Ezra doesn’t reply, only going so far as to direct a small, near imperceptible nod at Alytra when she rambled her farewells. Contrary to what this gesture might’ve suggested, and what the girl might’ve believed, there wasn’t anything she could do for him. Not while they were still stuck in here, anyway. This mess was something he had gotten himself into, his own private hell, and perhaps, he’d already dug too deep for reparations to be of any real use. For him, however, this personal suffering had become a conduit of sorts for other people’s. Just walking down the corridors of Remmington’s was an agony, an aching slog through every stranger’s own hardships. This guy’s PTSD, and that girl’s depression - they were in hell, too, but it was everybody’s hell, this endless, white sea of chemical waste.
A light, almost-gentle touch at the back of his neck jerks Ezra out of his thoughts, fingers curling into fists at the sudden intrusion of personal space. Looking up at the man before him, his expression curdles into a scowl. A telltale sign of rebellion, even as he continues to do whatever he’s told. Still, no matter what he tricked himself into believing, there were no doubts about who the dominant party was, in this situation; the imperious look on Smith’s face only affirming it. This, much like everything else in life, had to be borne, and his current need for that sweet, sweet nicotine seemed to quell most of the perturbation that heralded what was to come.
Taking the plastic cup from Gregg, Ezra downs the pills and swallows hard. The bitterness dissipates almost as soon as he hands the cup back to the scientist, but the scratched, scraping sensation in the walls of his throat remains. It was something he’d never get used to, no matter how many times he’d done it before, even if it was the least of his worries.
“You know I’m just trying to help you.” Smith begins, and there’s even a hint of contrition in his voice. “Dr. Remmington wouldn’t -”
“Don’t.” Ezra’s interruption is swift and sure, his rage managing to slice through the haze of drugs. “Don’t even try to explain any of this. Don’t pretend that this is all on me, because you’d be fucking blind not to see it.”
He could see the muscles in Gregg’s jaw working furiously, the way a fire lights up behind his eyes. But at the same time, the man also looked as if his inside had been scooped out and replaced with lead. He is trying so hard not to show his anger-slash-dismay, though Ezra knew better. That was the thing about Gregg, so plainly transparent whenever he tried not to be. All that effort put into bottling up his emotions? They were all for naught, now that Ezra had learnt to see right through him.
Almost as abruptly as he’d exploded, however, Ezra folded right back up - all that white, hot rage burning out into ashes. Instead of lashing out once again, he just grabbed his companion by the wrist, and began leading him towards Room 2. “Come on, I’d like a smoke before someone else comes around to bust my ass.”
It wasn’t until a little after midnight that Ezra stumbled back to his room. If it were anyone else, they would’ve gotten in trouble for wandering around past lights-out, but the hallways were deserted, and none of the orderlies seemed to be around to flag him down. That was one of the perks, he supposed, of his little arrangement with Gregg. It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought, though, bile beginning to rise at the back of his throat.
The entirety of Remmington’s Angels was silent, the only sound Ezra could hear being the faint buzzing of fluorescent lights. Bleary eyes scanned the heavy, steel doors that lined each side of the corridor - 15, 16, before finally, 17.
Slipping quietly inside, Ezra sat down on the edge of his own cot, at the far left of the room. In spite of the darkness, he could still see the faint silhouette of what appeared to be his roommate. Out cold, as usual. The boy always seemed to be passed out, and if there was a time where Ezra had actually seen him awake, he didn’t remember. Right now, though, he could care less about making friends. Satisfying his need for a cancer stick remained top priority.
With shaking hands, Ezra slips one of the newly-acquired cigarettes between his lips, lighting it with a cheap, plastic lighter he retrieves from under the pillow. For a moment, it almost looks as if the cigarette wouldn’t light, but soon enough, the paper begins to char, revealing the glowing, red cherry underneath. As clouds of blue, nicotine-tainted smoke fill his lungs, Ezra visibly relaxes, letting out a sigh of relief.
That asshole always got him the good shit, at least.
A light, almost-gentle touch at the back of his neck jerks Ezra out of his thoughts, fingers curling into fists at the sudden intrusion of personal space. Looking up at the man before him, his expression curdles into a scowl. A telltale sign of rebellion, even as he continues to do whatever he’s told. Still, no matter what he tricked himself into believing, there were no doubts about who the dominant party was, in this situation; the imperious look on Smith’s face only affirming it. This, much like everything else in life, had to be borne, and his current need for that sweet, sweet nicotine seemed to quell most of the perturbation that heralded what was to come.
Taking the plastic cup from Gregg, Ezra downs the pills and swallows hard. The bitterness dissipates almost as soon as he hands the cup back to the scientist, but the scratched, scraping sensation in the walls of his throat remains. It was something he’d never get used to, no matter how many times he’d done it before, even if it was the least of his worries.
“You know I’m just trying to help you.” Smith begins, and there’s even a hint of contrition in his voice. “Dr. Remmington wouldn’t -”
“Don’t.” Ezra’s interruption is swift and sure, his rage managing to slice through the haze of drugs. “Don’t even try to explain any of this. Don’t pretend that this is all on me, because you’d be fucking blind not to see it.”
He could see the muscles in Gregg’s jaw working furiously, the way a fire lights up behind his eyes. But at the same time, the man also looked as if his inside had been scooped out and replaced with lead. He is trying so hard not to show his anger-slash-dismay, though Ezra knew better. That was the thing about Gregg, so plainly transparent whenever he tried not to be. All that effort put into bottling up his emotions? They were all for naught, now that Ezra had learnt to see right through him.
Almost as abruptly as he’d exploded, however, Ezra folded right back up - all that white, hot rage burning out into ashes. Instead of lashing out once again, he just grabbed his companion by the wrist, and began leading him towards Room 2. “Come on, I’d like a smoke before someone else comes around to bust my ass.”
It wasn’t until a little after midnight that Ezra stumbled back to his room. If it were anyone else, they would’ve gotten in trouble for wandering around past lights-out, but the hallways were deserted, and none of the orderlies seemed to be around to flag him down. That was one of the perks, he supposed, of his little arrangement with Gregg. It wasn’t a particularly comforting thought, though, bile beginning to rise at the back of his throat.
The entirety of Remmington’s Angels was silent, the only sound Ezra could hear being the faint buzzing of fluorescent lights. Bleary eyes scanned the heavy, steel doors that lined each side of the corridor - 15, 16, before finally, 17.
Slipping quietly inside, Ezra sat down on the edge of his own cot, at the far left of the room. In spite of the darkness, he could still see the faint silhouette of what appeared to be his roommate. Out cold, as usual. The boy always seemed to be passed out, and if there was a time where Ezra had actually seen him awake, he didn’t remember. Right now, though, he could care less about making friends. Satisfying his need for a cancer stick remained top priority.
With shaking hands, Ezra slips one of the newly-acquired cigarettes between his lips, lighting it with a cheap, plastic lighter he retrieves from under the pillow. For a moment, it almost looks as if the cigarette wouldn’t light, but soon enough, the paper begins to char, revealing the glowing, red cherry underneath. As clouds of blue, nicotine-tainted smoke fill his lungs, Ezra visibly relaxes, letting out a sigh of relief.
That asshole always got him the good shit, at least.