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"You're doomed," hisses the girl behind the counter, the girl who knows he's here to buy a pack of cigarettes, the girl who sees the star-struck look across his face like a shattering constellation. Perhaps she knows why he's star-struck.
Perhaps she simply knows the truth and isn't willing to let him lie to himself.
Still, she rings up the three packs of cigarettes with little more comment, jerky movements giving her an air of smug, angry satisfaction, sliding the packs across the counter along with a lighter that he didn't pay for.
The Kobra Kid smiled, grabbed the pack of cigarettes, pushed his sunglasses up despite the darkness that blanketed the shop, suffocating, always suffocating, and left without saying good-bye.
Battery City is something, but it isn't home; Kobra walks the streets with his breath fogging out in front of him, the temperature artificially changed, hands freezing in the pockets of his jacket that's ratty and never kept the heat in or the cold out.
Battery City. Battery City.
Sometimes, he can't process the fact that the Battery City in front of him now, presented as a trophy, a world ready for the taking, a war waiting for the battle cry, neon lights illuminating backshops that sell something banned in fifty different ways - is the same Battery City he grew up in. The same place that took him and spat him out when he didn't serve his purpose anymore.
But that's neither here nor there and Kobra has a destination, for the first time in a while.
The street is silent as he walks past, one hand on the jail-broken ray gun that sits in its thigh holster, on his thigh, a sign to the masses to keep their mouths shut if they see him. He's a Juvee Hall, or so they say, rebels with a death wish on their tongue.
It's not like that's technically wrong.
Still, it's only a two-block journey from the corner store - Radiation Run, if he recalls, a chain store that makes it all the way out to whatever the hell is left of the Outer Zones - to the safe house he's intending to go to.
The safehouse on the ground floor of an apartment building that hasn't been inspected since Battery City became more than a hole in the ground like all the other bombed-out husks that Kobra's heard so much about; the safehouse that sits on a rickety old doorframe, with a metal door and what smells suspiciously like blood marring the floor in front of it.
Kobra rolls his eyes, if only because it's so cliche, and creepy, and knocks on the door. A particular pattern; one specifically designed for him, because he's a high profile visitor, and we treat out high-profile visitors with respect.
Well, he doesn't know what's high profile about him other than his past, and he'd shed that like a second skin the moment he turned fourteen.
The door slides open without comment; Kobra doesn't see who opens it for him and he doesn't say thank you even though he knows he should - he knows where he's going. Although it wasn't like he was looking at the layout the last couple of times he was here.
Mr. Sandman's bedroom is in the basement; it's connected to a series of tunnels underneath Battery City, ones that are accessible only in the basement. And if you're constantly on the run, living right by a place like that sounds like a damn good deal.
Sandman's room has a door, of course, and of course it's locked, but the door swings open right after Kobra comes to the bottom of the stairs - and another five feet and he's standing right in front of the man himself, Mr. Sandman. Another Juvee Hall. A Youngblood, someone important; someone who bleeds revolution like a beating heart. Someone worth far more than Kobra's attention.
He doesn't seem to mind Kobra's gaze, though. "What's up? Wasn't expecting you tonight."
"Felt adventurous."
In truth, they haven't seen each other in three months and that's entirely Kobra's fault, that's his fault because he can't stick to a damn thing and he can't stay away from what he wants, either, pathetic in its own right.
Instead of dwelling on that like they both should, Kobra takes a pack of cigarettes out from his pocket and hands it to Sandman like a peace offering, something to shield them both from the fall-out that Kobra can cause simply by being here.
Sandman takes the olive branch, beckons Kobra into his bedroom with a slight smile, sharp around the edges. Like it always is when Mr. Sandman is involved. When the Kobra Kid is involved. "Well, so long as you bring offerings, I suppose you can stay. What have you been up to?"
