THIS KID'S NOT ALRIGHT / PRIVATE

[fancypost bgcolor=;border:0;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:10.5px;line-height:1.4]ooc: i am finally here

Jason's first mistake was assuming that being on the third floor of an apartment building ensured safety, and the second mistake was leaving one vital window open, because that just made his job so much easier. Technically, if he'd thought about it, simply scaling the stairs would've been a simpler way to go about this ordeal, maybe knock on the door and charm his way in, or kick his way through the locks and waltz into the room — but that's no fun, and he's all about fun, nowadays. He's a kid who, thanks to recent events, technically has no home, doesn't really get enough food nor sleep to function properly, and yet still is — life's tough for him, but by doing what he's good at, he's somehow managed to get by. He's not proud of his methods, but they've scattered his life with dashes of colour, and that's the positive part of it all, as shitty as his existence currently is. The last "proper" thing he ate was a hotdog three days ago, and if that doesn't symbolise his present situation, he doesn't know what does. For a kid with fairly (formerly) well-off parents, this whole "inheritance" thing isn't going so well. He doesn't have enough cash for a bottle of water, these days, but he's coping, is he not?

It's when he reaches level with the second floor that he wonders if he's being a bit dramatic, but he's never exactly been capable of thinking rationally on two hours' sleep, so he decides that maybe this is for the best. Besides, this'll make for an interesting story in the long run — the tale of how he literally broke into his friend's apartment because he was too tired to take the easy route. Of course, this is all betting on the fact that he'll be alive after this — if Jason has anything nearby that he can throw and he doesn't realise who he is, Tim's next solid rest could be in his grave, and frankly, he doesn't want that. Not now, anyway — now, he wants to lounge around and eat pizza. He wonders if Jason has any sort of painkillers in this apartment of his — he wonders if he has anything in it at all. He'd better — Tim's desperate, and the biggest regret he currently has is not overdosing on paracetamol before attempting this frankly ridiculous stunt of his.

Like a fucking ninja — because that's the vibe he's feeling at the moment (sneaky) — Tim nudges the window open and slides in through it once he reaches it, all stealth and silence, and is greeted by a muffled half-rant, the sort that has him tilting his head in open thought. He says nothing, though, not until he's right behind Jason, leaning over the back of the couch and studying the bandages with wide blue eyes. "Yikes," is the first thing he says, reaching out with a gloved hand to prod at somewhere not yet stained with crimson. "Need some help, honey?"
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[fancypost bgcolor=;border:0;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:10.5px;line-height:1.4]Safety's a social construct, anyway, the sort of feeling that's never truly achieved, because everybody's always in danger, regardless of how muted that danger may be. The chances of anybody crawling through that window, for example, are rather small, but that doesn't mean it's impossible; it's just that the nature of the apartment is likely enough to deter most wannabe thieves, and if a stranger does find their way in, it's likely their intentions are to do more than just burgle. That's when the paranoia can start to kick in, glancing at the weaker parts of a room and wondering if there's somebody hovering just outside, waiting for the opportunity to take a life — it's a rare occasion, but again, not an entirely impossible one. He can't exactly say he's a popular target for those trying to kill, but he's not unpopular, either. In the last week, he's probably been shot at more times than twenty normal people would be in their entire lifetimes. Fifty, if these people avoid crowds inherently. He's battered and bruised and new scars scream when he moves, but he'll keep going. Losing this game isn't something he can afford to do at this point.

He doesn't like comparing his existence to other people's, doesn't like thinking about what he could've had if he'd not been so stubborn. That I'll do it myself nature of his had dragged him down to this point, and acceptance of his situation has kept him here — that, and the fact that he has friends with similar fates. He could always try and reconcile with the people that withheld his future from him, but that was an effort he didn't want to have to toil through, and begging for forgiveness isn't something he's keen on doing — people like those he avoids like the plague are notorious for simply enjoying the look of distress on another person's features, and he'll be damned if he gives them the satisfaction. Even so, he finds himself eyeing this sort of apartment with a sense of wistfulness — and if that doesn't say a lot about how far they've all fallen, then he doesn't know what does. This place is a shithole, but at least it isn't falling apart.

Eyes flash at the use of his full forename, and he grins, a lopsided sort of thing. "Timothy?" it's hardly an admonishment, but it's certainly curious, and he sounds almost unnecessarily amused by it — almost, but not quite, the mirth in his tone luckily curbed by what little sense he has left. "Oh, come on. Nobody's called me Timothy since I was, like, eight." not to say that he doesn't like it, though he does associate it with formality or idle punishment if he ever did something considered "naughty" (if only they could see him now, he thinks grimly. He's glad they can't. He's hardly their golden boy, now, hardly the child they wanted him to be — and he hates to blame them for that, but he had nowhere to go on their deaths, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let the services take him. No — running away was the only option he'd had, and it's because of that choice that he's even here in the first place).

The hand withdraws, and with a quiet huff, he tugs off his gloves and tosses them aside. "The window. It was open — I'm weak." and climbing in a manner akin to Spider-Man is, if nothing else, a brief entertainment to distract him from the woes of the world. He twists so he can push himself up and perch on the back of the couch, staring down at Jason with half-lidded and thoughtful eyes. "And what if I did? Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice again." is that sarcasm? It sounds like sarcasm, though again, it's halfhearted, half-assed, oddly mellow. He twirls a finger in the air absentmindedly. "Long enough ago for it to warrant a slap on the wrists. Sure you don't need help? I'm tired, not delirious."
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 420px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 15px;]Unlike Tim, whose sporadic sleeping hours make his decision-making skills questionable at best, the significantly less sleep-deprived girl with her choppy hair in a messy bun is taking the easier route inside. Producing a set of lockpicks from the pockets of her cargo pants (these pants have a lot of pockets; she likes these pants), Bellona gets to work with a watchful eye on the area around her. Lockpicking doesn't have much use when you live down in the sewers (which are, objectively speaking, much worse than shitty apartments, but she's used enough to the former that she'd have to disagree), and indeed her hard-won expertise were going to waste there until she found herself scurrying around like a mangy rat on the surface. There's always a door to jiggle open somewhere up here, even though the smoke-laden air still makes her cough and sneeze, and the way things work around here are markedly different. But she's nearly fully acclimated to her new environment, and she's no longer overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds and smells. And whenever she needs a hand (she's not helpless, there's just a lot of things to keep track of) she's got the two boys she's incontrovertibly adopted as companions to badger into an explanation.

With a click, the door swings open and she strides in just in time to hear the word princess. She feels her eyebrows lift upward and she cocks her head to the side, restoring her lockpicks into her pocket. Pulling off the dark green parka she's taken to wearing everywhere (except here; it's ridiculously warm here), she walks over to lean against the back of the couch on Jason's other side. "If he's a princess, what am I?" she asks, tying the parka around her waist and folding her red flannel shirt's sleeves at the elbow. She inclines further forward over the back of the couch to peer up at Tim from across Jason. "I picked the lock. It was easier that way." The you should have followed me instead of scaling the fucking building, Timothy goes unsaid except for the pointed look in her eyes. Recalling the last bits of their conversation, she adds, "And you both need sleep. I don't know how you're both still alive." Glancing down at Jason's torso (this is one of the few ways she can be taller than him) her brows knit together. "You're hurt."

/ here i am
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