FOUR TO SIX [homeless]

[Luca]

[div style="margin: 0 auto; border-width:0; width: 70%; text-align: justify; line-height: 1.5; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]He hates his home. That isn't normal, is it? To hate the space that you've claimed as your own. It's filled with such an oppressive air, one that weighs on his chest and throat like pure lead. He can't stay in that little hut for too long at a time, or that God awful sadness starts to seep into his bones. Perhaps sadness is too light of a term for it. He can't sleep, he can't think, all he can do is lie there and stare at the wall while trying to place that missing piece. Was it a person? A place? A thing? His memories were evading him, but they don't give him the mercy of filling the blank spaces with useless crap. Instead they leave ugly blank gaps in his mind, whole periods of static that don't get clearer no matter how many times he turnes them over in his mind. Staring at the blurry images projected behind his eyelids has started giving him a headache. Luca tossed and turned for a bit before suddenly standing in a huff, rage etched into every line of his expression. There's something so frustrating about being tired but unable to sleep. He isn't going to put up with the insomnia that leakes from these walls like blood from a wound.

The hellhound stomps out of the makeshift bakery, slamming the door behind him as he exits into the night. If he couldn't sleep at home, so be it. He could find other places to stay. It takes him a few minutes of digging, but soon he manages to carve a little dip in Barracuda Bay. It looks exposed and cold, but even that's better that creaking wood and the faint smell of something rotting downstairs. He places himself in his hole. It's a bit of a tight fit, and he has to lie like a cat with his paws tucked neatly beneath him, but he's too stubborn to give up now. One final huff exits his lips before he falls limp, trying to beckon the calming caress of sleep.

[PEPPINO]

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As a whole, sometimes The Typhoon didn't feel much like home. It should, because he had his father and now his sister supervising it all, but the former was gone, as were many of his and Goldie's siblings. Pip wasn't around that often either. He kept to himself for the most part, collecting ingredients, making more of the little first aid kits that Bakugou had absolutely refused to wear- and he was gone, too. He'd heard Junji had returned, sort of. He didn't know how his children would react to that, after they'd found him dead in his home, covered in some inky substance, gone before Pip could even help. He wasn't really much use for that, was he? Not when he was hardly around, and in spite of what deal he'd made for the ability to see people's skeletons.

It unnerved him sometimes, since he couldn't fully control it yet, even though he was wholly aware that there was nothing frightening about anatomy. It was just...strange, to look up from his work to see a skull staring down at him.

That was all he saw lying in a hole: a skeleton. He was momentarily convinced that they were actual remains that had been unearthed somehow, but it was shifting slightly, and after a hard blink, he recognized the figure was...Luca? Peppino thought of Junji, then, though it wasn't his business, and the young canine slowly approached, making certain his paws fell a bit louder so he wouldn't startle him.

"Excuse me?" He started, quietly, and he cleared his throat a bit. He was probably intruding, wasn't he? "Do you need help sleeping?"
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