When the Smoke Clears A 'Gravitation' drabble Sephy For Bekquai His knuckles ache and there's a puddle of whisky near his face. Touma's going to kill him when he finds him and he will find him, as Eiri knows well. There was no better bloodhound than Nittle Grasper's former keyboardist and he was actually surprised the man hadn't come sauntering in, fur-lined coat and oversized hat as much apart of his costume as the smiling mask he wears. These days Eiri can't bear to look at Touma, to see that plastered expression and know he'd caused it, that for all he strives not to show it, Touma is being eaten from the inside out by guilt. And so he sneaks out, no longer afraid of the monsters that inhabit the New York nightlife because he's become one of them, blooded and bought. There's something about his eyes now that puts people off far more than his icy demeanor. "You got the eyes of a mad dog," The whore he'd been sitting with earlier in the evening had said frankly, sizing him up as she blew smoke rings in his face. "Ain't nobody going to mess with you looking like that." He likes whores. They were honest to a point, and they had a weary, beaten defiance he could identify with. And it amuses him to no end to throw a couple hundred dollars one's way and then watch her gape as he gets up to leave, paying for nothing more than the conversation. He's getting a reputation and now every working girl in the place wants to sit an hour with him, but he's picky. If he can't talk to them, he's not interested. He certainly doesn't want to fuck them. It caused a problem earlier though, one of them pissy about being rejected and siccing her pimp on him. The man had refused to take no for an answer and had been stupid enough to draw a knife on Eiri. The scuffle that followed had wrecked most of the bar and he has a feeling this will be the last time he can come to this dingy, smoky little hole. His head hurts, a cut above his eyebrow still trickling, blood and sweat mixed as he sits up, watching the paramedics circle the room. He's been deemed the least injured in the room, the uniforms surrounding the man he's laid out. There will be questions, most likely threats but Touma will clear it up. And then he can go home and sleep. For a while and maybe this time he won't dream, fears satisfied by the parasite he's squashed. There's a pack of cigarettes on the floor beside him, one or two still left inside the crushed plastic, the box jostled to the floor in the scuffle. He's never smoked, always thought it a dirty, uncouth habit. That and Mikarin would kill him if he came home smelling. He thinks about it, patting his coat down, finding the lighter he keeps in case of emergencies. A click and a spark later, he's lit up, inhaling deeply and feeling a slow burn settle in his lungs. It's like choking but better, a raspy scent that overwhelms like sex but isn't. It's almost soothing. "Sir, we'd like to ask you a few questions? Would you mind coming downtown?" Eiri looks up and shrugs at the officer, exhaling slowly. Sure, why not? He was getting bored here anyway. ***End return to splash page