CM

Vox has had, to put it nicely, a few too many drinks. He’s vaguely aware of this as he stumbles through the hallways and staircases of his tower, towards a specific room. He has to catch himself from wall to wall, grumbling to himself all the while he was unsteady on his feet. The anxiety he had before downing the equivalent of six shots and more than a couple drinks was washed away now with a sick feeling of gaping loneliness. He hated being held, he hated being loved on and he knew this when he was sober. Which he wasn’t, currently. But right now, he could barely stand up straight and he just wanted somebody next to him. With a sloppy grin, his speech and screen glitching, he reached his destination, swinging the door open unannounced with sluggish movements, it was your room.