Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 10 - Starry Night

It had to have been the weed. It just had to be.

String has been telling himself that over and over again for the past week - a week since it happened. In truth, he still wasn't sure whether it happened or not, but the thought of it potentially being true kept him up at night.

So much so he hadn't even realized it's been a week, but weed does that to you, right? Distort time?

He sits in the now closed café. They had to close up early. Everything seemed louder than it really is, and brighter. Two empty bottles of whiskey clutter together on the counter, and another one on the way, as String tips the bottle in his mouth. He's drank enough last night, but it seems the regard for his life is long forgotten.

Now that, he doubts was just the weed talking. He didn't even know side effects could last as long as a week. Either this wasn't a side effect or Kif really did perfect the formula, and business was about to be a mere click to a treasure vault.

String doesn't care about that at the moment though. He wishes he did, but all he could think about is Paper. The whiskey was supposed to make him forget but it seems to be making him forget everything except what he actually wanted to forget.

He hates this. So much. So damn much. Being hung up over something that probably didn't even happen, like a teenager with rampant hormones and an even more rampant crush. This is stupid. He is a crime boss. This isn't something he should be thinking of. And he's out here drinking till the reaper befriends him eventually.

He wonders if Paper knows just how much power he has over String, and the man didn't even need to be here to do it.

String then feels his phone vibrate on the surface of the counter. He could've swore he turned it off. He didn't want any other distractions other than the deceiving embrace of alcohol.

He lifts his head from the counter, head pounding, gaze obscured by the light. He picks up his phone, the brightness making him flinch slightly, and brought it up to his face to properly make out who is calling him.

But the phone stops vibrating before he could see the contact saved.

And the notification read, "1 missed call from Paper."

String's brain short-circuits, almost dropping the whiskey bottle from his other hand. He sets the bottle down to use both hands and properly navigate through his phone, though the whiskey is already taking a bit of a toll on his perception, hands too shaky to really do anything adequately.

Then, another notification pops up; A text. From Paper.

String gulps, hoping it wasn't a reprimand for not answering. He knows Paper has reprimanded others for less.

But no, thankfully, and the message reads, "Starry Night. Midnight."

Nothing else. String sighs. Paper never liked elaborating. Nine times out of ten, this habit of his would lead to String misunderstanding his orders and messing up. And that would lead to String getting more than a slap on the wrist. Like it was his fault.

But who was String to say anything about it? Paper is allowed to do that, and in return, String is allowed to live.

String is supposed to be upset about this. He isn't. Because it's Paper. It's always fucking Paper.

Now, what was String supposed to deduce from such minimal information? Was he asking him to meet him at the museum at midnight? String didn't see why. Is he planning to steal the Starry Night? Not very his style, but Paper is unpredictable sometimes. Is he planning to set the museum on fire out of spite? That seems more likely.