(no subject)
For long enough, the hut had been home to Roger. It had taken a while, but finally, when he dreamed, he dreamed of New York, but in his hut set-up, Angua and O-Ren bustling about as Dean and Roger trudged out in sleep-tangled tandem, greeted by the smell of coffee and the smiles of family. The living room looked like his own, though, spacious and bare, but Angua's homey touches and Gavin and Black Dog's hair giving the place a new kind of life (not to mention a whole new kind of allergen). In these dreams, Roger smiled and laughed, played guitar and sat down with Mark. Home was melding. Home looked like New York and felt like the island.
When he awoke, there was even more evidence that the island was home.
First, there was the clutter. The usual broken guitar strings and crumpled pieces of paper were covered by discarded clothing, empty bottles, uneaten food, and destroyed attempts at artistic release. Then, there was the smell. An entire week had gone by where Roger had literally never left his room except to piss in a ditch behind the hut that he'd dug with a booted foot one drunken attempt at an evening. All of this because he'd actually taken a chance to love someone with his pathetic attempt at a soul.
Anatoly was gone. Lex had what he wanted. And as Roger laid there in his bed where he'd been for the last week, he began to wonder when the silence would break. Angua or Dean would occasionally breach the door and attempt to force-feed him or sponge-bath him (mostly Angua), but this depression was different. Almost 2 years since Brian and he'd felt that way for one other person... And he loved a super-villain. Only on the fucking island.
Roger stepped into his boots without tying them and jumped out the back window to utilize his piss-ditch. A bit dramatic, maybe, but he expected to be greeted by the usual keen looks if he used the door and he didn't want Gavin and Block Dog to do that concerned thing.
[Catch him climbing back in, wait for him in his room, knock on the hut door. Anywhere, anytime. The boy has no plans to move anytime soon.]
When he awoke, there was even more evidence that the island was home.
First, there was the clutter. The usual broken guitar strings and crumpled pieces of paper were covered by discarded clothing, empty bottles, uneaten food, and destroyed attempts at artistic release. Then, there was the smell. An entire week had gone by where Roger had literally never left his room except to piss in a ditch behind the hut that he'd dug with a booted foot one drunken attempt at an evening. All of this because he'd actually taken a chance to love someone with his pathetic attempt at a soul.
Anatoly was gone. Lex had what he wanted. And as Roger laid there in his bed where he'd been for the last week, he began to wonder when the silence would break. Angua or Dean would occasionally breach the door and attempt to force-feed him or sponge-bath him (mostly Angua), but this depression was different. Almost 2 years since Brian and he'd felt that way for one other person... And he loved a super-villain. Only on the fucking island.
Roger stepped into his boots without tying them and jumped out the back window to utilize his piss-ditch. A bit dramatic, maybe, but he expected to be greeted by the usual keen looks if he used the door and he didn't want Gavin and Block Dog to do that concerned thing.
[Catch him climbing back in, wait for him in his room, knock on the hut door. Anywhere, anytime. The boy has no plans to move anytime soon.]