros and somehow manage to limp over to the shower, removing an article of clothing every few steps until you're clad in nothing but boxers. You plan to take these off once you're in the shower just to spare Tavros the embarrassment.
"Um… I was just wondering… Uh, could I…" he starts, and since you aren't sure if he'll finish, you answer his question before he can utter more nonsensical stutters. You peel away the makeshift curtain, get in the shower, then cover it back up and remove your boxers, tossing them out of the shower.
"Ya, go ahead and get yo dream on brother," you call out before turning on the water. The heat scalds your skin, but it's better than freezing your ass off. You make quick use of the two-in-one shampoo/conditioner, lathering up your hair so that it's covered in subs. Curious as to what Tavros is ding, you peer out from the curtain. You see that he's closed and locked the front door, set his duffel bag down, and removed his soaked shirt. He is now looking under your mattress, which is where you keep all your clothes and such. Then he looks up to see you staring right back and, probably feeling guilty for snooping, quickly puts the mattress back down.
"I'm sorry! I just felt lumps last night and was… I was just wondering…" he apologizes, and you just laugh because it's so cute how nervous he gets! Although maybe laughing wasn't the best decision because now he's glaring daggers at you.
"Don't fucking laugh at me asshole. Do you have any idea how easy it would be to just sneak up on you while you're showering and slit your throat?" he warns in a menacing tone, and once again: message received. You dart back into the shower to rinse your hair, but what you don't know is that your little guest is still staring at the spot you'd been peeking from. Not only do you not know that, but you also have no clue that he's genuinely smiling. Not a smirk of triumph, but a real smile. The kind you don't usually see in Detroit. No, there's no way you could know that.
Update! I keep forgetting to put disclaimers in my stories so… For future reference, I don't own Homestuck. I am not Andrew Hussie. Yet.