( the trailer is definitely not barbie's dreamhouse, but it's still a home, with all the same furnishings you'd see in any northsider home, albeit much more outdated. the couch has probably seen better days. hell, it's probably been there since his parents moved in before he was born. and, right now, it's pulled out to create an extra bed, which is usually where sweet pea sleeps unless his parents aren't home. they rarely are.

there's a small kitchen and a tv that still has an antennae, and further past their immediate line of sight is the master bedroom and the bathroom. the ceiling is barely high enough for sweet pea to stand comfortably, his shoulders hunched slightly to give him a bit more room. the back wall of the living room is covered in posters, mostly featuring action movies and rock bands. it seems apparent that this is sort of sweet pea's makeshift bedroom. and it's fairly tidy, for a teenage boy.

he pulls his shoulder bag over his head, tossing it haphazardly by the door. then reggie swats at him and sweet pea grabs his arm instinctively, ready to throw down if necessary. a warning, perhaps. he makes the mistake of letting go; reggie makes the mistake of opening his mouth again.

sweet pea could endure reggie badmouthing everything about him for the next few hours, but he'd prefer not to. so there's really only one thing to do. his hand is a weight against reggie's chest (his annoyingly toned chest), pushing him back into the wall of the trailer and keeping him there, his other hand twisting in the fabric of reggie's jacket. he could slide his hand up to reggie's neck if he wanted to, see how talkative he'd be with a damaged windpipe. but he doesn't, he just stares down at him, their eyes locked for a tense moment. his voice is rough, almost a growl. )

Keep talking shit like that and I'll gladly feed you to the snakes. You're on my turf, Mantle. Show some fucking respect.