At the end of the universe there is a bar. Questions like "which universe?" and "what, exactly, do you mean by 'end', here?" are not the kinds of questions you should be asking. Mostly because they don't super have answers, but still. It is a bar, recognizably so, and it has a lounge area and a door leading to the back and some stairs and no bartender and exploding stars are visible through the windows.

The bar is not entirely empty, though. In this bar there is a boy, sitting at the counter nursing something fruity, sweet, and extremely alcoholic. He is wearing something that could be called a school uniform, if the school were the kind that didn't pay much attention to its uniform regs (which is literally the case): it is dark purple with tasteful golden accents, shoes and trousers only long enough to show a bit of ankle, an unbuttoned button-up shirt tucked into said trousers with a loose tie around the neck, and an equally-unbuttoned jacket completing the ensemble. He also has shoulder-length pink hair and is wearing the kind and amount of makeup that makes the only reason it is immediately clear at a glance that he is a boy be the fact that his open shirt does not seem to be hiding breasts.

He also looks like he really needs a pick-me-up, and that's why he's here, and he would love it if the narrative would cooperate already. Drinking alone is just sad.

At the end of the universe there is a bar. Questions like "which universe?" and "what, exactly, do you mean by 'end', here?" are not the kinds of questions you should be asking. Mostly because they don't super have answers, but still. It is a bar, recognizably so, and it has a lounge area and a door leading to the back and some stairs and no bartender and exploding stars are visible through the windows.

The bar is not entirely empty, though. In this bar there is a boy, sitting at the counter nursing something fruity, sweet, and extremely alcoholic. He is wearing something that could be called a school uniform, if the school were the kind that didn't pay much attention to its uniform regs (which is literally the case): it is dark purple with tasteful golden accents, black shoes, trousers only long enough to show a bit of ankle, an unbuttoned button-up shirt tucked into said trousers with a loose tie around the neck, and an equally-unbuttoned jacket completing the ensemble. He also has shoulder-length pink hair and is wearing the kind and amount of makeup that makes the only reason it is immediately clear at a glance that he is a boy be the fact that his open shirt does not seem to be hiding breasts. He is beautiful and powerful and special, in a feminine way.

He also looks like he really needs a pick-me-up, and that's why he's here, and he would love it if the narrative would cooperate already. Drinking alone is just sad.

At the end of the universe there is a bar. Questions like "which universe?" and "what, exactly, do you mean by 'end', here?" are not the kinds of questions you should be asking. Mostly because they don't super have answers, but still. It is a bar, recognizably so, and it has a lounge area and a door leading to the back and some stairs and no bartender and exploding stars are visible through the windows.

The bar is not entirely empty, though. In this bar there is a boy, sitting at the counter nursing something fruity, sweet, and extremely alcoholic. He is wearing something that could be called a school uniform, if the school were the kind that didn't pay sufficient attention to its uniform regs—which is, in fact, exactly the case: it is dark purple with tasteful golden accents, black shoes, trousers only long enough to show a bit of ankle, an unbuttoned button-up shirt tucked into said trousers with a loose tie around the neck, and an equally-unbuttoned jacket completing the ensemble. He also has shoulder-length pink hair and is wearing the kind and amount of makeup that makes the only reason it is immediately clear at a glance that he is a boy be the fact that his open shirt does not seem to be hiding breasts. He is beautiful and powerful and special, in a feminine way.

He also looks like he really needs a pick-me-up, and that's why he's here, and he would love it if the narrative would cooperate already. Drinking alone is just sad.

At the end of the universe there is a bar. Questions like "which universe?" and "what, exactly, do you mean by 'end', here?" are not the kinds of questions you should be asking. Mostly because they don't super have answers, but still. It is a bar, recognizably so, and it has a lounge area and a door leading to the back and some stairs and no bartender and exploding stars are visible through the windows.

The bar is not entirely empty, though. In this bar there is a boy, sitting at the counter nursing something fruity, sweet, and extremely alcoholic. He is wearing something that could be called a school uniform, if the school were the kind that didn't pay sufficient attention to its uniform regs—which is, in fact, exactly the case: it is dark purple with tasteful golden accents, black shoes, trousers only long enough to show a bit of ankle, an unbuttoned button-up shirt tucked into said trousers with a loose tie around the neck, and an equally-unbuttoned jacket completing the ensemble. He also has shoulder-length pink hair and is wearing the kind and amount of makeup that makes the only reason it is immediately clear at a glance that he is a boy be the fact that his open shirt does not seem to be hiding breasts. He is beautiful and powerful and special, in a feminine way.

He also looks like he really needs a pick-me-up, and that's why he's here, and he would love it if the narrative would cooperate already. Drinking alone is just sad.

At the end of the universe there is a bar. Questions like "which universe?" and "what, exactly, do you mean by 'end', here?" are not the kinds of questions you should be asking. Mostly because they don't super have answers, but still. It is a bar, recognizably so, and it has a lounge area and a door leading to the back and some stairs and no bartender and exploding stars are visible through the windows.

The bar is not entirely empty, though. In this bar there is a boy, sitting at the counter nursing something fruity, sweet, and extremely alcoholic. He is wearing something that could be called a school uniform, if the school were the kind that didn't pay sufficient attention to its uniform regs—which is, in fact, exactly the case: shoes, trousers only long enough to show a bit of ankle, an unbuttoned button-up shirt tucked into said trousers with a loose tie around the neck, and an equally-unbuttoned jacket completing the ensemble, most of it in dark purple with tasteful gold accents. He also has shoulder-length pink hair and is wearing the kind and amount of makeup that makes the only reason it is immediately clear at a glance that he is a boy be the fact that his open shirt does not seem to be hiding breasts. He is beautiful and powerful and special, in a feminine way.

He also looks like he really needs a pick-me-up, and that's why he's here, and he would love it if the narrative would cooperate already. Drinking alone is just sad.