i groaned. “oh, why. why.” i groaned again, as if it could help the fact that my entire body felt like one giant, ready-to-burst artery. “i’m never drinking that much again. oh, Odin, mercy. hold me to that.”

            “you have my word,” he said, every bit as solemn as a priest as he traced an x over his heart.

            “thank you.”

            he was leaning against the kitchen island, sans shredded costume and in comfier-looking attire: grey sweatpants and a dark, thin, oversized jumper. he seemed refreshed—less pitiable than he’d looked during rehearsal, for sure—but i could still see traces of clingy, raspberry-red blood caked under his short, usually-neat nails, and smudged around the backs of his ears. some of it was still clinging to the nape of his neck, matting his hair. i wondered if that was something he’d just gotten used to by now.