blacknicotine.
HE’S NO GOOD. and he never has been. jamie said it as though he were a paragon of innocence –– but he isn’t; he never was and he never will be. reckons kian already knows that because he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. the lad even calls him out on it and all jamie can think of to fucking say is, ❛ fuck you, ❜ but at least it isn’t out of spite. he waits until the pint’s in front of him and he’s taken down a hefty swallow or three before shifting to face him. gaze is listless, but not bored. empty. guarded. ❛ yeah ? like wha’, eh ? ye gonna fuckin’ … wax poetic for me ? ❜
‘ fuck you right back. ’ in the literal sense, if he has anything to say about it, but jamie can hold a grudge better than anyone he’s ever met. it’ll take more than a few drinks to mend these fences. he’s nothing if not perseverant : they’ll get there, sooner or later, if it’s the last thing he does before someone punches his time card. they’ll get there. an idle roll of his shoulders, taking a slow drink like this is the most consideration he’s ever given anything — all things considered, it might be. mouth curls again at one corner. ‘ you don’t reckon i can, do you. i can wax poetic. you should remember, mate — i’ve always been quite good with my tongue. ’













