Johnny pours another and hands it over, then sips his own a bit gingerly. Dream or not, that hits the fucking spot.
"God," he mutters, and makes his way to one of the armchairs, slumping into it. "Well, if I'd known the bad rooms were gonna ramp up to that level of fucked, maybe I'd have stayed in the kitchen."
He glances longingly at the window, at the gardens beyond. He's tried already, in multiple rooms, to open or even break the windows and escape that way, but the dream seems hellbent against any shortcuts. Why does everything have to be such a goddamn ordeal.
The whiskey warms its way down his chest, feeling real enough that he can let his muscles relax. "So tell me about yourself," he says drolly, eyeing his odd companion.
no subject
"God," he mutters, and makes his way to one of the armchairs, slumping into it. "Well, if I'd known the bad rooms were gonna ramp up to that level of fucked, maybe I'd have stayed in the kitchen."
He glances longingly at the window, at the gardens beyond. He's tried already, in multiple rooms, to open or even break the windows and escape that way, but the dream seems hellbent against any shortcuts. Why does everything have to be such a goddamn ordeal.
The whiskey warms its way down his chest, feeling real enough that he can let his muscles relax. "So tell me about yourself," he says drolly, eyeing his odd companion.