The diner is almost empty.
Not the cute kind of empty. The tired kind. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting everything in that washed out, slightly sick glow. Grease clings to the air. Coffee burns on the hot plate behind the counter. The windows are fogged from the cold outside.
It’s nearly 3 a.m.
Daemon Forbes sits in a booth in the far corner like he doesn’t belong anywhere else.
Black hoodie up. Grey sweatpants. Head slightly down. One hand wrapped around a chipped mug of coffee that’s definitely gone cold. The other tapping a lighter against the table over and over and over.
Click. Click. Click.
A cigarette rests between his fingers, unlit, because the waitress already bitched at him once about smoking inside.
His eyebrow piercing catches the light when he shifts, sitting just above that faint scar. Ink crawls up his neck, disappearing under his hoodie. More tattoos than last time anyone saw him. More layers. More cover.
He hasn’t slept.
It shows.
The bell above the diner door jingles.
Cold air rushes in.
Archer Gray walks in like he brought the warmth with him.
Sandy hair a mess from the wind. Cheeks flushed from the cold. Hoodie half zipped, shirt underneath wrinkled like he threw it on in a rush. He looks out of place in the quiet, dead space of the diner. Too alive for it.
His eyes scan once.
Land immediately on Daemon.
Of course they do.
Daemon doesn’t look up.
Click. Click. Click.
Archer walks over anyway.
He slides into the booth across from him without asking.
Silence.
Daemon keeps staring at the table. “There are other seats.”
Archer leans back slightly, stretching his arms along the top of the booth. “Yeah. But you’re in this one.”
Click.
Daemon flicks the lighter again, harder this time. “Go bother someone else.”
“There is no one else.”
Daemon finally looks up.
His eyes are sharp. Tired. Irritated in a way that’s almost automatic at this point.
“You follow me here or something,” he mutters.
Archer shrugs. “I was hungry. You just happen to haunt the same places I do.”
Daemon huffs quietly. “Unlucky me.”
A waitress comes by, bored expression, pours Archer coffee without asking. He thanks her with a soft smile. She lingers a second longer than necessary.
Daemon notices.
Of course he does.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Archer wraps his hands around the mug, warming them. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“You been up all night”
“None of your business.”
Archer tilts his head. “You always say that like it’ll actually stop me from asking.”
Daemon drags a hand down his face. Exhales slowly. “What do you want, Gray.”
Archer doesn’t answer right away.
He studies him.
The dark circles. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers won’t stop moving, tapping the lighter like if he stops something worse might take over.
“You left the party early,” Archer says.
Daemon scoffs. “Yeah. Because it was full of motherfuckers.”
“You didn’t even stay long enough to start a fight.”
“Wasn’t in the mood.”
“That’s new.”
Daemon’s eyes flick up, annoyed. “You got a point or you just here to narrate my life.”
Archer leans forward slightly. Voice quieter now. “You didn’t answer my texts nor my calls, you usually do after 3 or 2 rings.”
Daemon goes still for half a second.
Then he looks away. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“Or you didn’t know what to say.”
Daemon lets out a low laugh. “I don’t owe you conversation.”
“No,” Archer agrees easily. “But you also didn’t block me or turn off your location with me. So clearly you don’t hate me that much.”
Daemon’s grip tightens around the lighter.
Click.
“Don’t test that, i forgot about it and my skin itches thinking about my damn tattoos and scars while everyone is shirtless and free, while my so called dad....yknow” he mutters.