#winston

1960 The big difference is Filter-Blend and only Winston has it!

Source: Look Magazine

We Fought on the beaches

We will fight on the beaches

a blanket warms winston's shoulders, a mug of tea warms his hands, and he can't remember the last time he felt so cozy. well, he can, but he's trying to avoid any and all memories that could bring him to tears in the current moment. not that he thinks rashmi would mind, but there's something about the woman that makes him actually feel bad for taking advantage of her kindness, generosity, warmth. their friendship might just be the safest thing he has in his life right now and he's very aware of all the ways he could jeopardize it. he's also wondering how much pouting he has to do before she rubs comforting circles into his shoulders. “how the fuck do you do it?” the words come tumbling out of him, brown eyes wide and sad as he looks up at her from his spot on the couch. “like, keep your head above water? i feel like i'm fucking drowning, rash. like every step forward i fucking find is just a fuuuuhh —" suddenly, he's very aware of how many times he's said the f-word, so he draws out the syllable until he can find a replacement. “—dging trap.” 

he doesn't expect to be here. not in the middle of the day and not looking for avani, of all people. but she wasn't anywhere to be found in the studio, and he checked every nook and cranny. actually, none of her shit was there either, now that he thinks about it, and the thud of knuckles echoes in his gut. when she opens the door, winston forces himself through the small gap and doesn't stop walking until he's too far in for her to push him back out. a plate of bakery's box full of cookie is thrust between them. “i brought you cookies. they're chocolate chip.” oatmeal raisin, actually. he hadn't matured that much over a month. “are you still ignorning me or what?”