“ what about you? think you’ll find what you’re looking for?” / @buildhope
“who says i’m looking for anything?” the tears have dried, the tremors subsided, but he swears, the scent of blood remains. neil does not directly meet this man’s eyes, opting instead to keep his downcast, intently focused on memorizing the pattern of the wooden bartop - a dribble of condensation from his untouched glass swirled with the tip of his ring finger. there is little comfort in this setting, the stench of liquor and the raucous reverberation of whiskey-soaked laughter pressing against his temples and boring down into his skull, but it’s a minor escape, a respite from the hunt. this conversation is merely filler, some attempt to clear his thoughts, though so far, it’s done little to that effect, and his expression sours to reflect that - but there’s no alternative, no home to return to, too much fear to risk the confined space of a motel. it won’t be long before the latest of his father’s tails will be discovered absent his life, and neil will once again be on the run. it’s nearly enough to motivate him to actually drinking the shot before him, but he manages to refrain.
instead, he draws back, scoffs out a mirthless laugh. “does this barman/therapist routine ever work out for you? i mean, do you get anything from it - must be exhausting, listening to strangers complain.”