OPEN POST pt III

[wunderkind]

-1-
pick a character

-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.

-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Walking Dead, coffee, summertime, AUs, and vampires. can you combine those into one tag?

-3-
let's get it on, like we did last summer



disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously

Comments

hi long-overdue response to this because I miss George a lot

[humanistic]

The smell of George is so strong it almost hurts, like a knife up his nose. Mitchell's eyes ache, but his eyes have been aching for weeks now, and he's not noticed, because every bit of him has been aching for weeks now, a feeling that starts somewhere in his bones and radiates outward--plus the usual leg cramps that come of being tied to a chair, a far more human feeling than raw hunger and illness moving under his skin.

But he's better now. That's what he's told George, and it's true. Good enough that when the full moon comes, he can be left alone, not tied up, free to sit on the sofa and lay in a bed and eat leftovers out of the narrow refrigerator. The fridge is the colour of steamed vegetables. It makes Mitchell feel a little sick to look at it. He's thought that same thought about half a hundred times since George left the house yesterday.

When the door opens, the smell of George is stronger, wafts in with the smell of the outside world. Cold air and grass and wet pavement, but all the human smells get covered up by werewolf. Mitchell's face contorts; he hunches forward, pushes the heel of his hand against his nose, turning it up against his face. The sofa is a piece of shit. It hurts his arse just sitting on it.

He doesn't get up. He doesn't go to greet George. There's a glass feeling in his bones. He barely trusts himself to stand. The smell is like another presence in the house, a little suffocating, but it blocks out everything else, the distant sound of cars on the road, the smell of the woman that lives over the hill, the one who walks her dogs in the evening. Mitchell would kill the dogs first. It would be easy.

"There's tea," he says. He's half slumped off of the crap sofa. There's a cold mug on the table in front of him; the rest he left in the kitchen. It might have been hours ago. His mouth tastes numb. "With whiskey. God, you smell."

The idle jab lacks both humor and teeth, which is an improvement. A few weeks back and Mitchell was still snarling insults between bouts of clarity.