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he’d be, and what comes next is even worse. fuck.
“oh, come on, man,” he pleads, sounding more despairing than angry, brows knitted, “i didn’t do shit, i’m just in here to get out of the cold.” it’s not a complete lie. he hasn’t had the chance to swipe anything yet.
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as the seconds pass, zep realises he could really, really use a drink. one of the worst parts about being homeless, and something people don’t tend to consider, is the limited access to liquid—not just food.
it gets old drinking from public bathrooms real fast, sniffing —
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Hank offers up a lazy grin, patting buddy on the shoulder before sidling up to the bar. Paul intercepts him, looking frazzled. Maybe he’s enjoyed a little too much nose candy, who knows.
“Look, man, you gotta get that kid outta here,” he whispers in Hank’s ear, gripping his +
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around a faucet like a cat before they inevitably lock the doors overnight. to stop people like him getting in there.
the thought of an ice cold anything has his throat going dry with enthusiasm, so when the guy returns empty handed he’s more disappointed than he thought —
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@trivmxh ⠀
intimate considering the ridiculous context.
“listen, you know i… there’s no hard feelings, right?” he asks tentatively, trying to mend the bridge he’d burned, looking at her like a kicked puppy.
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💬 : what’s missing ?
💬 : i can check n see if i picked it up by mistake
smooth. real smooth. maybe he can pretend it fell into his bag while he was giving her the goods.
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@trivmxh ⠀
trust between them, misplaced and insensible as it is.
reluctantly, he steps forward, hooking the watch around her wrist like it’s cinderella’s slipper, tremulous fingers doing up the clasp as smoothly as possible. it’s strangely —
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this feels too good to be true—or maybe life on the streets has him wrongly convinced everything is a trap. he looks around for reasons to object and finds none, kissing his teeth in thought before nodding. “uhh. sure. if you’re—sure. uh, yeah. thanks?”
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A nod. That’s cool. As long as this guy isn’t dancing, Guilliani can’t shut the bar down. Chilling is cool. “You want a drink, man?” he asks again, oblivious to the fact that he just asked it. “It’s on the house because I’m the house, you feel me?”
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“nah, m’good.” he croaks in a poor attempt at nonchalance. if the owner recognises him he’ll be out on his ass in a second, and he doesn’t fancy his chances against this guy, either. “just chillin’.”
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“Sure do,” Hank says with a wide smile on his face that speaks volumes to his lack of sobriety. A hand claps the guy on the back, grip firm despite his drunkenness. “You wanna order a drink, dude? My boss is getting wigged out with you standing in the corner.”
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any street rat worth their salt knows a trip to the ER and a mouthful of bullshit can get them a quick fix —— the risk being minimal depending on state laws and their stance on involuntary rehabilitation. zep has never done this —
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y’know? tests … tests are whatever —— can’t test for pain, right? i busted that shit years ago. ” he lies smoothly, hooking said ankle over his knee to jiggle it anxiously. clearing his throat, he struggles to meet her gaze.
—
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@trivmxh ⠀
he’s been called worse. eyes framed by dark bags flit down to the phone she’s white - knuckling, a huff of resignation escaping chapped lips. she’s not bluffing.
zep unzips his ratty jacket and digs through the inside pocket until he —
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