he can’t hear it. the white noise that had become part of his life’s backdrop is absent. and he’s hazy, and he’s calm. his expression seems to process it; “it’s quiet,” he answers after a long moment. numbing, maybe–fading back all that dull, insidious ache. he had forgotten what normal felt like, he had forgotten what anything else sounded like.
dark eyes slowly turn to micah’s face. a moment goes by where he’s glancing over the handy-work his crew had done on the other boy, over the burn marks up his face where the edge of his knife had ghosted over. maybe he could manage to feel guilty, but his gaze drops off. “it’s been like, uh,” he gestures loosely, tries to think of the words. “a buzzing. and everything…every nerve, like. felt on fire. every feeling, turned up to eleven, all the time.”
he reclines back, lets the smoke from his cigarette peel out the car window–has just enough decorum not to smoke out the interior. a huff of a laugh; “shut up,” he says, without thorns, eyes following a seam on the roof of the car. “i’ve taken worse.” maybe a bluff; party drugs are a little different, and haven’t yet been able to silence the thing in his head. a pause, and he adjusts to lean forward a bit, turns cigarette in his fingers in offering. “are you always on this shit?”
colour him curious. the fact that dj had talked any of them into getting within any range of him was remarkable in itself, probably. let alone an outsider he had made sure got the message. but then, little blonde had a face anyone would trust. but none of them knew exactly what happened at night, none of them knew he had made a choice in the matter. so he tilts his head. “i know she put you up to this. but why do you care?”
he listens with patience, curiosity. the group of demon hunting acquaintances he’s made all have their stories to tell, how this thing is like static, or white noise, speaks to them in code. and yet, its been unable to navigate his own foggy mind, no matter how involved he seemed. maybe he’s grateful for that, that even when he’s hazy, his head’s still clearer; that it’s his own and not some freak monster’s to control.
“ that shit will kill you. ” he jokes, slight tilt of his head a nod to the cigarette -- he’s never been a smoker, but in the moment, it only feels right to share. so he takes the offer and a drag of smoke, unable to help a cough on the inhale. “ but yeah. it, uh... helped with radiation sickness. guess i just like the feeling now. or i don’t know what’ll happen if i stop. ” a wince. he doesn’t mean to overshare.
“ i don’t, ” he laughs. “ care. but love thy neighbor, even if he’s an asshole. or something. ” thoughtful, he looks at the cigarette between his fingers, and it’s easy to reminisce on old sermons that, frankly, he thinks were mostly bullshit to keep their little town quiet, obedient. kindness has the power to heal, to undo all the crap that unkindness causes. apparently taking drugs in the backseat of a car is equally effective.
he offers the cigarette back to atlas. “ it’s... you know, whatever. shit sounds scary, having noise in your head all the time. and, ” a lazy, toothy grin, “ it’s got me in your good graces for now. ”
baratheonpilled
dailybridgerton
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
prguitarman
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
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gummygunk
