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Smoke drew from Trick's lips as he huffed, pulling the lit cigarette away from his mouth, before bringing it back to his lips. It was a constant cycle with these things. Light, breath in, blow out, repeat. He didn't want to stop, the feeling he got from smoking helped with the stress of work, the memories of a childhood he never had.
But he overheard Nicole and Bridgette talking, and Bridgette mentioned hating smoking, all of it. The smell, the effects it had on the body. Mumbled something about it correlating with her own childhood. Trick wanted to quit when he heard that.
Easier said than done, that's for sure.
Every time Trick put it down--promised himself that he'd leave it down--he'd always come crawling back. The drawbacks weren't just an itch anymore, they burned. They ran through his body and left him with tremors and an incessant plea to get another hit, another puff of smoke, another high of adrenaline. The smoke curled in the air gorgeously, a cruel beauty to the way something seemingly so harmless could bury itself into your lungs, fill the gaps supposed to be full of air with something much ashier.
It was better than sticking a needle into his forearm and letting whatever liquid lay inside give him that dopamine rush he couldn't get from normal activities anymore.
He remembered those days, the ones where he'd crave something to give him a rush so bad. He'd become a drug-obsessed junkie because of that craving, that itch. He was grateful he was able to get off that stuff years ago.
Trick tilted his head back, puffing another cloud of smoke as his eyes fluttered closed. The bricks against his skull were uncomfortable, yet he didn't feel like moving.
"What are you doing out here?" Trick's eyes snapped open, looking to see who the owner of the voice was. Joey. "Don't you think you should get back to serving? Or were you planning to meet up with someone here? Get them hooked on some addictive substance?" The chef's voice was like poison, rough, mocking, and devoid of any warmth. Trick remembers when Joey would talk to him with fondness, called him 'bud'.
Lost memories, he supposes.
"You really are in your head, pops. Can't keep up with the fact I'm not the same criminal anymore? " Joey scoffed, narrowing his eyes at Trick.
"Not the same my ass, I know you're just waiting for an opportunity to snatch something up, maybe ruin the restaurant in the process. You've always seemed like a griefer." Trick sighed, brows furrowing in annoyance.
"At least I know I won't neglect my kid, unlike someone." It was a low blow, but Trick's never been insecure about his height. Joey's eyes widened, before darkening in pure fury, his steps were practically stomps as he neared Trick.
"I was providing for you. I was out working, trying to pay for food, the bills, your education!" Joey shouted, listing the things on his fingers.
"Oh, you mean doing the bare fucking minimum?"
"I swear- You're just like your mother! Never satisfied, always demanding more, more, more!"
"Don't you fucking dare say I'm like that woman." Trick's voice was like broken glass, shattered and sharp. "I'm nothing like that woman. She's not my mother." Joey froze in his movements at the raw hurt in his son's tone.
"Is that so?" Joey tried to make himself sound sarcastic, mocking. But he couldn't his questions sounded genuine somehow, the tone soft yet gruff.
"I wouldn't leave my son home alone for hours on end, force him to learn how to sustain himself while I was away wasting and blowing my partner's money. I wouldn't dismiss the injuries he got from having to learn how to handle the stove, causing them to almost get infected because my son didn't know how to tend to a wound past putting a fucking Band-Aid on it!
"I wouldn't leave my son to cower in his room, cry under his covers as I stumble around and scream drunkenly outside his door. I wouldn't dismiss every parent-teacher conference, I would show up to his events, his parties, I wouldn't abandon him to learn how to survive without getting the chance to live.
"I wouldn't blow smoke in his face and then act like he's a fucking ghost! Because I'm not my mother."
A silence filled between the two, Trick forcing himself to get his breathing under control. he let the cig fall from his fingers, landing on the pavement below, and squashing it with his foot. Joey just watched, his mouth slightly open, eyes wide.
"____ did all that...?" Joey's voice was unbelievably soft, bordering on a whisper. Trick had to strain his ears to hear the words. When the words did process to Trick, he shrugged. It's all already happened, what can he do?
"Yeah, probably more that I subconsciously blocked out. Trauma response and all that shit." Trick didn't know why Joey seemed so... horrified. The guy neglected Trick too. he wasn't as bad as his bitch of an ex-wife, but he still did neglect Trick.
"Fuck..." He muttered, running a hand down his face. "Did she ever... hurt you? Physically, I mean." Did she? Trick can't remember her ever actually laying a hand on him other than it just be to move him out of the way of something.
"Nah, don't think she ever had the guts to do that." Trick doesn't know if she actually thought about it. But, considering how she barely processed the fact she had a kid most of the time, he wouldn't bet on it.
"Good." Trick raised an eyebrow.
Joey stared at his son, before reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. If Trick was surprised, he didn't let it show. Joey should apologize, should express his guilt and remorse. And yet? Those two little words can't seem to just come out.
"Ill see you in the kitchen." Is all Joey says before heading back inside.
Trick feels a pang of disappointment. No, why should he expect his asshole of a dad to apologize? The man was incapable of holding a relationship.
Trick finds a bowl of fries set out for him, Pickles saying Joey made them just for him. Trick takes the bowl, looking inside. The scent wafting from the fries is mouth-watering, and they looked good too. Trick takes one and pops it in his mouth, chewing down on the sliced potatoes. Fuck- he can see why Nicole asks Nico to make these so often.
He gobbles down a few more, not eating all of them, passing the bowl to Nicole when she enters. She laughs out a thanks while he's exiting the kitchen.
His father has never been one for saying sorry, not through words at least. He can't help but find the display an apology though. He won't accept it, not yet, but he'll appreciate it.