Jag went out on the balcony and lit up the cigarette with a thought, wishing that he could find comfort in it. He had no idea what the fuck he was doing here, and it was growing increasingly apparent to him. Tears prickled at the back of his eyes, and he took a long, hard drag on the cigarette, leaning back against the window pane and trying to get a bloody grip. This wasn't where he belonged, but out there in a pub, drinking too much and starting a fight. He rubbed at his brow with the heel of the hand holding the cigarette.

That would just be running away again, though, wouldn't it. And he didn't bloody want to. He didn't understand why things had to be so hard, when he was trying, for once.

When he finished his cigarette, he put it out instinctively and headed back inside, finding a bin to throw it in. He found Val making tea and leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him.

"I've never tried so hard, Val," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "If this isn't enough, I don't know what to give you."