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08 i paint them out, i paint them in again
Mercy refuses to be rattled. Restless and burning, Monmouth Manufacturing is the the calm before the storm. Gansey is a whirlwind, 48 hours of intense energy coursing through his veins and a plethora of notes spread across the floor by his bed and Mercy's blow up mattress. The redhead is lounging, spread paper thin across the Monmouth's new leather couch that Gansey bought earlier on a whim, along with two new window air conditioners, a pool table and a sonar device. She doesn't dare go near the pool table where Ronan had already broodily beat Mercy in very few, quick moves. Her hand rests on her empty chest, pressing calloused fingers into her jumper-covered sternum. Mercy's waiting for the lightning to strike; the thunder already rumbling through Ronan's speakers.
"Now do you feel better?" Adam dryly asks.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Gansey replies.
"Hey man," Ronan leans against the couch, "I like the pool table."
Mercy makes a noise. "Of course you do."
"Soreloser." Ronan coughs into his fist.
But Blue looks less than pleased with the situation, hair almost bristling with her frustration. Tiny hands curled into fists, she looks indignant. "There are children staring in the streets of Chicago. Three species go extinct every hour because there's no funding to protect them. You are still wearing those incredibly stupid boat shoes, and of all the things that you have bought you still haven't replaced them!"
Mercy's eyes flick down to Gansey's shoes, nose wrinkling. Looking away, she brings her sunglasses down onto her nose and tucks her hands into her denim shorts. It's hot, sweat sticking to her back and arms, but she can't find the energy to peel her jumper from her suffocated skin just yet.
