It's late enough that a stillness lies over the entire city: all food and festivity put away till the morning, the neon lights of Sumarlok's buildings flickering and glowing quietly in the night air. His keycard slides through the lock. He slips inside, closing the door behind him with care-- sure, his roommate's probably asleep by now, but Travis can't deal with anybody, much less Oscar, seeing him crawl home to lick his wounds. Shoes kicked off; soggy, pigment-stained jacket hung aside to deal with later.
In the dark of that apartment, Travis finally breathes out, and all of a sudden his exhaustion comes crashing down like the tail end of a bad high. He feels pathetic. Everything fucking aches. The ugly early hues of bruises crawl their way through the remaining splashes of powder coloring his skin; the memory of that fight, too, is its own bruise upon his ego. After all, it hadn't just been the powder, even if it had make him look like a giant asshole. He might've gone after Deadpool without it. Somewhere inside Travis, hungry and waiting, is always himself-- still young and still stupid, an animal urge still craving the taste of blood after all this time. So he'd gone and gotten his ass kicked and made a damn fool of himself, and for what? A hit of adrenaline, dopamine? Wanting somebody's hands on him?
And why the hell is his heart pounding?
Travis pulls his shirt over his head and moves to the bathroom in silence.]
SMASHES CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE OVER THIS INBOX!! (not-here action 1/2)
It's late enough that a stillness lies over the entire city: all food and festivity put away till the morning, the neon lights of Sumarlok's buildings flickering and glowing quietly in the night air. His keycard slides through the lock. He slips inside, closing the door behind him with care-- sure, his roommate's probably asleep by now, but Travis can't deal with anybody, much less Oscar, seeing him crawl home to lick his wounds. Shoes kicked off; soggy, pigment-stained jacket hung aside to deal with later.
In the dark of that apartment, Travis finally breathes out, and all of a sudden his exhaustion comes crashing down like the tail end of a bad high. He feels pathetic. Everything fucking aches. The ugly early hues of bruises crawl their way through the remaining splashes of powder coloring his skin; the memory of that fight, too, is its own bruise upon his ego. After all, it hadn't just been the powder, even if it had make him look like a giant asshole. He might've gone after Deadpool without it. Somewhere inside Travis, hungry and waiting, is always himself-- still young and still stupid, an animal urge still craving the taste of blood after all this time. So he'd gone and gotten his ass kicked and made a damn fool of himself, and for what? A hit of adrenaline, dopamine? Wanting somebody's hands on him?
And why the hell is his heart pounding?
Travis pulls his shirt over his head and moves to the bathroom in silence.]