sanguisamoris

[sanguisamoris]

" nobody comes here to find peace - who , uh , could with the way the jukebox sounds like it’s on it’s last leg ?? " mikey gestures to his own glass . " water , then . straight from the tap - so you know you're taking your chances with what might be in it . " a snort . " i'm telling you , man , you'd be surprised how water tastes different depending where you are - that's probably up to those, like , regulations or whatever . “ “ you probably know all about that - more than me . honey tastes different , too , but i think that's just 'cause some bees have crap taste in flowers . " he realizes he's rambling a moment too late ; he pays for it with a sheepish grin . “ uh - you probably don’t wanna hear about - uh , honey or - tap water. what – uh – are you working on – ?? is it – i could – “ he wants to offer his help , but that would be dumb of him to lend . what could he tell rust that rust couldn’t put together for himself ??

he rubs the back of his neck - eyes flick briefly down, up, down, and up again. “ doesn’t look like there’s much peace in what you’re already doing , man . “ he steadies himself to offer again - leaning forward to rest his cheek on his hand . another smile - he means for it to look helpful . he could be helpful - even if he was a little out of practice .

“ can i - help you ? with work or . . . with a distraction ? what’s that saying - you can’t , like , get blood from a turnip ?? it means , like , you can’t keep pushing what’s not there - but maybe if you take a break ? wait , that makes it sound like the turnip is gonna have blood if you go back – look , i don’t have a college degree for this crap , man , i just - well . you know . i can help - like - spitball . if you want . “ 

the sheepishness is back and he brushes his fingers against rust’s hand . “ put me outta my misery here, huh ? i’m no brain , but - whatever i can do for you has to be more interesting than another pool game against drunks that make it too easy . “

Spotify Wrapped inspired starters + @sanguisamoris

In the dimly lit corner of a bar on the outskirts of Lafayette, Rust sits hunched over a scarred wooden table, a cigarette between his fingers. The atmosphere of the room, thick with the haze of smoke and the hum of conversation, seems to cling to him like Louisiana's humidity.

A small pile of documents lay scattered on the table, an open notebook and a marker on top. Each page of the handwritten book carries the weight of investigations, scribbles, and annotations that reveal the shades of darkness Rust faces every time the sun rises in the eastern sky—sometimes when it falls, too.

Michael, a familiar face in his late-night, sleepless escapades, slides into the seat opposite him, the clink of ice in his glass catching Rust's attention as he places his drink in the only spot Rust wasn't occupying yet.

Rust stares at the drop of condensation that falls from the rim of the glass and makes its way onto the wood. He hasn't had anything to drink since he first settled in; his coffee is long gone, and he's perched. This would be a perfect time to have a beer—he heard the bartender refill the minifridge moments before. But when Michael offers to buy him one, it takes what's left of his strength to pass up on it.

"I don't want a piece of that."

Rust mutters, his voice hoarse. As if to help quench his thirst, he falls for another of his vices, bringing the cigarette back onto his lips, where he takes a drag and then exhales the smoke between them, flicking the ash into his empty cup.

"I know there's no peace in that."