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He stares at the wall, eyes heavy and the room perfectly still. The want to do something is there, he thinks. Plates are starting to stack up in the sink and Brick will kill him if he doesn’t do something about it. Still, his feet don’t leave the ground. He just continues to stare at the molding paint in the corner.
Living alone shouldn’t be this hard.
It passes through his head, unbidden. He’s nearly twenty-three for God’s sake, and he can’t do his own dishes without his big brother? He feels useless.
Butch sighs, glancing over at the to-do list hanging on his fridge. Dust is starting to settle around the paper. He should probably put dusting on his to-do list. Maybe then another thing can sit there for two weeks.
His living room is starting to smell like gym socks. And really, he doesn’t know why. His laundry was done yesterday, and he’s fairly sure he swept and mopped earlier that week. He stops a sigh from leaving his nostrils, extending the breath carefully so as not to make a sound.
He’s fine. This whole thing is fine.
He stares at the clock hanging above the back of his couch. The secondhand ticks past seven and his eyelids feel heavier.
There isn’t anything else planned for the day.
He presses his palms against his eyelids, grunting into the emptiness of his apartment. He should probably make himself dinner or something. There’s left over pasta in the fridge and all he has to do is heat it up.
Feet finally leaving the center of his living room, he treads over to his room, closing the door behind him. His head hits the pillow, and he thinks about taking a shower. The only issue, at least how he sees it, is just how heavy his eyes are. How tired he is.
He’ll do it tomorrow. He’ll just do it all tomorrow.