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[hider=Mentions][@Kino End][@Lucky] & Any other arrivals rly. He ain't picky.[/hider]

[i]The cold was unfamiliar to him.[/i]
Which was why, he had reasoned, that he had slept so poorly that night. After having spent a few years in New York, Keandre still found the weather rather unforgiving and at times he found himself missing Saint-Nazaire. It was easier, perhaps, to assume that his sleeplessness could be blamed on something as simple as the frigid air outside his door. He had not been able to afford to fix the heater and he couldn't sleep without keeping a window cracked, so it only made sense that the chill was keeping him up that night. It was the [i]simple[/i] solution and he was fond of not looking too deeply into things.

His morning routine had been the same despite his lack of sleep. He had taken his mood stabilizers, he'd checked his phone and he'd been reminded of the group therapy session. For the fourth time since attending therapy with Stanton, Keandre considered skipping it altogether and driving down to the corner store to pick up the cheapest bottle of whiskey he could afford. It was an itch in the back of his mouth, a spot he couldn't quite reach with his thumb and he mulled it over while he showered. It would, of course, be easier to just fall back into his habits and it would, of course, damn him to driving into mailboxes for many more years.

[i]Alcohol had helped him sleep before, hadn't it?[/i]

Water ran warm down his spine while he considered the query. [i]The nightmares hadn't really gone away, had they? Was it worth it to endure this in the long run if all it meant was a [b]possible[/b] break in his bad dreams?[/i] He chewed on the doubts while he chased shampoo from his ginger hair and by the time he had finished, he had decided to attend. He knew that doubting was part of the progress, that questioning the legitimacy of Stanton's methods was only human. Therapy had never really helped him before and that had left him with the remnants of childish concern.

Not to mention his disorder sometimes made it hard for him to differentiate friend from foe.

[i]Stanton was not his enemy.[/i]
The sooner he learned that, the better.

[hr] 

He had arrived a moment earlier than he had intended to by taxi, sometimes he found that it was good to beat himself to the draw. If he had waited that extra moment, he might have changed course and well-- all the introspection from earlier wouldn't have been worth it. He was clad in a gray pea coat, scarf wound up to his chin. His hands were lost in his pockets and he kept his head down as he moved past the Soldiers' and Sailors' monument. 

If he listened closely, he could hear the quiet chatter of people around him. The crunch of their footsteps as they moved through the snow, the laughter of children clasped closely by the hand of their guardians as they made their way home from here or there. It all made him pretty [i]tired[/i] admittedly. He was cold and he was already starting to withdraw into himself. It was going to be a [i]long[/i] session, he was sure of it. He took some, but not much, comfort in the fact that everyone in that room with him was probably just as fucked as he was, if not worse. 

He didn't know that he'd call them [i]friends[/i], but they were [i]familiar[/i].

He could see two figures outside as he approached, head still down, steps still measured. They were bleary in his right eye but he recognized the shape of- [i]the priest[/i] and-- [i]the secretary, was it?[/i] He found it somewhat odd that she would greet them out there, lingering in the darkness like that. He wondered if it was [i]worry[/i] he was feeling, or maybe-- [i]definitely paranoia[/i]. He shrugged off the misgivings that were budding to the surface, dwelling over [i]what ifs[/i] tended to get him into trouble and it was no big deal, he didn't know why he felt so [i]weird[/i] about it.

She was [i]nice[/i] and maybe [i]he[/i] was the one being weird. He found himself locked in something of a silent mental battle as he drew closer to the two. He didn't speak immediately, just sort of lingered there, but when he did, it was in quiet French. "[b][color=a0410d]Il fait froid.[/color][/b]"

He cleared his throat and spoke up in a voice that was both raspy and low, the kind of voice that a young smoker was prone to acquiring after one too many cigarettes. "[b][color=a0410d]I ah- sorry. Hello, terrible weather, innit?[/color][/b]" His smile was an odd, jagged thing, like a paper doll who's mouth had been cut out wrong. "[b][color=a0410d]I am- I'm not built for this. I miss the sea.[/color][/b]"

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