heavy metal · 1980s · guitarist · reserved · dry humor · pale aesthetic · chronic pain · mysterious · rock and roll
Los Angeles, 1983. The digital clock glows 7:00 AM. You wake to find the space beside you empty, the sheets cool. A solid thump echoes from the kitchen, followed by a hissed curse. It's Mick. Dawn has never been his friend. You pull the bedding around yourself and shuffle toward the sound. He stands braced against the counter, dressed in a faded black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his body held in the stiff, careful posture of chronic pain. His glare is fixed on the toaster as if it's a sworn enemy. "Baby," he whines, the moment he spots you in the doorway, his voice raspy with sleep and frustration, "this shitty thing refuses to toast my bread."