bitterness and broken things — p, john

[ghostpact]

Simon tugged the balaclava off his head as he pushed open the door to the top of the apartment building he was currently staying in. Taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air, he ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. It wasn't a surprise to find the locks already greasy again, but it wasn't pleasant. He wiped his hand on his pants, pulling a lighter and cigarette from his pocket while he was at it. He lit the stick of death as he walked to the edge of the flat roof, looking out over the city. Which could be full of traitors now and they wouldn't even notice. Damn the split. Damn the rebels. He took a long drag and scuffed his boot against the gravel, glancing around the roof and finally sitting, his back against the half-wall ledge that was supposed to stop anyone from falling off the roof. At least, it didn't make it as easy to.

The balaclava previously clutched in his hands laid beside him, the sunglasses tucked into his jacket pocket. After trying to suppress a yawn, he sighed and brought his knees up, one arm draped over them so he could lay his forehead against it. He hadn't been getting much sleep again because of the damn nightmares and it was safe to assume whatever spark Blackfall caused with their uprising was the root of them being drug up. A sharp sting brought his head back up quickly and he glared at the cigarette in his hand. It had burned away enough to let the hot ash fall against his leg. The day had just begun and he was already in a sour mood. Taking another drag, he crushed the rest of it under his boot and leaned back against the half-wall, staring up at the sky.

[member=42]Muddymutt[/member] [member=538]SOAP![/member]

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[tristitia]

At least the young man had decided to be somewhat of a nice friend and visit the Mancunian. His nose wrinkled as he stepped out of his own abode and he smelled the pollution of the air. Ugh, how awful. It wasn't the rebels he was concerned about for this brief moment, but how awful the earth had been treated and how it reacted to the humans mistreated it. Even though he smoked, he would never do stuff so bad.

The Celt moved, walking with his hands in his pockets, his eyes that held so many memories staring longingly in the distance, when the smell of ashes got his attention. He watched the man  take a drag of the cigarette. A soft, almost affectionate smirk appeared on the Captain's maw as he attempted to speak so his accent wasn't too rough. "Ah, I could never like those, cigars are more my style."

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[ghostpact]

Simon made a sound, something of a hum as he dropped his gaze to the Scot. There was a crooked grin on his face, one brow raised before he shook his head and leaned it back against the wall. "You sound so fuckin' pretentious every time you remind me of that, Sudsy." His smile was lost just as quickly and he sighed, shutting his eyes a moment. His hand dropped to the gravel on the ground beside him and he picked a piece, opening his eyes and leaning forward. For a few moments, he was quiet, rolling the tiny pebble between his fingers. Throwing it across the roof, for no reason other than because he felt like it, he looked back to Soap's face. "How'd you sleep?"

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[tristitia]

Well, how was he not supposed to sound pretentious? It was pretty much the rich man's version of a cigarette! A chuckle escaped him at Ghost's comment, as he leaned against the wall. His looked switched to concerned as Simon dropped his hand to the ground. Soap made an attempt to move, but froze upon his eyes opening and leaning forward. The captain watched as he did a version of skipping a pebble across the lake. But, his gaze shifted to the Mancunian asked how he slept. How did he sleep? He shook of the pictures of the prior night and let out a laugh, attemptng to make a joke about it. "Like Satan stabbed my brain with a pitchfork, mate. And you?"

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