The Neighbourhood: Billy/Alex
He's been living under a proverbial rock, so actually he doesn't know. The rock being his roof. It's almost exactly like hibernating because he's been blasting AC and mostly swaddling himself in blankets while he rotates between his bed and the couch that's as big as a continent, and okay, he's pretty sure that bears don't get groceries strictly through Postmates but it's been basically the limit of his nutritional sustenance and his social interactions, so the metaphor stands. He will die on this hill, thank you. (And probably of an arterial blockage, with the ratio of cheeseburger to literally any other kind of food he's been consuming at a pace that can only be classified as 'gorging'.)
Part of it is the Ethan thing. Okay, like, the entire part is the Ethan thing. He's stopped seeing other clients in person, resorting to the occasional Skype session when he's reached the point of boredom that organizing the spice cabinet starts to seem like a viable option, or when he's lusting after a particularly bougie pair of custom Filas. He hasn't even set foot in the comic shop in almost two weeks, feigning sick to the boss and having offered little explanation to Alex other than needing a mental health break. He figures that besides the hangout sesh they both clearly need to take their mind of various piles of shit, plying the guy with pizza and Netflix is as good a thank-you for covering his shifts as anything else he could come up with that doesn't involve leaving his house.
Hey, at least he's made his way back home from camping out in the trailer, right?
He doesn't bother pressing Alex for more details over the forums, just focuses on ordering a half-dozen medium pizzas of varietal toppings, including two of just pepperoni and extra cheese. It means he can leave some extra in the fridge for Tandy, while still keeping himself going for at least a couple more days. And hey, bonus to Alex, he's showered recently and he actually puts clothes on - yeah, the bottoms are black sweats, but the concept of shirts is a new development. The long sleeves of the cotton bomber both to insulate against the polar vortex of the AC and because he hasn't felt like looking at his scar since he started wondering if his newest client had something to do with Mr Mister; he went back and forth between convincing himself of the guy's duplicitous-but-innocent interest and his being a spy for the man who gave him that same scar.
Billy answers the door barefoot, holding a half-eaten slice of thin crust primavera in one hand and balancing a can of beer between his forearm and his chest. His hair's mostly faded from the latest dousing of pink, a pale-flamingo blond with a half inch of roots, and pushed off his face in an unruly muss. "Welcome to the house of carbs, dude," he intones, deadpan.