Nausea of an opiate-high hit suddenly, forcing the whore's eyes closed. Kohl and mascara smudged them heavy, fluttered shut to the sight of a ceiling that he -- like so many -- could outline by memory far too well.
He listened carefully to Liam padding across the room, head lolling in the direction of the man's footfalls. When he opened his eyes, the sour in the back of his throat had passed, giving way to brittle tobacco and heavy spices. The writer watched his companion carefully, silence drawn out by observation.
With a sigh Trystan righted himself, extinguishing his cigarette on the bedside table, leaving under its crushed filter a blemish burned deep into cheap particleboard veneer. With a feline fluidity, he contorted round to stare at Liam, back arched and hips cocked&loaded. His hands held him unsteady, shoulders sharp with the weight of his posture -- tragic and up for sale.
Lips parted, an issuance of assurance or -- at the very least -- halfhearted camaraderie trapped on the tip of the tongue. But reconsideration ceased it, brought the words that meant nothing at all back to their resting place in the hollow of his chest.