Hans Larsson

"I can't like the rest of you do." Rekker let out a breath. "I won't survive it."

He meant the drugs and drinking so heavily. He'd spiral and crash out. He'd ODed before and nearly so mixing pills and booze which had actually been an accident. Not that anyone believed it was an accident when he was exhausted and fighting to sleep.

He was starting to level out again, the panic passing and the shakes subsiding. He turned to look at Bjorn's hair a little closer. "Don't you take care of it?"

It looked so ratty to the Brit, tangled, dry, split. A few moments passed before Rekker caught that this was some kind of serious offer. "I don't have anything for your hair. You need something for bleaching the fuck out of it."