Adult Content Warning
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Summary
Truthless Recluse is cold.
The sheets beneath him feel as though they’ve been dipped in ice; the air stagnant, yet piercing, and the uneasy familiarity of the room around him — just enough to unsettle, but not enough to comfort. He hates it. He hates the spire, hates him, and hates this, stupid, stupid room.
He’s being petulant, childish, but he can’t help it; disgust clings to him in miserable clumps that he just can’t shake off. As he paces, the plush — lovingly, or mockingly made? — smiles blankly at him from the armchair across the room. Its blue-button eyes are gleaming slightly, and the stitches upon it are neat, uniform and fresh, as though he did not rip it up in a fit last night and hurled it out the sugar-glass window.