( it's almost like some poor, cheap mimicry of the last time they'd been like this: he's still in a sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over his dark hair, and he's still sulking at the bar, hunkered down against it as though he could rightfully disappear. but there's no blood, this time, no mug full of saliva-slicked petals; instead, there's a couple empty shot glasses, a glass of half-drunken beer, and an ashtray, the butts of at least four or five cigarettes smudged down into the dirty bottom. there's a girl about four seats down who's cheerfully declaring another round for everyone! in a voice that seems to betray just how drunk she is--all the syllables slur together, and the laughter of the guests that have gathered around her are noisy enough that it feels like a warm blanket over his nerves. he's by himself, but not by himself, really: there's life around him, even if he feels like he's achingly hollow.

tomura's there, he knows, by the heat that slides into the stool beside him. his own arms are folded, his head pillowed down into them, and when he lifts, it's just his eyes, at first, rimmed with a little dried blood, that watch warily, as though to ensure it's really tomura. funny, that a compliment like that makes him want to smile; his cheeks shift, but the sight of the smile is hidden by his sleeve. )

Here for a date? ( as if they're roleplaying something; he finally lifts his chin, pinning it against his arm. ) Might have better luck with one of those hot guys down the bar.

( the bartender sweeps by, taking up his empty shot glasses, placing two each in front of himself and tomura. hazy, he pushes himself to sit up fully; his eyes are glassy, and it takes a moment to focus on the drinks through the alcohol-laden blur. )

How fucked up do you think we should get?