Hunger was a funny thing. Ozzie didn't know why but it always seemed to hit hardest at night, right in the moments where he wasn't doing much of anything at all. It crept up on him, usually, a startlingly piercing nudge in his lower belly that made him open his eyes and blink back up at the popcorned ceiling of his room. Usually, when that happened Ozzie would let out an exasperated breath, fists clenched as they pressed into the lean meat of his stomach as he waited for the pangs to pass. Usually, he'd fall asleep like that, maybe a little tense, maybe with a dull ache in the palms of his hands, but it was sleep and the price was one he was more than willing to pay for it to be dreamless.

Hunger, though, was a funny thing. A living thing. A beastly thing. A glutton. A total bitch really. And tonight, Ozzie's tried and true methods of coping just weren't cutting it.

Rolling over onto his side, Ozzie forced out a trembling breath, biting his lip and trying to keep his breathing steady. Outside it was raining. He could hear it gently pitter-pattering against the sole window in his room, a small arch shaped thing made of stained glass—the only one left in the house—but Ozzie liked it. When the sun was out it bathed the room in shimmering rainbows, the colours shifting as the sun fell across the sky. Ozzie would stare at his ceiling for hours, watching golds melt into greens and vibrant sapphire blues. It was soothing. A menial pastime simple in its pleasure. A surefire way to slow down his ever-working mind when nothing else could.

But the sun wasn't out right now. Instead he was left with dreary skies and moonlight. Rain. The warped image of Saint Raphael's face etched in stained glass made to look like he was crying. He honestly wasn't sure which was worse: the silent disappointment he felt bleeding from the window, the hunger that had him curling in on himself, or the rain. Man, did he hate the rain. Ozzie turned away.

Three days. That's how long it'd been since he'd had anything more than one of the many cans of soda he kept stashed under his desk and that was also, ironically, how long it'd been since it'd started raining. As if the weather decided to mourn his loss with him. An overzealous toast between bros. Late spring showers, his Aunt Toni called them, Spring's last, watery hurrah being pumped on out the sky before finally giving way to that baked bitch we call summer.

Who was he kidding; if anything, it was just to piss him off. Not that Ozzie cared. He just wanted to go the fuck to sleep.

Groaning as another pang swept through his body, he finally gave in, kicking back the covers on his bed and shakily taking the few steps between it and his desk. He pulled open the bottommost drawer, yanking a protein bar out of the box he kept there and headed towards the window, peeling the wrapper open on the way.

There was a short bench in front of it, a simplistic mahogany thing with a simple white cushion placed on top of it. Ozzie perched himself there, casually resting his side against the window sill, his head against the wall, looking out. Not that there was much to see with Saint Raphael silently judging him through the rain. His stomach growled and Ozzie's hands clenched reflexively over the bar in his hand. He eyed it warily. Raphael's two-dimensional gaze bored back. A silent demand.

If I fucking throw up because of this... Ozzie winced at the thought.

Lifting the bar up to his mouth, he took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Washed it down with a half-finished can of 7-Up he'd left sitting by a near empty pack of cigarettes on the windowsill. Narrowed his eyes back at Raphael's indifferent glance. Waited a moment. Let it sit.

Okay... At least he didn't feel like he was in immediate danger of puking his guts out...

Ozzie took another bite.

It didn't take him long to finish the bar after that. Just a few more measured mouthfuls and he was licking his fingers clean, tossing the wrapper onto the floor. He'd pick it up later. Right when he decided to actually clean the rest of his room. It wasn't much, he knew, the bar by itself wasn't enough, but his stomach clenched in limbo, stuck in that strange in-between state that couldn't seem to decide whether it was satisfied or not. It would do, he figured.

"Happy now?" He mumbled, staring back at Saint Raphael's blank gaze.

Raphael didn't answer of course, but that was to be expected— His was a face made of glass, sharp and fragile all at once.

Ozzie huffed out a breath, toying with a loose string that stuck out from the waistband of his sweat pants. He wasn't really sure why, but he was looking at Raphael from the corners of his eyes now instead of dead on, his free hand tapping the near empty cigarette carton against the windowsill while a small crease formed on his brow. "You wouldn't be." A soft derisive laugh escaped his throat, more a puff of air than anything, choked and sticking to him like tar. "You don't even know what that is."

There was a scathing note of self-deprecation in his voice, his tone rough from disuse and perpetually raspy. Ozzie ignored it, or maybe didn't even notice it; perhaps it was an integral part of his being that he let sit and fester as the rain continued to pour outside.

When it got to be too much—and of course it did with the sound of the rain threatening to deafen him, the sight of it to drown him—he lit his final cigarette, tossing the empty carton at his desk. Three packs for three days. Three Indulgences to keep him sane.

He missed.

The carton bounced off the edge of it, rolling once stiffly on the carpeted floor. He mentally shrugged. Ozzie would pick it up in the morning with the wrapper. Lighting the cigarette with one of the many disposable lighters he kept strewn around the room, he watched it catch, the ember red tip glowing in the darkness. Smoke furled off it, further muddying the air in front of him and filling the room with that acrid tobacco smell. He let it warm him, pulling in deep puffs that eased the trembling in his fingers—the sound of his breathing, long and deep, burying that of the rain.

On the edge of the bench, Ozzie's cellphone buzzed and he tapped it with his foot, dragging it closer to read the message.

From: James—Sent: June 6, 2015 @ 00:00

Happy Birthday, Oz! Dude, Toni says she has plans for you in the a.m. Which cool. Whatever. Respect and all that to your aunt. She's a BAMF. I'll C U @ 5 though. Think Clint might tag along too. Be ready. It'll be lit.

From: James—Sent: June 6, 2015 @ 00:01

P.S That's 17:00 for you

From: James—Sent: June 6, 2015 @ 00:02

Weirdo

The words were innocent yet they twisted inside him like a knife, shearing their way up his spine and settling in his heart. They hurt inexplicably and it felt like... like... what, he didn't know. But it hurt. It hurt and he didn't know why. Or. He did, but it was complicated. Or. Really, not even that. Really, he simply didn't want to know. Didn't want to admit the why. Because then he'd be forced to accept it, be forced to face it, the reason, and Ozzie, Ozzie didn't really know what to do with that either.

Sighing, Ozzie stubbed out the dying ember of his cigarette, cracking open the window and flicking it out onto the alleyway below. His thumb rubbed idly at his wrist, knocking against the bracelet wrapped around it. The metal was cool where it hadn't been touching his skin. The tips of his fingers were wet where the rain grazed them.

Ozzie scoffed, pulling the window closed and getting up off the bench. One year older. What a joke. He didn't feel one year older. He didn't feel nineteen. He felt forty. The rain drummed against his window. Ozzie ran a hand through his hair. Man, did he hate the rain.

Fuck the rain.

He crawled back into bed, turning on his side so his back faced the wall. He bit his lip glowering at the Scarlet Witch poster taped to the back of his door.

And fuck his birthday too.

Ozzie closed his eyes. In the small room of a church turned house turned part bookstore, he dreamed of a day full of fake smiles and a rain that never stopped.