Morningside Cuesta flashlight

try as he might, the cold bites through his coat and settles in his bones. it doesn't seem like it'll want to leave anytime soon. grudgingly, sullenly, he hugs himself, imagining a ball of white healing warmth right under his ribs.
there's nothing else to focus on other than putting his feet in front of him, so he's relieved when a call rings in his ears. meeting time, it says, but whittaker hears it more like sitting down and resting time. man. whittaker was really paying for a lifetime of eating like shit and sleeping like shit.
he looks expectantly up to the grey-haired cagey boy before sitting down with a thump that in retrospect was a stupid idea, given how there was nothing to cushion him between the cold hard ground and his tailbone. classic whittaker.