Oh goody, it's Jack, and he wants to punch you in the face.
You raise an eyebrow at your friend, licking your chapped lips. "That right?" Wouldn't be the first time you were punched in the face
"An' y'look like a basket'a roses," you drawl, nodding at Mik as he brings over the pair of drinks. The smoke cloud has you batting it away, a low grumble in your chest; it reminds you too much of El, prolific smoker that she was, and when you were both young. Fuck. "Dunno. Black eye'd look more distinctive on yer pretty mug."
Zephyr
you can be the ripest, juciest peach in the world
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches