#* eden.

happens, now and then, that they end up in the middle of nowhere with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a half-filled notebook in their hand.

they need a place to sleep. pretty desperately, at this point.

eden's cosmically untouchable*. which is why, when they get close, they can play chicken with forces like these and maintain a preeeetty good feeling they'll be getting out in one piece.

they sidle up close to trevor at one of those conventions for has-beens and wannabes.

it's not the first cigarette they've lit in this secluded little alleyway, and it probably won't be the last.

"oh, i've just been —"

writing. manually. in a notepad. for about eighteen straight hours. don't worry about it.

someone's playing music, somewhere. there's some chatter. eden lays on their back in the warm afternoon sun, spread out on the soft grass.

they pass over the joint. because, like, ouch.

"it doesn't work like that."

which is a fucking copout, and they know it. i don't have any motivations, everything just happens this way doesn't hold up, when you're human.

"wait - it's almost out."

they lift their hands in their own defence, holding up the cigarette, about a quarter burned, as though boldness might obfuscate the lie. which it is. outright.