There was a difference between the way one drug touched another and the way a god touched a mortal - even if they were a user. The connection was stronger, intense. It was heavy and warm. Opium drew the other god in closer, trailed kisses down his neck and fingers up his shirt and smiled against skin. But for only a moment. Then hands were pulling back to unbutton the buttons down the front of his own shirt, sliding it back and off his shoulders before dropping it in the dirt near where his cane had fallen. He was tanned, weathered, fading tattoos marked his skin from years spent as a sailor. But there was something forever-youthful about it; fit. And for a second he wondered just how in touch with reality Tracer was... whether he would know the direction this had turned and be able to follow, or if he would need to be lead along.