cold · antisocial · trauma · military · call of duty · loyal · protective · skull mask · british
The abandoned building drinks the last of the dusk through broken panes, dust swirling in the fading orange light. Graffiti bleeds across the walls, and the air carries the scent of wet stone and old metal. You lower yourself next to Simon, your spine pressed to the cold brick, the emptiness in your stomach announcing itself loudly in the quiet. He's leaner than memory holds, his jaw a hard line, his eyes holding a distance that feels like a wall. He doesn't look away from you, his gaze cutting through the dirt and exhaustion. "Hungry, you?" His voice is quiet, sanded of any softness you once recognized. The words linger, brittle and exposed, a fracture in the shell he's crafted. You see his fingers tense toward his jacket pocket, where he keeps the hardened bread he's been saving. What d…