Who: Trystan & Liam
Where: The new place in Gotham
[Yeah, the place wasn't much to speak of, but it wasn't a hotel room, and it had that going for it at least. Shabby, one bedroom, stained walls and carpeting, but he wasn't complaining. It was a place to stay, a roof over his head, and he wasn't alone.
Funny how 'not being alone' had come to be one of those things that was important to him. He could remember living on his own, being okay with it, but now the quiet, the solitude, it felt imposing and suffocating, and just knowing that another person was sharing the space with him was enough to put some of the voices in his head at ease.
The corner of the living room (or what constituted a living room in the cramped space) had become his. Notebooks and cheap pens, an ash tray and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He was slouched against the wall, feet bare and wings concealed beneath a thin t-shirt, a cigarette in hand as he stared down at the notebook balanced on one knee.
Writer's block. A cement wall that he couldn't find a way over.]