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Leo scrunches up his nose as Vincent leans up toward the barred window, a dim flame at his fingertips. “That shit’s bad for your health, you know?”
“Yeah, well. So is prison.” Vincent doesn’t look back at him; just sucks the nicotine into his lungs as Leo watches the hallway, the slow creaking of a fan bouncing off the colourless walls. Something tense has been gathering in his shoulders the last few days, more so than usual. But he’s never talked much, so Leo doesn’t expect an explanation — and it’s not like there’s no reason to be tense around here. But he just can’t keep his mouth shut, so he asks anyway.
“What the hell’s got you so stiff lately, huh?”
There’s no response at first. Just the silvery smoke that escapes through his teeth and snakes up along the wall, toward the window.
“It’s not like this place encourages relaxation.”
It’s clipped, stilted with forced indifference. Leo frowns. “You've been acting all weird. If you got a problem or somethin’, I think I oughta know.”
Faded fabric shifts across his back. Vincent’s eyes reflect the grey of the hall when they flicker to meet his own. The bags under his eyes suddenly look so heavy. “Sometimes you just lose things,” he says, voice rough with smoke and something darker, something older. Leo’s almost scared to ask.
“Lose things?”
He looks back up to the bars that cage the sky. Overcast.
“Yeah. Sometimes you lose things.”