he's scarily composed to the question in comparison to the other. his eyes all half - lidded, overwhelmed with the possibly of early slumber; the question were weights on his shoulders, solidifying him to the space he occupied, sunken in the mattress, lazily curled around the sheets. he babies his own cigarette, wrapper tempered to the filter, emitting all but that burnt smell that rots against his clothing & lingers even after a few washes. he wants to light another one, or bum off conner's & taste whatever was on his tongue on his own, whichever he gets to first. but some nights, almost like this night, his head is all static, a giant glitch comparable to being unmedicated again. brain zaps, they call them, dizzy - spells & full bodily nausea; it isn't fun when the panic ensues, his heart thumps, aware of the nightmares that plague him without having to sleep. not to mention the sleep... lack thereof. he doesn't get any. a night after another, in solitude, head in hands, praying to a god he does or doesn't believe in. it tends to be a lot. too much.
he takes his last drag, considers putting it out on his exposed thigh for the hell of it, to feel something, to inspire him to keep speaking with finding an abrupt cut off point, but considers against it. instead he steadily watches, ashes falling onto the bottom hem of his wife - beater, dirtied with summer sweat & droplets of car oil. he could apologize for bringing the topic up so suddenly, pulling them out their somber stupor. it's just they relate in more ways than one, have knowledge on the subject of being laid to rest & forgotten about. jason doesn't talk about it much, not in grave detail. he doesn't have many around him who get it as deeply as he does. doesn't feel comfortable enough spewing his heart from his lungs, having it beat out in the open like that to those who may stomp all over it. but he's calm here. hazel eyes flicker from the cigarette to conner, watching their own body shift to find personal comfort before their lips part to answer. he drinks it in, curiously. ❛❛ we're fuckin' zombies, dude. in literature zombies are the antithesis of outcasts. people feel bad for them, but they ultimately can't continue to live, y'know? that would be so fucked. they all die in the end... again. we're the melancholic symbolism for fuck ups. ❜❜
jason, himself, a nightmarish creation. plucked from the streets, molded into what should've been the perfect success story. the world can't handle monsters like them as it seems. he tries to find the balance between negative & positive in these scenarios, instead he finds conner's smile and, while he doesn't attempt to mimic it with his own, tries to teeter on hopeless optimism. ❛❛ can't blame 'em, yeah. just... fuckin' sucks. you come back & it's still you, despite everythin', but they don't see it that way & you're forced to adapt to a world that's changed. ❜❜ he hates to admit that the longer he talks the more his chest begins to cave in, feels rough & gritty around the edges, like now he needs to cough to rid of the dark thing brewing inside him. maybe it was a mistake asking in the first place; suddenly face - to - face with the reality that jason let them in & he has to either cradle conner there or completely waste the minutes they spent opening up. ──── big red, that's cute. ❛❛ just on my mind i guess ──── i think when i was down under i saw my mom. i don't remember anythin' but i remember her. it's just... i don't know. fuck it. i think i was better off dead. ❜❜
