WHO Avery and Armaan WHEN Sat November 20th, evening WHERE their apartment WHAT Avery is wallowing a bit too much WARNINGS TBD
Avery had decided that there was no point even trying anymore. Lyra hadn't contacted him at all, and he hadn't seen any posts from her or Rosario online. It had taken him a day or so to remove the article about Archer, and he'd only done it because his boss had pulled him into her office and given him a very stern warning about posting such fanciful bullshit about very very rich people. Even though it was on his person account, she didn't want to be tarnished by association, so he'd taken it down once she started intimating job insecurity. All week she'd been watching him, editing his writing with much closer scrutiny than before, asking for better sources in some cases, and it was getting on his nerves and making him paranoid.
So Saturday, he slept until lunchtime, spent an hour in bed on his phone, then spent the afternoon unwashed and unshaven playing Call of Duty and PUBG in his underpants and eating microwave burritos he got from the nearest 7/11. And drinking. There had been a steady supply of beer all afternoon, not being drunk fast enough to get trashed, but enough to keep him going with a bit of a buzz. Swearing at multiplayer games on his tv was much better than swearing about his boss under his breath. Or checking his phone to see if Lyra had changed her mind and messaged him.
She hadn't. And she never would. His life was fucked. Everything he'd ever thought he believed in was a lie. "FUCK," he yelled at the tv as he lost a round far too easily, and he kicked a couple of empties off the coffee table in a fit of pique.