(no subject)
[ Wick sits on a swing in the middle of a quiet park, a cigarette balanced delicately between his fingers. It'd belonged to a fifteen-year-old who'd been sitting on this swing before him, but that fifteen-year-old was long since gone; he'd run home crying, clasping a bruised, swollen wrist to his chest as Wick watched him go.
Now, he's just watching the smoke lace up into the air as the cigarette becomes shorter and shorter, and as the ash on the end of it grows longer. Smoking is really such a disgusting fucking habit.
He only looks up at the tell-tale sound of a large bus slowing to a stop at the corner. Wick drops the cigarette to the ground, curling the fingers of his other hand around the chain of the swing as he watches the people file off the bus one by one. ]
Now, he's just watching the smoke lace up into the air as the cigarette becomes shorter and shorter, and as the ash on the end of it grows longer. Smoking is really such a disgusting fucking habit.
He only looks up at the tell-tale sound of a large bus slowing to a stop at the corner. Wick drops the cigarette to the ground, curling the fingers of his other hand around the chain of the swing as he watches the people file off the bus one by one. ]