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Noah was sure he'd be strangled if one of his siblings found out he'd taken up smoking. Just because, you know. Martin was all athletic and in shape, and Noël would go on a long lecture about how it was killing his lungs and he'd never live to a hundred and fifteen and on and on--he could already hear it, but he didn't care. It made him feel good, he wouldn't get arrested for it, and it didn't leave him with a monster hangover in the morning so he could get to work.

However, he didn't like taking his lunch breaks at the planetarium (he worked and lived there, he didn't need to be there all day, contrary to what many believed), so Noah made his way through Diagon Alley, zipping through the crowd. He just needed a quiet spot that he could have a smoke, eat, and be done with it. That's it. That was his lunch. These days felt like crawled by so slowly that he didn't have anything to possibly fill in the century-length like days. It drove him absolutely mad, but he couldn't build the energy to do anything about it.

He leaned forward, watching the shoppers and random passersby, not noticing someone approach him from behind. Noah's instincts had gone to shit these last few months, and he didn't flinch or get surprised when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"What?" he asked, without turning.