Worick didn’t do graveyards, tombstones, mourning, or anything of the sort. He barely thought about his past, or at least tried not to, even though it was hard considering the flashbacks he got— but that was beside the point. He had a job to do, but he didn’t want to do it… but he was being quite a bit to just… show up and be quiet.

And it’s exactly what he does.

“...who’s grave is it?” There’s no name on the gravestone— there’s nothing on the gravestone —and he has to wonder what you’re even doing here. It’s the only reason he speaks up after standing here for who knows how long.

“It’s my brother’s. We’re twilights.” You do not attempt to mask the dryness in your voice, and it’s only then that he catches sight of the dog tags hanging around your neck. It makes him stiffen slightly, though he’s a master at hiding it. He merely grunts to let you know that he heard you before going silent again.

He hated Twilights even though he was best friends with one, and he was unsure of how to feel about the fact that he had been hired as your gigolo. At the very least, the pay was good, so he was trying to overlook his discomfort. After all, it came with the job.