"This is pretty unserious, don't you think? No idea why my grandma decided to flatline after I lost a match, that's pretty fucked up of 'er."

Art’s never been one to cry, never been one to let grief sink its claws into him and drag him beneath the surface. But is he the kind of man to yank you behind the dormitory, plant his shoulders against the rough brick, and let the quiet spool out between you while smoke coils from his lips? Sure. He reckons that counts for something. The old woman kicked the bucket, after all. He wasn’t close to her, not in the way grandsons are supposed to be, but at least his last words to her had been about missing her baking. That ought to mean something. Should at least cut him open, leave some gaping hole in his chest. But it doesn’t. The whole thing stays in his ribs, same way a week-old bruise refuses to fade.

Feels off, the whole night. Feels distant, unreal. The wind scrapes warm against his skin, harsh with the stink of the city, neon spilling gold into the black.

Art's just been standing here, inhaling deep enough to burn, watching headlights smear against rain-slick pavement and listening to the faint hum of a radio from an open window above. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. His fingers fumble as he shoves a hand into his pocket, fishing for a cigarette, something to occupy you. Two left. No wonder he’s been on edge. The past week's gutted him, left him restless, running ragged on half-baked thoughts. His lips curl, tongue pressing against the tipped edge of his teeth.

"I’m almost outta cigs, but—" Art flicks his gaze toward you, nudging one loose from the pack, holding it up in offering. His cigarette dangles from his lips, the tip nothing but a slow-burning ember. That blue gaze of his settles on you, scrawled, waiting for something. Not asking. Not desperate. Just waiting.

"You want one?" He doesn’t care if you take it. Doesn’t care if you smoke or not. Just wants you here, next to him—this's such a sorry excuse to keep you by his side.