<span class="fixed-color" style="color:rgb(255, 255, 255)">It wasn't the 'burly gang rape' comment that unsettled Miles - it was the question Ash had presented before it. Why, indeed, had they decided to offer <i>him </i>of all people<i> -</i> a lanky and acne-riddled teen - free alcohol? That night, there had been an abundance of women - a few good-looking boys too, if they were into that. But why Miles? It was one of the many questions that had plagued him for the past week, and he wished he could do more to quell his curiosity, to find out what had really happened. But he was utterly immobilised, and couldn't even piss without assistance let alone conduct investigations, however minor.<br/>
<br/>
Apparently though, he was mobilised enough to manage a half-decent throw; he reared his arm back and suddenly the book was bouncing off the foot of his bed. Ash's comments about Miles' masturbation tendencies had spurred this sudden outburst; quite frankly, he was sick of hearing about the topic. He huffed yet again. He didn't know why he was getting so much shit for it. There was no way Ash didn't beat his meat on the regular himself. After all, Miles knew for certain Ash didn't have sex. Miles had never seen him with girls, and he'd always just assumed they were both still virgins. Or, perhaps, Miles was just stubbornly trying to convince himself of this, as a hopeless means of feeling comforted. Because obviously, he'd be jealous of any sex partner Ash may have.<br/>
<br/>
He scoffed when Ash called his dad funny. Of all the adjectives Miles would use to describe his father, 'funny' wouldn't be one of them. Not because it wasn't true, but because there were stronger feelings he had for his father that prompted him to use words more hostile than 'funny'. Like 'jackass' or 'fucking dick'. Never in front of the man, obviously, unless he had a death wish.<br/>
"Funny?" He snorted. "He's an asshole. Did you even hear what I said about the IV lines?!"<br/>
<br/>
Miles had, indeed, been subconsciously feeling too warm for comfort, but he only realised it when Ash brought it up. He was suddenly itching for Ash to leave, for an array of reasons. He didn't fancy talking about the contents of his dad's balls for starters. The unsettling conversation topic was another factor - not to mention Ash was distractingly attractive when he looked hot and bothered. But it seemed Ash wasn't aware of this fact, because before Miles knew it, his friend was all but stripping in front of the bedroom window. At least, that's what it looked like in Miles' hot and muddled brain. He realised he was practically staring at that toned lower stomach, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Miles suddenly felt much hotter, and this time it wasn't due to the weather. He managed to snap out of his little reverie in time to catch Ash's question about cooling devices of some sort.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," He said, coughing when he realised his voice sounded far too high-pitched. "Yeah, there, uh, should be a fan downstairs in... the living room? And yeah, man am I sweating balls in here! There's aircon downstairs too. Grab the fan for me, thanks!" He smiled up at Ash, fully enjoying being able to order him around like this. Whilst having lost mobility and ability, it was as if Miles had gained something else to compensate; sympathy, which prompted others to do his bidding. It was great, really. He lay back and closed his eyes, suddenly tired, all this emotional excursion taking its toll.<br/>
<br/>
~~<br/>
<br/>
Casper knew, indisputably and without a doubt, that there was an intruder in his back garden, slinking around the perimeter of the house. This time, he refused to believe that he was conjuring false images, as a result of paranoia. No - his mind had settled since Ash had arrived. So the fact remained that there was someone here, who'd probably scaled the wall that separated the garden from the main road, and was now watching the interior of the house through a window. Well, he <i>had </i>been. Before Casper had descended the staircase and spotted a figure looming outside, which is when it had skittishly taken off.<br/>
Casper had frozen, huffed out a disbelieving but amused half-laugh, and had then strode over to the open kitchen. Initially, he'd attributed the disconcerting appearance to the ventures of a stray cat, or perhaps a large bird. So he assumed the task of fixing himself some coffee and cranking up the air conditioning, not dwelling on the figure for too long. Air conditioning didn't quell his discomfort by many notches though, and Casper continued to perspire. He was naked apart from a white towel slung around his waist, and he'd just had a shower to cool himself down, and yet the heat was still getting to him. Pouring the half-made coffee into the sink, Casper opted for some alcohol instead. He filled his mug halfway with red wine, vaguely musing about it being slightly too early to start drinking, and then picked the mug off of the counter. He turned to exit the open kitchen, and had reached the living room when the mug was suddenly slipping through his fingertips and then crashing down onto the wooden floor. In an attempt to catch it, Casper's hands had jolted downwards, but a large glass shard bounced back after the deafening contact the mug made with the floor, and sliced his skin open, numbing his brain for about a second with electrifying pain. He cursed and then looked at the window to his right again. The figure was gone.<br/>
<br/>
He stood there, breathing hard, more than a little pissed that his only good mug had been obliterated. He quickly recounted in his head what happened to cause this sequence of events. <i>I was entering the living room with my mug. I looked up to the garden window, saw an ugly-ass punk staring back and most probably ruining my ferns in the process. Ah fuck, he's probably trampled all over them now.</i><br/>
Obliterated mug and destroyed ferns aside, Casper had indeed seen someone there, a human face staring back at him, shocking him into letting loose his grip on the mug. So now, Casper knew, indisputably and without a doubt, that there was an intruder in his back garden, slinking around the perimeter of the house. All Casper's previous misgivings about investigative journalists and police resurfaced, and he stared at the window whilst bringing up his left hand for inspection. He'd wait to see what the intruder wanted, but if Casper thought he was becoming a threat, he'd confront him. He scoffed and then smirked. <i>I'll confront him, alright.</i> He had an array of weapons to choose from, should the lurker indeed prove to be a threat. In any case, he'd have to take care of this cut first. He looked down at his injured hand; the cut was deep. A bloody gash stretched from the bottom of his thumb to his wrist. He grunted in annoyance, straining to remember where he'd put the first aid kit.</span>