There was alcohol in the backpack Jag had abandoned just a few feet away. Or he could light another cigarette. His earlier buzz felt all but gone - it probably wasn't, not with how much he'd drunk, but he didn't feel it anymore. He just felt tired, sad, his heart aching with a despair he didn't know what to do with.

But somehow, coming out here had short-circuited his plans to drink himself into oblivion. Now he didn't feel like reaching back for the bag. Instead he leaned sideways into Coby, more thankful than he could actually, properly say for the steadiness of his presence, both as a friend and in this very physical manner. And he created a small ball of fire, cradling it between his hands before splitting it up into licks of flames, winding round and between his fingers. It was something to do, and something to feel, something to keep both his mind and his heart busy.