― ( 𝕆𝕌𝕋 ) ʟɪɪᴀʀ ―

      He had torn his gaze away from the other man’s before his first sentence was complete, instead scanning over the bowling alley with that seemingly-permanent frown pulling his brows together. Though remarks as to his appearance did make him uncomfortable - rather being acknowledged in any way - it had become second nature merely not to react, to keep that indifferent (perhaps save for the frown) mask on no matter what. The expression of emotion meant one possessed the ability to feel - which, in turn, made one into a person. He was not, and did not want to be.

      But then the boy spoke again and he was soon to return his full attention to him with another drag off the smoke. “Yeah? You seem to know an awful lo’ about tha’.” Call it curiosity, paranoia, boredom; he crossed his arms over the Formica tabletop, leaning in closer as his yellow gaze zigzagged form the boys one eye to the other and back. With the cigarette pressed between two fingers, he pointed them towards him. “S’ppose tha’ was the case - wha’ would you do?”

             Simon wasn’t much of a junkie although some thought otherwise. He was willing to try a number of things but he tended to stick to booze and smokes, with the occasional joint. Living above a bar made access to those things easy so getting stood up wasn’t a concern. There were always ways around that. The stranger pointing his fuming at him was in a far different situation as far as Simon could tell. His drugs were as much of a treat as a slice of cake but this man needed his cake. 

      Would he have liked not to be a junkie? Certainly, he would have. Anything mind-altering was utterly terrifying, even if, in nearly thirty years of experience, he’d learned to understand and control and manipulate it in his favor.  But had he ever had a choice in the matter?

      They had scored Modafinil off the Iraqi soldiers. His outfit especially found it was in dire need of the drug as soon as they had discovered it - a sniper and his scout stranded alone in a post for days, sometimes weeks — four-hour shifts never truly consisted of rest for either. The drug allowed them to stay awake for nearly two days in a row without their performance being affected in the slightest - it was a bloody godsend. 

      As for the painkillers - he could not remember a day since August 6th, 1990 that they were not pumped into his system. Living without them, now, was quite literally an impossibility. He was a hopeless case.

      A cheap trick — tawny gaze going momentarily to meet the boy’s as though to say, I’m onto you, before he did just as was expected of him and leaned in, massive frame shifting on the bar stool and head dipping close to the boy’s chest as he brought the tip of the cigarette to the flame and took a long drag.

      “Rest assured there will be no cock suckin’ in your bathroom tonight.” Spoken on an inhale, pale tendrils of smoke curled from the corners of his lips as he spoke before he let the rest of it out in a thin stream from the corner of his mouth, just above the other man’s head. “Though your concern is greatly apprecia’ed.”

             Simon watched the older man lean in and he found some enjoyment in it. It wasn’t some show of dominance or power by having the stranger lean in and dip his head. No, it was the proximity that he liked. For a brief second, Simon felt close to someone and the brief echo of intimacy sated him. He leaned back and Simon’s thumb released the lighter before tucking it back into his pocket.

             “Damn.” He murmured, while his eyes pushed past the twirls of smoke and into the man’s own sharp eyes. “Your dealer’s missing out.”

             His attention wandered to left ring finger, where he picked at the corner of his nail. A small tab of skin stood out but with his continuous picking, it grew in size and irritation. He was quiet for a short while as his hangnail engrossed him.