Trenton awoke slowly. A sudden painful intensity of light left him squinting with a grimace hidden at half-mast because his adorable scowl was tucked away behind duct tape. He moved his mouth against the tape, finding it uncomfortable but, strangely enough, not too unfamiliar.
Joints refused to extend their limbs, and his fingers twisted up with a pivot of latched wrists. It took him a moment longer to realize that he was strapped down to one of those high backed, vintage dining chairs that his mother had shipped to him in a red wine & xanax moment last fall. She had a tendency to send overpriced furniture and a laundry list of complaints(typically on his failings as a son, but sometimes about Democrats or UNICEF) every autumn. Something about the falling leaves made her remember her need to send scathing commentary in mass exodus. Trenton hated these fucking chairs. He'd somehow convinced himself that he'd tossed them out the window some time ago, but had apparently only stashed them in a closet or a corner. A fresh ache of irritation pervaded his bones, and Trenton looked up.
Blue eyes tight and wary. Normally, if he'd awoken in this situation(tied up and taped down), he'd have thought something else entirely was in order. But this stranger didn't really look like the type to kiss and make up.
He cleared his throat from behind the tape and found the action painful.