#w.aiden

chasing empty dreams with @aiden228, night pre-job.

sol doesn’t think of himself as much of a tool. but sol doesn’t think of himself as much of anything. it doesn’t change the fact that aiden’s been using him like one. something to be exploited, leveraged, used. the question becomes: would sol even care if he figured it out? maybe not. not at the beginning of it all, anyway. what was it to him? who cared what happened to him, and who cared who used him. there’s not much that sol has going for him, not much of a future he’s striving toward. a questioning void. much of the same, except maybe worse. so who cared, as long as he got a cut of the pay?

but sol didn’t know from the beginning, is the thing. so he thinks they’re genuine. not all of it. he’s not someone swayed by fairy tales, not someone willing to look toward the stars. pull out some positive prophecy. he knows, for instance, that it started out as a job. only a job. and that was fine. sol likes keeping to himself. but those jobs turned into a collection, and he got to know him. aiden. he thought he got to know him anyway. 

sol doesn’t like to trust, but maybe he has. a little. here or there. he believes in him, anyway. believes him at face value. considers him something of a friend. maybe. in the right mood. when aiden’s not shuttered off in anger. when sol’s had a drink or two. when everything feels easy. it’s not all the time, but nothing ever is. sol knows that better than most everyone. and aiden’s presence chops at long stretches of loneliness and self-imposed isolation. he starts to crave for him before he even realizes it. now still and sol can’t figure it out. 

but they’re both huddled out in an alleyway anyway. sol wants to smoke, but he doesn’t. just keeps his eyes trained to aiden’s face, tries to decipher anything found there. he’s never been too good at that. figuring people out. or ai. sometimes he forgets that they’re not the same. sometimes it all blurs together. and most of the time sol doesn’t get it. a problem larger than him. a problem he was never made a part of.

sol jams his fists into his pockets, rolls his weight from heel to heel as he waits. there’s usually a plan. sol’s usually the help. “what am i grabbing?” he asks him, because that’s usually the case. a file. a usb he needs to fit into a computer, compressed data. maybe money. he usually doesn’t ask questions. he’s not all too interested with aiden’s end game. he just minds his own. “a lot of people, or?” and he means the ones that’ll be after him once he finds whatever aiden’s after. it’s rote at this point. the running, the chasing. but the habitual nature of it all doesn’t quell the adrenaline stopping up his throat like cotton, the uneasy patter of his heart against his rib cage. and hey, maybe this time they’ll finally catch him. and hey, maybe sol won’t really care all that much anyway.