#thistle babygirl you need therapy oh my gOd

[southrnweed]

cont. x / @idolatriia

He doesn't necessarily regret the words once they leave his lips, not the content itself at least. He regrets that he'd said that shit at all, that it'd gone from a nice little inside thought to being verbally vomited out; this was why he didn't drink-—his filter was shoddy as it was. Toss in some booze or weed or sometimes too much fucking caffeine and he would just ramble and ramble and say whatever thoughts zapped into his busy little brain.

Thistle hated beer, he'd looked for the brown bottles with an impressive amount of disdain. The only reason he'd partaken at all was because of the damned party he'd found himself in the midst of. He'd never been one for crowds to begin with, less so now without Jesse. He always felt like they were swallowing him up whole at worst, at best he walked away from them feeling drained and exhausted. Existing was exhausting and the thought he was going to have to keep existing was exhausting.

Billy was a force of nature and maybe that was why this whole joke of a situation had stretched on until it was more complicated than it'd meant to ever become. Thistle was so stuck in that sticky haze of grief and disassociation that it took a person like that to be seen through it all.

So many replies tangle in his head that he doesn't manage to get a reply out, just nods weakly at the offer for a location change-—at least the basement would be quieter.

He couldn't even say the fucker was wrong. Billy was a mistake. Everything was a mistake right now. Nothing Thistle had done since that fucking February morning had been intentional, had been thought out. Ghostly. He felt like a goddamn ghost with things just happening around him, to him. Like he was there and watching it all from a spectator's view. Out of body in the worst of ways; he felt crazy.

Maybe that was another reason he ended up at Hargrove's heels. It was something to latch onto, something besides that vacuous pit of static and nothingness that he sank into when he was by himself. Jesus, what a sad fucker.

His brows knit with concentration as he follows down the stairs, hand skimming the wall for some semblance of balance. He really was just a bit tipsy but add in everything else and he felt disorientated.

❝-—It's not you...❞ Calhoun, don't you dare say what you were about to say. Do not hit him with the 'It's not you, it's me' line. He closes his mouth, purses his lips. ❝ I mean, you're not a mistake. Not like...y'know. How y'probably think, I guess. I just don't really know what I'm doin' is all. I'm just sayin' shit. ❞ he trails off, shifts uncomfortably.

❝ I was a mistake. Like a mistake kid. Accident. Mom called me a whiskey baby a few times. She was weird like that. Said they wanted kids a few times but then she'd say shit like that. She did that a lot, actually. Said one thing, then said the complete opposite. The fuck are you 'sposed to go with, right? Weird. ❞ he offers up a slight smile, performative a best, and then ducks his head.

❝ Sorry. See? Just say shit. Y'can tell me to zip it, I get it a lot. ❞ he barely takes a breath, looks around the basement. ❝ So, we gon' make out or...? ❞