[B&B: Dante & Holly]
Okay, so the first floor room at the B&B was a blessing. Originally, Holly had thought he could climb up to the place's attic, which he now knew was completely fucking ludicrous. The room, which was on the main floor with the other permanent residences, had a bedroom and a sitting room, and Holly was currently camped out on the sitting room couch. It was here he spent most of his time, since the couch's stiffness and back made for easier maneuvering than the bed did. And, I mean, the rooms were fine, but he hated all the old-people shit. It wasn't his scene, and he missed the attic apartment, or the clutter of his room above Webster's, or Noah's tiny-ass apartment. This place just made him feel stuck or something, but maybe that was his frame of mind, too; he was healing fine physically.
He'd been to the doctor earlier that day, and everything looked good. The suture anchors itched under his skin, and everything beneath the still healing incision hurt, but at least they'd taken the drain out? The stitches had to stay a little longer, and they weren't the fucking dissolving kind, which, yeah, not fun. But it meant he was sitting on the couch, leg freshly bandaged, some painkillers on-board, looking down at his slightly-less swollen ankle, and wondering why the fuck shit sucked sometimes. I mean, he wasn't even solely fixated on the knee. He was trying really fucking hard not to think about people in town, not to think about what lived beneath the town, to not start at every loud sound, to not just pull his hair out at the constant buzzing, to not think. He didn't want to think, and he didn't want to worry Noah out there, doing his job and falling apart in this way that had Holly really, really, really worried.
And, okay, he was pissed. It was this persistent undercurrent that just wouldn't let up, and he hated it so much.
But it was 8, and he knew it was Dante at the door. "Come in," he called out, managing deadpan while raising his voice... somehow. And, look, he knew this Dante wasn't the one he vaguely remembered from a TEDTalk back home, but maybe she had some of those skills, right? And she'd been... cool? She knew what he was going through, at least, and he got the feeling she wasn't going to get her feelings hurt if he was himself around her. So, yeah. He called out to her, and the door was unlocked.
He wore sweats that he'd cut into shorts, along with a white tee. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was couch-pillow rumpled. The space around the couch was a mess that featured his laptop, books, his camera, snack wrappers, numerous records, and an old record player. The record player? Currently played something moody, and that song had been replaying for hours.