for your lungs only | adam + michael
(ᴀ ғᴇᴡ ᴆᴀүѕ ᴀԍᴏ...)
It's late. Adam isn't sure how late, because he doesn't pay much attention to clocks anymore, but it's late enough that he hears no sound from the other rooms he passes as he heads for the stairs and down. He had been reading, had dozed off, and subsequently had jolted back awake when visited by one of the all-too-real dreams he'd been experiencing for the past six months. His hands are still shaking more than he likes to admit when he pushes open the ground floor door at the bottom of the stairwell.
Though only the walls are warded, the streets surrounding the hotel are generally reliably empty of monsters or lunatics (and when they come, you can hear it); this might be because the warding extends past the walls, or it might be because word's gotten around that most anything within rifle-shot of the windows gets taken out. Either way it's a small blessing to be grateful for. Adam takes in a pleasant sharp deep breath of the chill night and paces away from the door, glad to feel the open air around him instead of claustrophobic walls. Dropping his back to the rough brick, he waits for the cold to clear the dream images seared on his retinas, before retrieving a battered pack of cigarettes from a pocket, fumbling one out and lighting it. Smoking had been a very occasional habit before Adam died, a little teenage rebellion that he never quite outgrew even when his college biology classes showed him exactly how it would kill him. The occasions are becoming more frequent since he started living again, due to stress and the high probability of something else killing him first (although he's waiting for Sam to catch on and give him a lecture any day now). After a few drags, the intake of nicotine finally steadies his hands completely.