smoke lunged.

   he wakes up and the first thing he feel is how cold it was down here. he could barely feel the tips of his fingers. this was better than the streets, though. the streets were dangerous. with twilights and gang factions everywhere. a small stream of sunlight casts down from the high window, dusting the room in light gray. worick cracks an eye open, then quickly shutting it back down, grimacing from the bright light. he pauses for a moment. no rush. he didn’t have work until later tonight.. he opens his eyes in the safety in his arms ( where only little morning light reached ), he stares at the table he fell asleep at. wooden and worn. maybe somebody fucked there, it was entirely possible considering where they were staying. something aches to push up out of his throat but he bites it back. because it’s useless. and even if nic couldn’t hear him anyways, he bit back tears that were coming. he needed to be together. not falling apart at every little stem. 

   but all he thinks that, after living such a fucking rich life and at such a ‘pristine’ household he turned out just to be like his mother. 

                              his whole life was an irony waiting to happen.