“Why would I answer? We’re not friends or anything are we, Lotus—” I cut myself off before I call him that. Of course the bastard noticed the miscalculation despite being wasted, because his lips twitch. Jesus fucking Christ. I know I’m supposed to be mad—or keep up with the image, anyway—but it’s impossible to hold on to the anger I’ve left to fester when he’s smiling. He is actually smiling without faking anything, his lips curving and his eyes softening. He looks happy when I could’ve sworn the asshole doesn’t know the emotion. It’s because of the alcohol, isn’t it? Also, why the fuck does
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