You're thoroughly charmed by the buzzing little purr your moirail strikes up as you play with his hair and occasionally steal his pencils. But as cozy and warm as it all is, and as tired as you are, you can't quite manage to really relax— lunch's round of beer has long since worn off and you feel unsettled, uncomfortable no matter how you arrange yourself on the pillows. The ache and itch of your marks is a continuous distraction you can't ever quite manage to shake. Rubbing or even scratching the punctures just makes it all worse, so you busy your hands with pencils instead. You steal a few pages of Jethro's graph paper to lay on your own sketchbook, and try to occupy yourself with composing increasingly intricate patterns. Eventually a sharp, hot pang goes up your arm and you realize you've finally managed to scratch one of your wrist-marks open, and it's dripped a big violet blotch against your latest pattern. You blow out a long, exasperated sigh through your fangs. "Give me your phone, love," you tell Jethro. "I don't know where that vodka I threw at Bel went to, we should order another."