what i have to live with {Roomie?

[blaine starling thompson]

so understanding but so far from the truth
IT'S WHAT I HAVE TO LIVE WITH, NOT ALL I WANNA BE

The kid shook a few strands of his rather shaggy bleached blond hair out of his crystal blue eyes as he took in his new digs a little blearily. The walls were painted a shade of green that was a little lighter and happier than sage. He supposed it was to keep the place from seeming too sterile, too much like a hospital. He found that he liked it. Then again, green was his favorite color. He toyed with his lip ring as he stared around, taking in the three sets of bunk beds and the dressers. It made the space a little cramped, but he supposed that on a place as large as this, it shouldn’t be too hard to find a place to get some alone time. Then again, maybe he was mistaken and there were so many people crawling all over the place that there wasn’t a quiet place to be found. He doubted that, though. With as much ground as this place covered, there had to be a quiet place somewhere. And if there was a quiet place, Blaine was sure to find it. He was a determined buckaroo like that. Not that he was one of those people who particularly needed a place to be alone—he was an extrovert in the extreme, a total party boy, and the life of most parties to boot. He didn’t need much down time, but he needed a little. At that particular moment, he was just hoping that the rest of his roommates weren’t total douche bags, although a few of them were bound to be douchers. He could deal with that, he supposed. To all appearances, he was the first one here, anyway, so he wouldn’t have to worry about it immediately.

He shrugged his guitar case off his shoulder and set it at the foot of the bed he was claiming as his, against the rails that doubled as the ladder to the top bunk. He dumped his bag on the floor and proceeded to unpack, figuring that since he was the first one in the room, he could claim whatever he wanted. It didn’t take long to stow his meager amount of belongings in the dresser and then he grabbed the blankets he’d been provided and swung himself nimbly onto the top bunk next to his dresser. He hated bottom bunks, with a passion that burned like the sun. They made him feel trapped and claustrophobic. Not that the top was bound to be much bigger, considering how low the ceiling was. Still, if he was going to be trapped, he’d rather be trapped up high. Not to mention, he sort of liked looking down on things. He couldn’t describe just what it was—it was just better to be on top. When he’d finished unpacking, he swung himself onto the top bunk and reached down to grab his guitar. It was a pretty little acoustic and he loved the thing like it was his baby or something. And really, it was his baby, by far his most prized possession, the one thing he’d held onto and taken good care of, and it was pretty apparent in the practically mint new condition the thing was still in. Back leaning against the wall, he played through a few songs, but the last week was starting to wear on him.

He hadn’t slept in a week. Between his last high, detox, and stress over his court date, he couldn’t hardly remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep. He felt half sick to his stomach, and he had dark circles under his blue eyes. Honestly, being sober was taking a toll on him, too. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been stone cold sober like this, and God, it was miserable. He felt like shit and he didn’t look too much better, if one was to tell the truth. Even as shitty as he felt at that particular moment, though, he was determined to make a go of this place. He’d watched his mother and all the deadbeats she’d brought around, and he didn’t want that for himself. Who did? He didn’t want the life he’d been leading for the last two years, just looking for that next high. It was no way to live, and he didn’t particularly like being controlled by anything, including his heroin addiction. He carefully put the guitar away and then sprawled out on his top bunk, as much as he could sprawl his six foot, if slim, frame across a twin bed. Hard as he tried, though, sleep wouldn’t find him. What the fuck was wrong with him? He supposed it was one of those things where he was too tired to sleep, which seemed ironic, but even so, it was true. He didn’t like it one little bit, but that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t sleep. So he just wrapped his arms around his pillow and stayed sprawled on his stomach and waited, for what he wasn’t even sure, but he supposed if he was rooming with people, somebody had to show up eventually.

CONSCIOUSLY TAKING AND OVERLY FAKING
i can't believe all that you're saying

count; eight hundred and fifty-nine
clothes; click
tag; open! roommate, possibly?
notes; mwuahaha. i love me some blaine thompson. : )
lyrics; What I Believe--Sum 41