#reading his stats ... realized it would b his bday ic ... i hope its okay 2 mention MWAH

[repentulant]

⁑ finch should consider himself lucky that santiago is clinging to this one more night philosophy. any other night, he would've been pestering for a hit & making an honest effort to catch up to whatever cloud his opposite is floating on already. in honor of the double holiday — halloween & finch's birthday — he'll even skim over the little man tag. ❝ gonna be wall t' wall in there. ❞ he complains, mindlessly following along with the flow of the crowd. he then chokes out a laugh at finch's comment. ❝ jeez, i'd be . . . world's shittiest rendition of myers. appreciate your support though. ❞ he holds the mask up from his side just enough to catch the light — won't be putting it on when he can barely see out of the thing — and lets out a laugh again. ❝ i'm brahms. different mask guy. doesn't really matter though. ❞ he drops the mask and looks up to ponder finch's costume— he thinks he can pinpoint the guy from the newest addition to the crow's franchise, but . . . ❝ temu michael myers meets, uh, sleep token guy without the mask. ❞ santi decides instead. ❝ it could work. ❞

he watches the crowd filter past, blurs of other costumes & reeking of spilled drinks. part of him mourns the mask of the club lighting & mind-numbing flow of people inside. ❝ well, happy birthday to you. off to celebrate with the entirety of red creek now. ❞

*      ❪       🦇       ❫    ﹕ 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗯 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁   𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀   𝘂𝗽   𝗮    path    beneath    pale    skin    &  a cold slosh of alcohol that   settles    low    in    an empty    stomach.    he    inhales the joint slotted between inked fingers,    eyes    mere    dark    marbles    rolling    in    his    skull.    ❛ yeah  — and  you're   comin'  little  man, ❜  they're  not given much of a choice as a stampede of rowdy youths usher them forward,  clambering  together   in an echo of woops  & raucous laughter.  premade  cocktail mixes overflow red  solo  cups & those that have been emptied crackle  under  their  shoes.  as  if  on  cue they're equipped   with   their  own theme  song;   the  bass  of  warped techno bleating through cheap wireless  speakers &  reviving   what  leftover  adrenaline  had  been   sucked out  by   the  attempt  in  a  total cancellation of one of redcreek's most infamous bashes.  there's  a  crease  at   his  forehead   as  he   makes the half - assed effort   in   clocking   santi's    costume,  brain  far too fucked   to   focus.  ❛ you  dressed  as  michael myers or sumn' ?  like  uh, like a  last  minute  version. temu - style, y'know ? ❜  he  tries,   attention  diverting  to  a  passing  cowboy belt   of  gelatin  shots  spritzed  with  limes,  those  in  which  he  chucks  out  toward   the   direction  of  the  mosh pit.  ❛ fuck  it, i  dig  it. ❜ not one to judge after all, being dressed in hollywood's poorly revamped version of horror's beloved eric draven.