Kobra shrugs. He doesn't know what he's been up to. Mostly trying to wake up in the mornings and make sure that he's still alive. Try to track down his brother. Try to figure out how to make explosives and keep himself alive all the way. Try, try, try. All he ever does is try. Never succeeds, always tries. He needs a smoke. "Dunno. Trying out new things. Not much sticks. What about you - anything interesting? Heard the Doc talking about something otherworldly through the grapevine."
Sandman lays back on his bed, a twin-size mattress with mismatched blankets and a couple of wrappers here and there. The Juvee's never been able to clean up after himself, it seems. "Not much. Benze is secretive, the others are pretty much gone all the time, and I still can't play drums."
"Thought you bought a drum kit?"
"Yeah, and then I used it to distract a couple of Dracs that managed to sneak into Phoenix and I's practice space, so no, I do not have a drum kit anymore."
"Oh. Makes sense." And then, because Kobra doesn't want this conversation to bomb, doesn't want to be left on his own again - "You got a lighter on you?"
"'Course I do," Sandman says, and it's true that Kobra already knew that, because Sandman always has a lighter on him, and he gestures for Kobra to come sit on the bed next to him. Or to grab the lighter, at least. "And no smokin' in here. It makes everything fucking gross."
"You've never minded the smell of nicotine."
"It's different to taste nicotine in someone's kiss and then smell it on your clothes a day later," Sandman snickers, and he sits up, so Kobra stays standing. He doesn't know what they're doing. They don't have a set routine anymore. So what is Sandman doing?
Oh. He's leaving the room. Kobra figures he should follow.
While they're underground and there isn't exactly a balcony for them to go to, Sandman leads them both back upstairs, gives a cursory wave to whatever Juvee is inhabiting the kitchen now, and leads them right back to outside the metal door.
And then promptly sits on the concrete next to the door, knees pulled up and pushed apart.
Kobra follows suit, though he sits with his legs crossed, one boot sitting on his skinny jeans and no doubt dirtying the fuck out of them; taking another pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, opening it to pull one of the sticks out. "So, about that light?"
"Already on it, sweetheart." Sandman is already on it, since he's got his hands already cupped around his mouth, an old habit despite the fact that there's no wind to deter the cigarette from lighting.
Something in Kobra snaps when he has to lean over to get Sandman to light his cigarette, something that was already dangerously close to breaking at Sandman's lighthearted sweetheart, something that he knows should be kept under lock and key. His heart.
Doesn't matter much if it's not worth any carbons. He can give his heart away to whoever he wants, right? It's whether they carve their name into his ribcage that makes all the difference.
"S'nice to see you again," Sandman says quietly, like a sin, like a prayer, glancing at the concrete ceiling above them rather than at Kobra himself.
Kobra's leaned against Sandman's shoulder, now, one hand propping the cigarette in his mouth as he takes a long drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs like a familiar friend, before exhaling, before answering, before giving away his heart like a poison. "Nice to see you too. Figured you were too busy with changing the world to talk to me."
"You know I'll always have the time to talk to you."
They both ignore the fact that Kobra's the one who always leaves, who always comes back; how Sandman must be sick of this dance routine of theirs.
"Yeah, I do." And if Kobra seems disappointed about that, well - that's his business and his business alone.
_
After sitting in silence for a while, the silence becomes a shackle around Kobra's throat rather than a blanket over him. His mouth is dry and all he can taste is nicotine despite the fact he'd burned his cigarette to the nub a while ago. Now, he's just resting his head on Sandman's shoulder. "You ever wonder what we could be?"
"What do you mean?" Leave it to Sandman to keep all his thoughts to himself; the dreamer who never dared speak his dreams to life. Like reality would shatter them. Most likely, it would.
"I mean..." What does he mean? "I mean, what could we be if we the world didn't go to shit? If we were stable or - or if we weren't constantly running for our lives?"
"Useless to dwell on stuff like that," Sandman hums, the vibrations rattling through his chest. "It just makes you nostalgic for something you never had. I think we wouldn't be sitting here smoking. I think we wouldn't feel the same."
