Log: Jeremiah M+Hannah S+Jamie M+Si M
By some stroke (joke?) of fate, Si was actually early. Chronically late and with the addict's usual disregard for time, this was far from normal for him. In fact, if he'd known he was early—or that he was the first to arrive, anyway—he probably would've stayed outside and smoked through a few more cigarettes before braving the straits of Amy's new boyfriend/friend/whatever. But, Si didn't know. His car—the one he'd gotten for Christmas—sat in the ostentatious drive, looking more than a little out of place, and even it fit in better than Si did himself. Tall, slouch-shouldered, with blondish hair that could probably use a wash, anyone who knew what addicts look like would know what he was. Even if he'd tried dressing up. At least the clothes themselves looked pretty good, all things considered, with no stains or scorch marks, and they smelled okay, since he'd doused them in the Frebreze he kept in the car. He didn't bother much with cologne or anything, so he probably smelled like Frebreze too, but that was fine. And he wasn't jonesing yet—not bad, anyway—he was probably three hours down from his last nod, so he was sober, even if he barely looked it. His light gaze was a little glassy, and it wasn't the heroin that made it shifty, even now, when no one else was around.
Si sniffled. His cigarette smoked in-between fingers, and after he rang the doorbell, he shifted anxiously on his feet. Thankfully, he wasn't keyed up. He wasn't counting. His OCD, his ghost-seeing, all of it, was muted, bound and gagged somewhere in the Red Room inside of him, kept there by force of (heroin) habit. It'd come crawling back, sure, but he was okay. That's what he told himself as he waited. He was okay, he was okay, he was okay. So that when the door was pulled back to reveal a man in a vest and jeans, Si was pretty close to believing it, even if he was already asking himself what the draw was here.
"Oh," he said, his voice low and rasping. He dropped his cigarette on the stoop—well, rich people didn't have stoops, but you know what I mean—and he crushed it out under a worn heel as he held his hand out to Jeremiah in semi-genial greeting. "Hey. I'm Si." He blinked. "Is Amy here?" Or was he alone? Maybe he wasn't okay. Fuck.