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John/Sam. PG. 642 words.
nicotine and a conversation.
“Why do they do that?”
At the sound of John’s voice, Sam opens his eyes. He turns to look at him and lazily draws a knee up. John’s head is leaned back, his blue eyes conveying a mellow sort of curiosity. It’s clear he’s not referring to the Mogadorians.
“Who now?” It comes out softer than he intended.
“You. Your eyes, they-” he pauses and contemplates his words, “kind of twitch when they’re closed.”
A puzzled expression passes over Sam’s face, for a fraction of a second. Fleeting existence of a furrowed brow. There is little that he doesn’t know. Except where John’s concerned.
“Stress,” he says with a light shrug, “poor diet, lack of sleep. Pick one.”
Something like guilt in John’s gaze, before he averts his eyes.
“Mexico?” It slips out before he can stop it. He’s learned to read humans better, over the years. Most are transparent, more or less. Sam is too, in some ways. But there are times when tension lines his jaw and his eyes are hard and distant. He didn’t come along to join the fight. They don’t really talk about it. He’s not here for my sake, is what John tells himself, when he’s in danger of forgetting.
“You know the story,” Sam sighs, then presses his lips together. He digs into a coat pocket and retrieves a pack of Marlboros. It’s half-empty and the lighter is tucked inside. John tilts his head down to get a closer look. He’s never tried one before.
“My stepdad.” Sam flips open the top and pulls out a slim cigarette. In a practiced, uncaring way, like he’s been doing it for years. Maybe he has. “Smokes two packs a day. He probably already has lung cancer.”
That’s another thing they don’t talk about. What happened between Sam and his stepdad, as he was packing his things. John had been sitting in the truck at the time, eyes occasionally drifting to the light in Sam’s bedroom window. There was shouting, something was thrown, and Sam stormed out with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Contained anger stifled the air around them. And John had wondered just how deep his hurt ran, to be so used to closing off. To shutting things away.
“Want one?” Sam proffers the one dangling from his thin fingers.
“Okay.” John takes it gingerly and Sam laughs like they’re sharing a secret.
“One would think you’d have tried everything already.” An amused hum.
“I’m only seventeen, by your calendar.”
“And how old are you really? Where you’re from.”
John exhales slowly. “Thirty.” He breathes in, again, like he wants to say more. But he merely shakes his head. Sam seems contemplative after that, letting silence sit between them for a moment before he remembers to offer the lighter.
“Here.” His thumb rasps along the spark wheel, until it hits the lever. An unmistakable click and the flame whooshes up. John doesn’t know why, but it feels like seeing an old friend. He places the cigarette between his lips. Bends down to where Sam’s hand is shielding the fire from the wind. He inhales, smoke from lighted paper immediately stinging his eyes and curling into his airways. Pulling back, he blinks away the thin film of tears.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, as white streams of smoke escape his mouth. A suppressed cough, which makes his chest jump a little. Sam smiles a brief and furtive smile, then lights his own.
They sit together like that, for a while. Backs against the faded paint of an abandoned farmhouse. Legs stretched out in front of them. A quiet respite from the dark things that hover above and around them. A chance to be the youths they no longer are. And if they share a kiss that says everything and nothing, well, that’s part of it, too.
nicotine and a conversation.
“Why do they do that?”
At the sound of John’s voice, Sam opens his eyes. He turns to look at him and lazily draws a knee up. John’s head is leaned back, his blue eyes conveying a mellow sort of curiosity. It’s clear he’s not referring to the Mogadorians.
“Who now?” It comes out softer than he intended.
“You. Your eyes, they-” he pauses and contemplates his words, “kind of twitch when they’re closed.”
A puzzled expression passes over Sam’s face, for a fraction of a second. Fleeting existence of a furrowed brow. There is little that he doesn’t know. Except where John’s concerned.
“Stress,” he says with a light shrug, “poor diet, lack of sleep. Pick one.”
Something like guilt in John’s gaze, before he averts his eyes.
“Mexico?” It slips out before he can stop it. He’s learned to read humans better, over the years. Most are transparent, more or less. Sam is too, in some ways. But there are times when tension lines his jaw and his eyes are hard and distant. He didn’t come along to join the fight. They don’t really talk about it. He’s not here for my sake, is what John tells himself, when he’s in danger of forgetting.
“You know the story,” Sam sighs, then presses his lips together. He digs into a coat pocket and retrieves a pack of Marlboros. It’s half-empty and the lighter is tucked inside. John tilts his head down to get a closer look. He’s never tried one before.
“My stepdad.” Sam flips open the top and pulls out a slim cigarette. In a practiced, uncaring way, like he’s been doing it for years. Maybe he has. “Smokes two packs a day. He probably already has lung cancer.”
That’s another thing they don’t talk about. What happened between Sam and his stepdad, as he was packing his things. John had been sitting in the truck at the time, eyes occasionally drifting to the light in Sam’s bedroom window. There was shouting, something was thrown, and Sam stormed out with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Contained anger stifled the air around them. And John had wondered just how deep his hurt ran, to be so used to closing off. To shutting things away.
“Want one?” Sam proffers the one dangling from his thin fingers.
“Okay.” John takes it gingerly and Sam laughs like they’re sharing a secret.
“One would think you’d have tried everything already.” An amused hum.
“I’m only seventeen, by your calendar.”
“And how old are you really? Where you’re from.”
John exhales slowly. “Thirty.” He breathes in, again, like he wants to say more. But he merely shakes his head. Sam seems contemplative after that, letting silence sit between them for a moment before he remembers to offer the lighter.
“Here.” His thumb rasps along the spark wheel, until it hits the lever. An unmistakable click and the flame whooshes up. John doesn’t know why, but it feels like seeing an old friend. He places the cigarette between his lips. Bends down to where Sam’s hand is shielding the fire from the wind. He inhales, smoke from lighted paper immediately stinging his eyes and curling into his airways. Pulling back, he blinks away the thin film of tears.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, as white streams of smoke escape his mouth. A suppressed cough, which makes his chest jump a little. Sam smiles a brief and furtive smile, then lights his own.
They sit together like that, for a while. Backs against the faded paint of an abandoned farmhouse. Legs stretched out in front of them. A quiet respite from the dark things that hover above and around them. A chance to be the youths they no longer are. And if they share a kiss that says everything and nothing, well, that’s part of it, too.