[ all things considered, he doesn't look nearly as terrible as he probably could. despite his immediate dive into a slew of alcohol and drugs on christmas night, landing him in that very bed that marta had found him in, he'd somewhat sobered up in the days that followed, mostly carrying on his irreparable habit of chain-smoking cigarettes with a more typical intake of whiskey in a proper glass before venturing into bed. he doesn't look any more or any less tired than he would on any other day, but he might also just be adept at brushing it off.

if he's still in rough shape, he's covering it up well with a more casual approach, but he does at least manage a somewhat amused expression when she scoots over from her spot on the boulder to give him some room, pondering it only a moment before he steps forward and lifts himself onto it.

his fascination is more in watching her sense of ease in handling the cigar, reminded of the care her hands had put into bandaging him up, and he wonders if that's simply how she handles anything she touches, always delicate and attentive. ]

Happens sometimes. Even with vices, it's easy for the senses to grip on — sensory recollection. Triggers a sense of comfort in familiarity or —

[ or some things that are far less comfortable. like burnt ash dry on his tongue. he doesn't linger on that aspect of it long enough to let it seem substantial, more curious about her aspect of the memory, especially when she settles the cigar into her mouth, the visual almost seeming out of place for someone like her. ]

Taste a lot better than cigarettes too. I'd make the switch over, if this body let me. [ not his body, not his addiction. he nods at the cut skewers. ] What's that about?