[ it cracks through some of his casing, taking back the cigarette to watch her hack and complain, which is exactly what he'd done at his first drag, with zeff staring on disapprovingly. he'd been so desperate to prove a point — that he was a man, not some stupid child — that he'd been determined to like it, determined to not give a single shit about zeff's warnings of dulling his sense of taste. addiction had gotten him quickly, easier than breathing. ]

It's how I relax. [ which means he should never, ever be stressed. ] You shouldn't pick up the habit.

[ carefully, he sinks his fork into a rounded corner of the cake, slicing off a neat mouthful. the taste of spun sugar and frosting settles on his tongue, melting away. it doesn't matter to him if the cake topples. he'll eat every last crumb no matter what. he remembers the first time he ever attempted a cake, and it was far worse than this one. ]

We have the same eyes. [ he takes another bite, his empty stomach suddenly ravenous. ] Even if we didn't, who else is gonna look like me? You're the only one.

[ the uncertainty of what lies in his future — specifically, what lies inside of him — notwithstanding. he hasn't had that discussion with bee, or anyone, because thinking about it makes the space behind his eyeballs throb. he's eaten a third of the cake before he even realizes it, turning the plate toward bee. ]

You have any dreams about — [ a faltering pause, when he can't decide how to ask. ] The future?