sometimes evan thinks death would just be so much easier. he thinks it'd be way easier on him and on a lot of other people for him to be out of the picture, to cease existing. he wonders if habit would let him die in the first place, if he could get it past him without him being able to stop it. then again, this is habit; nothing much gets past him at all. habit's beaten him close to death several times now, only to stop at the last second and give him a break. it's as if he wants him to feel like he's going to die, only to rip the relief out of his hands and leave him disappointed and in a hell of a lot of pain. he usually leaves the attic feeling exhausted, out of it, everything feeling distant and blurry.
there's grounding simplicity in how much evan hates habit, and terrifying complexity in how much he loves him. it's easier, sometimes, to tell himself that he doesn't. it numbs the guilt and masks the pain with something that could only be described as anger on steroids. he's more mad at himself than he is at habit, than he could ever be at habit, but it's irrelevant, really. after a few rather interesting encounters with habit, either involving habit himself acting a bit off or evan's stomach twisting into knots and his face flushing whenever habit said something that could be considered even remotely nice to him. at first, he hadn't accepted it, because there was no way in hell he'd ever really accept the fact that something like this could've happened to him.
evan usually stays in the dingy room habit lets him sleep in when habit leaves. on that gross, unwashed mattress that lays on the cold floor, only barely covered by thin blankets. sometimes he sleeps, sometimes he just stares at the ceiling thinking, and sometimes he plays with the cats when they come by. when he does get up and walk around, though, it's different. sometimes, he's hyperaware. sometimes he feels every grain of wood under his feet as he walks barefoot through the attic, glancing at the bloodstains on the floor and the walls and some stray blankets laying around when habit's away. other times the world is but a distant memory, and he wanders through the house without really knowing why he's there in the first place. he's usually up and running when habit's around, though, gears turning while he sits in the living room and watches habit wander idly around the house.
he's well aware that time works differently in the here; he's aware that it's not like the outside world. all of the clocks inside refuse to function and the ventilation seems to be permanently off, leaving it freezing cold most of the time. he can't count how long habit's gone for, but the fleeting sense of dread and, most horrifyingly, relief whenever he comes back is something he is all too familiar with. he either wanders in fuming, blood splattered on his face and along his arms, staining his shirt in patches, or as if nothing had happened at all while he was out, carrying a body with a knife lodged in it's side.
most of the time, he feels tired. unending exhaustion, be it from thinking or from the attic, he doesn't know. however, he finds comfort in his safety, the assertion that nothing else but habit can hurt him here. it's not a bad deal, per se, because habit at least won't kill him. he may, one day, when he gets tired of him or runs out of use for his body, but for now, evan gets to stay alive. at the very small and painful price of habit getting to kick the living shit out of him whenever he so pleases.
habit knows exactly what he feels, and that's what evan hates the most. that habit is able to understand (not truly), rub it in his face, use it to taunt him; it's disgusting. he feels disgusting whenever habit walks past him and his face is lit ablaze, his lungs filling with smoke and smog, burning him from the inside out. his throat closes up, then, and he feels like he's getting too much air and that he can't breathe all at the same time. it's like all of his feelings are an endless ocean and he's being tugged under and under and under by habit's hand.
he's only distantly aware of the fact that habit's home when he returns. he's been spacing out on the couch for god knows how long and not even the violent slamming of the door is enough to shake him out of it. he hears the sound of keys hitting the wooden table, and though it sounds far away, he knows it isn't. habit comes trudging into the living room and throws a brown paper bag on the coffee table in front of evan, and evan realizes he doesn't even have the energy to look at him questioningly.
