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font-family: Book Antiqua;
font-size: 12px;">He didn't sleep well last night, but that's not unusual for him. The weight of several days of insomnia is weighing on his shoulders, threatening to drag him under the water of his too-large bathtub. Maybe that's just his heavy conscience, or, more likely, his hangover. He can't remember the last time he was able to sleep without drinking. Then again, when is he ever sober long enough to find out if he can?<br/>
<br/>
Either way, it's probably the sleep deprivation that's made his movement beneath the water so enjoyable. He shifts, waves a hand to cause ripples, as entertained by the colorful reflections it creates in the soapy water as a child might be. Maybe the heat and the overwhelming stench of his bubble bath are starting to get to his head. You wouldn't expect a mix of amber wood, gardenia, and jasmine to smell all that strong, but it really intensifies when you've been in the bath for... how long has it been now? If he focuses, the water feels significantly colder than what he started with, so it must have been a while.<br/>
<br/>
He only ever leaves the house for work, so when he doesn't feel like going in, time tends to cease to exist to him. He keeps the curtains almost perpetually closed to keep the sunlight out, so he can only go off the small streaks that manage to poke in through the cracks. Given that they've almost disappeared, late evening must be approaching. What did he even get done today? He'd tried to read, but he'd been unable to focus on the words, his hands and his vision shaking too severely. He'd... napped for a bit, at least. Maybe tomorrow will be better for productivity. Even if he doesn't feel well, he should at least force himself to go out. It's a fragile line between atonement and self-pity, after all.<br/>
<br/>
He rubs away the burning sensation building in his throat, willing back the emotion surging back into his corpse. Focus on other things. Other things like the sound of rain tapping on the window, the knocking at the door, the creaking of the manor's old wood from the wind — wait. Knock at the door? Who the hell is that? Maybe it's Tiago on one of his surprise 'just making sure you haven't keeled over yet' visits. But in this weather?<br/>
<br/>
Sighing, he steps out from the bath, toweling himself off before wrapping the cotton fabric around his waist. His reflection looks horrid, hair stringy in its washed state, and shadows under his eyes made even darker by the dim yellow light of the bathroom. He pulls the plug on the tub, listening to the gargle of the drain for a moment to make sure that it's working before he hurries down the stairway to the door. He sweeps a hand through his hair briefly to look at least somewhat presentable before the judgmental eyes of his painted predecessors on the wall. He pulls the door open without another thought, fully prepared to chastise Tiago for visiting in such conditions or to tell off one of those vulture reporters trying to dig up a decades-old story.<br/>
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A reporter it is, although not one he'd expected to be on his doorstep. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#502500">"Alby?"</span> The man looks as prissy as he always does when he antagonizes him at the bakery, but his carefully-layered outfit looks much less stylish when soaked by rain. The way the wet clothes seem to hang limply from him only highlights how young he is, and he actually feels a bit bad to have kept him standing out in the rain, even if it was just for a minute or so. He raises an eyebrow, <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#502500">"'Are you lost, little puppy?"</span> Only when the curly-haired brunet holds up the increasingly damp flyer does the situation click in his mind.<br/>
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Right, he'd hung up several roommate advertisements around town like a week ago. It'd been a bit of a sudden whim motivated by the strong desire to fill the empty space of his house, although he hadn't expected much to come of it. He definitely wouldn't have expected Alby of all people to take him up on the offer. Still, he steps aside, gesturing him in. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#502500">"You can hang up your coat on the rack there. Let me get you a towel before you make the hardwood mold."</span><br/>
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He walks off before he hears an answer, fetching one from the small pantry room on the other side of the house before returning to offer it up to him. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#502500">"Most people call first, you know."</span></div><div style="
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text-align: center;">「 <a class="username" data-user-id="9084" data-username="MaryGold" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/9084/">MaryGold</a> 」</div><div style="
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font-size: 10px;"><abbr class="bbc-abbr" data-trigger="hover focus touchclick" data-xf-init="tooltip" role="button" tabindex="0" title="HOME • OUTSKIRTS OF BLACK CITY">LOCATION</abbr> | <abbr class="bbc-abbr" data-trigger="hover focus touchclick" data-xf-init="tooltip" role="button" tabindex="0" title="ALBERT">INTERACTIONS</abbr> | <abbr class="bbc-abbr" data-trigger="hover focus touchclick" data-xf-init="tooltip" role="button" tabindex="0" title="TIAGO">MENTIONS</abbr></div></div><div style=" margin: auto; margin-top: 5px; height: 10px; max-width: 100%; text-align: center; font-size: 8px;">Code by Jenamos</div>