When Blake heads off, Jesse's feet move all on their own, regardless of that fact that he still hasn't really decided if he wants them to. Actually, every step makes him feel more and more like this is the worst possible idea, like it'd be better for him if he took off and spent however long they're gonna have here just like he'd intended to: blazed out of his mind in his room. He won't have that escape when he gets back there, and so wasting the opportunity to do it seems like, well... A waste.
More than that, though, he's feeling like his feet are leading him straight to a meltdown. If he'd thought he'd been finished grieving back there (spoilers: he wasn't), seeing Blake alive and in the flesh and so-- so him- the way he used to be before everything changed and dragged the entire place down with it- is only serving as a reminder that he's not even close. Those wounds have barely had time to even start to heal, and now here he is picking the friggin' scab right off.
He never was great at the whole self-preservation thing.
And so he follows, falling into step with Blake in silence (for now), because what can he even say...? He compensates for this awkward and uncharacteristic quiet by digging into his pocket and pulling out his lighter and a plastic bag. It contains an array of joints in varying sizes and... smokedness, and he plucks one out without thinking; between that and the slight tremor to his fingers as he moves to light it up, it's pretty clear he's... Not all there, really. His eyes are red-rimmed as he stares ahead, and while the brightness of the crisp white snow hurts... It's better than the alternative. This kind of pain he can deal with.]
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When Blake heads off, Jesse's feet move all on their own, regardless of that fact that he still hasn't really decided if he wants them to. Actually, every step makes him feel more and more like this is the worst possible idea, like it'd be better for him if he took off and spent however long they're gonna have here just like he'd intended to: blazed out of his mind in his room. He won't have that escape when he gets back there, and so wasting the opportunity to do it seems like, well... A waste.
More than that, though, he's feeling like his feet are leading him straight to a meltdown. If he'd thought he'd been finished grieving back there (spoilers: he wasn't), seeing Blake alive and in the flesh and so-- so him- the way he used to be before everything changed and dragged the entire place down with it- is only serving as a reminder that he's not even close. Those wounds have barely had time to even start to heal, and now here he is picking the friggin' scab right off.
He never was great at the whole self-preservation thing.
And so he follows, falling into step with Blake in silence (for now), because what can he even say...? He compensates for this awkward and uncharacteristic quiet by digging into his pocket and pulling out his lighter and a plastic bag. It contains an array of joints in varying sizes and... smokedness, and he plucks one out without thinking; between that and the slight tremor to his fingers as he moves to light it up, it's pretty clear he's... Not all there, really. His eyes are red-rimmed as he stares ahead, and while the brightness of the crisp white snow hurts... It's better than the alternative. This kind of pain he can deal with.]