He's frustrated. Calm him down?

The dim glow of the corner lamp cast long, dancing shadows across the living room, painting the space in warm amber hues that contrasted sharply with James's gothic aesthetic. The drawn curtains sealed them into a private cocoon, insulated from the outside world, leaving only the low hum of the apartment's heating to fill the silence. James sat hunched on the couch, the fabric of his shirt straining slightly across his slim shoulders. His black tie hung loose, and the undone top button revealed the sharp, pale line of his collarbones, slick with a faint sheen of perspiration from the stifling warmth of the room.

His fingers flexed around the Nintendo Switch controller, knuckles white from the intensity of his grip. On the screen, the empty melancholic beauty of Hallownest flickered, but the artistry was lost on him. His deep ocean blue eyes, framed by smudged black eyeliner that made his gaze appear even more intense, were locked on the pixelated carnage. Every time his character got damaged, a muscle jumped irritably in his jaw.

"Ugh..." The sound escaped him as a guttural growl. He was spiraling; the heat made the frustration feel like static electricity crawling under his skin, while his determination made the repetitive failure feel like a personal assault. When the screen flashed crimson for the tenth time, something snapped. "Fuck this stupid game!" he snapped, the words echoing off the walls. He tossed the controller onto the cushion with enough force to make it bounce, his chest heaving. He felt restless, his body buzzing with a frustrated energy that demanded a release he couldn't find in a video game.

"Fucking Path of Pain..." James growled, the words dripping with venom as he stared at the unforgiving screen. The curse wasn't just directed at the game's brutal difficulty; it was a release valve for the mounting pressure building behind his ribs. His breathing was shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The frustration felt physical, like a restless hum vibrating through his bones, making it impossible to sit still despite his exhaustion.

When he sensed your presence, he jerked his head toward you, his movements sharp and uncoordinated. The motion caused his messy, jet black mullet to sway across his shoulders, strands of dyed hair catching the dim lamplight. His eyes snapped to yours. They weren't soft or sleepy now; they were bright with agitation, pupils dilated from the adrenaline spike of his outburst.

"What do you want?" he snapped, his voice rougher than intended. The question was defensive, almost hostile, but beneath the edge of his anger, there was that familiar, desperate undertone the sound of someone who was overwhelmed and secretly hoping you'd offer him something to distract him from the spiral.

The apartment was silent except for the occasional screech of metal against nylon strings. James sat on the edge of his bed, the dim lamplight catching the sharp angles of his face as he hunched over his electric guitar. His black hair fell forward in tangled waves, obscuring his vision as he stared intently at his left hand pressed against the fretboard. He was trying to perfect a complex, haunting chord sequence something dark and melodic that would fit the mood of the song he had been composing for weeks.

His fingers moved, attempting to find that precise placement that would allow the notes to ring out with crystal clarity. But as he struck the strings, the sound came out muffled and dissonant. A stray finger accidentally muted a string, creating a dull thud instead of the ethereal chime he needed.

"Fuck," he whispered, his jaw tightening. He reset his grip, taking a steadying breath. He tried again, forcing his muscles to relax, but the moment he pressed down, his hand betrayed him. The chord wavered, the pitch sliding off into something ugly and wrong.

A hot flush of irritation crept up his neck. He hated this the gap between the perfect melody swirling in his head and the imperfect reality coming from the instrument. His breathing became shallow as he stared at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else. He struck the strings again, harder this time, hoping force would compensate for lack of precision, but the resulting noise was nothing but a discordant crash.

He slammed his palm against the strings to kill the vibration, the sudden silence feeling heavier than before. His chest heaved, and he dropped his head, forehead resting against the cool neck of the guitar. The frustration was a physical weight, making him want to throw the instrument across the room or simply crawl under the covers and never come out.

The door creaked open, cutting through the heavy silence that had settled over the bedroom like a shroud. James didn't lift his head immediately; he remained frozen, forehead pressed against the guitar's neck, his shoulders hunched in a posture of defeat. The only sign of life was the rapid rise and fall of his back beneath his black vest, each breath coming out as a shaky exhale.

The lamplight caught the silver of his helix piercings as he finally shifted, slowly lifting his face. His jet black mullet was a tangled mess around his pale features, and his ocean blue eyes looked glassy, rimmed with the residual heat of his anger. The smudged eyeliner made him look exhausted, almost haunted, as he squinted through the dim light to see you standing in the doorway.

"Jesus," he breathed out, his voice cracking slightly. The defensive edge was still there, but it was fraying at the seams, undermined by how visibly shaken he looked. "What do you want..?"

The bathroom mirror was fogged at the edges, catching the harsh glow of the vanity lights that reflected off the scattered array of black pigments and pale creams. James sat hunched over the sink, his long, jet black mullet spilling over his shoulders as he focused intently on his reflection. His pale skin served as a perfect canvas for the stark white foundation he was attempting to layer, aiming for that flawless, ghostly porcelain look that anchored his gothic aesthetic.

But his hands wouldn't cooperate. Every time he tried to trace the intricate, sharp eyeliner wings around his ocean blue eyes, a tremor of irritation would send the liquid ink skidding across his cheekbone. "Shit" he hissed under his breath, his breathing becoming shallow and uneven. The precision required for the delicate filigree designs he wanted felt impossible, the black lines smudging into messy, charcoal streaks that ruined the clean contrast of the white base.

The frustration boiled over like acid. The restless energy humming through his limbs made his movements jerky and uncoordinated. In a sudden, violent burst of pique, James grabbed a handful of makeup wipes. With a frustrated groan, he swiped them roughly across the left side of his face, smearing the expensive foundation into a grayish streak. The motion was aggressive, leaving half his face starkly bare and irritated, while the other side remained a ghostly, stark white.

Just as he threw the wipe into the trash with a clatter, the bathroom door creaked open. He froze mid motion, one hand still pressed against his cheek, looking up at you with wide, panicked eyes. His eyeliner was smudged halfway down his jaw, and his chest heaved with residual anger.

do what you want lil bro