"Yeah?"
"It's amazing how much is defined by circumstance, y'know?" Sandman says, looking up at the concrete ceiling, his gloved hand tentatively latching onto Kobra's. "Like - like if we hadn't met that night, if we hadn't met the way we met, our relationship would be entirely different."
"Probably more PG-13."
Sandman laughs - just what Kobra was going for. "Yeah, we'd probably be more PG-13 if we met differently. But yeah. So much of relationships is circumstantial, so much is made of the past. I wouldn't wanna meet you any other way."
"I'd like the stable part, though," Kobra mumbles, and he doesn't know whether he's talking about their relationship - whatever relationship they have - or his own emotions. Always a hurricane in his chest, threatening to collapse inward, threatening to write Sandman's name into his ribcage for the next person to find.
Sandman just hums again. "'M glad you came back."
"I'll probably leave again."
"I know."
"So why are you bothering to talk about it?" And maybe that's the part that Kobra's never managed to understand, because Sandman always waits and Kobra always comes back with more and more baggage and it's not like - they shouldn't have gotten this fucking involved.
Oh, well.
Sandman sighs, brings up his free hand to play with Kobra's hair while the other holds his hand. "Because I want you to stay, for once. I know you won't. But that doesn't mean I can't hope, sweetheart."
"You fucking sap," mumbles Kobra, if only because it's easier than acknowledging the churning emotions in his stomach, the parts of him that never want this moment to end. Want to take a picture just so that the moment never truly ends. "I can stay for the night. For a while."
"Pulling my strings or are you telling the truth?"
"The truth." Is he? He doesn't know. "I'll stay till your next run. You've got a world to change."
"It'd be easier to have open arms to come back to at the end of it all."
Slowly, Kobra grins, nuzzling his head into Sandman's shoulder. "Yeah, but I wanna change the world too. I give you your shot, you give me mine, yeah?"
Sandman rolls his eyes, affectionate, squeezing Kobra's hand tighter. "You could totally change the world. King Kobra instead of Kobra Kid."
"Fuck the monarchy."
"Fuck the government," Sandman corrects.
_
Kobra leaves earlier than expected.
Then again, the next run for Sandman and the other Youngbloods is earlier than anyone expected, and Kobra can't be a distraction - he knows that, if Sandman slips up and gets caught, there's a fate worse than death waiting for him - when there's so much at stake.
At the very least, it was a good two weeks. Late-night talks and burning through their respective cigarettes and CDs covered in their handwriting, messy and jumbled and mixtapes that Kobra's taking with him when he leaves.
Still, it's the middle of the night and he's hovering over Sandman's bed, wondering how he's going to say good-bye this time.
See, that's the thing - Kobra's good at leaving, but he isn't good at good-bye.
And he knows, he knows how it feels to wake up with an empty bed and no note, no message, nothing to say he'd ever been there in the first place, and that's so much of a dick move that he's not going to do that again, but they burned their last notebook a couple of days ago.
Even if they hadn't, that was Sandman's poetry, and not Kobra's to look through for a blank page.
He's got a backpack slung over his shoulder, his stuff that he doesn't want to lose, and a jacket slung around his shoulders that's a bit too big - Sandman's, of course. And he needs to say good-bye but he doesn't want to wake Sandman up and he doesn't know how to leave a note.
And - and he doesn't want to leave but he can't ignore his own life forever, can't keep interrupting Sandman's life.
Kobra swallows, mumbles, "I love you," under his breath 'cos he's always been too much of a coward to say it out loud, and takes a tube of lipstick off Sandman's dresser, tries his best to write good-bye and stay dirty, stay low on Sandman's arm. Hopes that Sandman won't rub it off in his sleep.
Hopes that Sandman won't hate him for leaving again, even though this is what always happens. Hopes that the world will wait for them. Hopes that life works in their favor.
And, like the Kobra Kid always does, he leaves.