"Okay, man, what's bothering you?"
Scarlet asked, his voice dripping with what would definitely pass for genuine worry and concern. He leaned over the table, refilling the empty tumblers with thick amber liquids that caught the golden light of the room like liquid honey.
Storm didn't say a word. He remained a statue of silence, watching Scarlet play the role of the attentive waiter. Storm was tired, beyond tired, and the only move his stiff, leaden body finally made was to gently fall back into the depth of the couch with a hopeless, hollow grunt.
Scarlet on the other hand studied him for a long beat, his eyes narrow and calculating behind the mask of friendship. Then he stood up again, crossing the plush carpet to the table where he picked up a black and silver coated marijuana stick. With a sharp clink, he flicked a silver lighter retrieved from his pocket, on.
