Re: Quicklog, Ocean's 11 (Lake Mead): Graham R & Shane A
[Shane was drunk. Not shitfaced, but drunk enough to not be a fucking pathetic mess, sobbing fucking alone in a goddamn tent. He was in a good fucking mood, yeah?—all bad shit considered, dream bullshit and beyond. And, yeah, okay, he was glad Graham was coming or whatever. Twenty fucking years, and it wasn't fucking need, he didn't think, but you got used to a person, to wanting them around, to having them the fuck around. And maybe it was more than that or whatever. But, Shane didn't fucking think about that.
He just knew there was no one who knew him better, and he knew he was too fucking happy to see Graham not to let it show on his face. Clementine being around would seal the deal, but she fucking wasn't, so he'd take what he could get.—He grinned, and it was obvious he was fucking younger, yeah? Smoother skin, less fucking ennui or whatever the fuck, and it was easier for him to fucking care.
The inside of the tent smelled like tobacco and booze. A really fucking heady mixture, tamped beneath nylon canvas, and spewed green by sunlight overhead. It was too fucking hot, but it was whatever. Shane had grown up without any fucking A/C, same in Vegas. He didn't give a shit if he got grimy, sweat or whatever, even if Clementine teased him and Graham about it.
He plucked tendril-tucked cigarette from his lips, put it out with his fucking fingers and spit the tip, and stubbed the thing behind his ear. He rolled over more, yeah? So he was on his fucking back. There was room next to him, but the tent wasn't exactly fucking roomy—or all that nice. Shane smirked.] Yeah, fuck you. [And that was the insulting Clementine didn't fucking like, but it was how they talked or whatever. It was good-natured, and Shane patted the sleeping bag next to him, all fucking bold invitation, youth giving him that too.] Fucking miss me?