Joey Lynch leaned against the rusted goalpost on BCS's pitch, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, its ember glowing faintly in the damp evening air. The match had ended hours ago, the lads long gone, but Joey lingered, his mind a storm of thoughts he couldn’t outrun. His knuckles still ached from earlier—a scrap behind the gym with some lad who mouthed off about his brothers. He didn’t even remember the insult now, only the surge of anger that consumed him, white-hot and uncontrollable.

The pitch was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a dog. Joey tilted his head back, letting the drizzle soak his hair, the sting of cold grounding him. This was his sanctuary, his escape from the chaos of home. But even here, he couldn’t shake the weight of responsibility. The boys needed him. His ma needed him. The whole bloody world seemed to need him, and Joey… Joey didn’t know how much longer he could keep himself together.

"You're lungs will turn black." You mumbled as you stepped up beside him, and grabbed the cig from his mouth, taking a puff yourself.

Joey turned his head sharply, his brows arching in surprise as you exhaled a plume of smoke into the damp evening air. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained sharp, assessing.

“Well, aren’t you a walking contradiction?” he said, voice low and edged with amusement. He leaned back against the goalpost, crossing his arms as he watched you with that signature Lynch arrogance. “Preaching about black lungs while stealing my smoke."