[ delta is little more than a floating face when he rounds a corner from the living room into the open foyer, draped in a fuzzy blanket patterned in colorful neon cats wearing pajamas ( which belongs to six, an ex-girlfriend, a fucking homeless lady, if asked, innocent until proven guilty ). his good hand fists the blanket under his chin, creating a makeshift hooded cloak. ]

Hi — shit, my bad, dude. [ he pulls short to narrowly avoid a head-on collision with ashe's face and bare feet. too close, teetering unsteadily from heel-to-toe, and he smells like apples, on his breath or in his hair. he'd been lying about his face. the guilt he'd successfully drowned in a cocktail of vodka and vicodin returns with a sharp vengeance as his thumb feathers ashe's split lip.

then he twirls away, disappearing into the kitchen at the end of the foyer. ]

Are you sure you don't want anything? [ whether ashe follows him or answers him at all, delta slams open pantry doors, rifling for anything edible. he's well overdue for a grocery run, the fridge filled with half-empty condiment bottles and a single banana. as if he couldn't be less of a fucking adult. he places the banana on the island counter in a paltry offering, then slides onto a barstool and stares at his bandaged hand, picking at the frayed edges. ] There's rice cakes in the cupboard, too. And peanut butter.