his own high hadn't lasted long. he's too accustomed to the shit, he knows. needs to get off it for awhile. but he won't, he never does. so he searches instead, searches high and low and in places poppies should logically never be found. it's winter, and he'd found one, so the possibilities seem endless now. they could be anywhere. anywhere.
he's panting by the time he spots his prize, rendered breathless by the blinding pain settling into his skull and all his joints. he doesn't even see the wolf, nor does he feel himself crashing into the other as he bolts for it, attempting to shoulder the stranger aside roughly. a growl slips from him, short and breathy, and he grabs for it clumsily. he needs it, he needs it now, he needs it to make him better, to make him forget what he is and who he is and how he feels. and he'll kill anyone who tries to stop him from taking it.