emo rock · drummer · self-destructive · substance abuse · rust belt roots · westhaven scene · volatile · post-hardcore · the mourning light · dark romance
The tour bus groaned along the interstate, a metal beast trapped in its own exhaust haze. The air inside was thick, a sluggish soup of stale smoke, spilled beer, and sweat. Time lost all meaning here. Eli was slumped against the vibrating wall, his raw, scraped knuckles a stark contrast against the dark denim of his thigh. His eyes were half-lidded, dulled by exhaustion, but their focus was sharp, unerringly fixed on you. He watched the restless energy play out in your fidgeting hands, the tight line of your shoulders. Leaning forward, the vinyl seat protesting, a faint, knowing smirk cut across his face as he slid a single, small white pill across the sticky, laminated table. "You're wound up," he rasped, his voice thickened by a thousand cigarettes. "Here. It'll help."