Seb shifts the bag on his shoulder. The unused sniper is heavy, he's tired and he wants a fucking coffee. If Jim doesn't pay for it this time he is going to get the gun out and shoot him through the head. It's been a long time coming and they haven't had sex in three days so he's feeling less generous.
The landlady beams at him as he pull his mobile out of his pocket and he nods back, winking at the woman's granddaughter as he passes her too. Everyone loves Sebastian. Sebastian the perfect, the handsome, the artist. Only Jim loves Sebastian the hit-man. But then, Jim was the one who made Seb the hit-man.
And he's gonna regret it, making me wait on those freezing stairs for a half a bloody hour waiting for that detective to jump.
He punched the enter button, sending Jim an irritable text.
You owe me coffee. Meet you in Starbucks. Buy me the fanciest drink there and keep it warm for me.
He leans against the wall outside the building doing his laces and waiting for a reply. He can't help but feel a little hurt when he doesn't get a text back. Usually Jim is so quick to pick up the phone and reply. Obviously he's too busy thinking about Cheekbones the Detective. Seb might have even fancied the prick a bit if he wasn't distracting Jim so much from what was important.
What was important being Seb of course.
He rolls his eyes and calls Jim, hauling the bag over his shoulder again and setting off to find the nearest Starbucks. The call rings out, buzzing intermittently as he presses the phone to his ear.
"Pick up, come on," Seb growls, squinting at a sign in the distance. Is that Starbucks or Costa? He can't tell from this far. No sight of Jim anyway.
He looks down at the phone. "Fucker," he mutters.
And he ends the call