he's hungover as f u c k. the sunlight hurts. everything hurts really. he's sporting a couple of bruises on his side and if you asked him where he got them, he might combust trying to remember through his headache. fuuuuuuuuhck. 

it's not the worst walk of shame, but the dude was certainly prettier last night after, like, twelve drinks. oh well. not the ugliest he's waken up to. 

he smells like burger grease and fries, which makes sense, because he's got half a dozen to-go bags of cookout in his hands. no doubt anton also needs a pick-me-up after the weekend. 

the lock hasn't worked for years now so he doesn't bother fishing for his key. just kicks the door in to announce himself, stepping over piles of dirty laundry and stray beer cans in the living room.

"yo, fucker, wake up. i got breakfast."

Anton Belov

☉

in that split second before their second impact, somewhere around wrestling pickett closer to his arms so he doesn't send her flying, he tastes blue fruit barrels and the sting of too many sour patch kids. and then, very quickly, he tastes sand. 

"nina?" he yelps, voice rising an octave as one of the wingull goes to peck at a corn chip on his back and damn near hits his ass instead. he flounders, trying to scramble off of her, but also not really, because he has to duck his head when more of the feathery beasts converge. 

kipkip runs to their rescue, erecting a barrier that provides them a brief reprieve. pickett shakes out her fur and narrows her eyes at the beach rats. warning yips turn quickly to teeth-bared snarls and the wingull eventually decide their prize isn't worth the cost. 

slevin thunks his forehead down against nina's shoulder, consequently remembers he's still crushing her, and then rolls off to starfish in the sand. 

"my savior. fancy seeing you here, nini."

nina larson

☉

"fuckin' damn it," he says while he runs, pickett under one arm. the zorua wriggles uselessly against him, but she doesn't actually try to get free, because the alternative is that she'd have to fight off the horde of wingull that are coming after the two of them. 

some asshole kids thought it'd be funny to throw nachos on him after he very fairly won against them in a card game. three-card monte, yes, and pickett happened to sneeze while he was in the midst of his sleight of hand, but that is besides the point. 

now fast-forward here and he has one arm out to keep the brutes at bay, the other tucked around pickett football style, and his head turned around to watch for any oncoming dive-bombers.

so he completely fucking misses the blast from the past that he tumbles into on the shoreline. 

nina larson
mission: don't feed the gulls
surprise, mf

☉