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The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had the chill brought with it. It swept in through the cracked window and roiled in the threshold, snapped at the bare skin of Alex’s chest. He crossed an arm over his front to cover his skin and watched as goosebumps leapt up over the flesh of his forearm, little spits of rain speckling his skin. He always thought he’d be resistant to something as familiar as the bitter, wet cold- but always it chilled him deeper than bone. If ever he dressed before properly drying himself after a shower he felt the creep of anxiety up his spine- it happened whenever his coat failed to keep him dry beneath its cover. The imprinted fear of cold- of being frozen and wet and never feeling dry again, although it was dust-encrusted and covered in cobwebs in the back of his mind, it always crept out in those moments, let him know it was never gone, only dormant. He would never be resistant to a discomfort buried that deep.
Neither was his cigarette, as it turns out. It splutters pathetically and he has to cup a hand tightly around the open flame long enough it catches, his skin feels burnt and raw when he uncovers the glowing cherry and sucks in a lungful of choking smoke. It whips about his face with the wind when he exhales, sucked out into the atmosphere and beaten down by rain. He can relate to the sensation. He wipes at his nose, running with the cold, before he breathes in another pull of the cigarette. He holds this one in- gets lost a little in the sensation of not breathing- of his lungs trying to reject the imposter he’d filled them with instead of the oxygen they needed. When he exhales this time it’s with a hacking cough. Fair play, he thinks as he clears his throat a final time, allowing his body a few moments of untainted, rain-freshened air.
“You know, they’re saying those things are bad for you, and you’re making quite the statement right about now,” he can hear soft footfalls on the carpet, and then there’s warm hands on his bare hips, palms dragging over where the waistband of his pants bites into his skin. There’s a chin on his shoulder and when the silence is broken again, it’s with a voice much softer, “what’s the matter? You’re quiet tonight… tell me.”
Alex mulls over the request, chews the inside of his bottom lip- a habit worse than his smoking where he was concerned- before shaking his head. He twitchily brings the cigarette to his lips again, sucking in as much as he can before a hand leaves his hip and instead reaches up to pluck the cigarette from between his lips, smushing it into the ashtray with a nearly silent hsss. He sighs and it prompts a huff from the other man, “c’mon, usually I have to try a bit harder to shut you up, this is weird.”
“Do you ever think about them? About… him?” he swallows thickly, and he can feel the air go cold and stiff around them- and it’s not entirely the fault of the rainstorm, still spattering scarce spots of frigid rain onto his skin. He can feel soft fingers stiffen against his skin- can barely hear the halted intake of breath over the thunder of rain pelting the window. He didn’t need a name, he knew they both knew who he was talking about.
“All the time,” Peter mumbles, pressing his forehead to Alex’s shoulder briefly, sighing. “Why bring it up- him up.”
Because there’s something wrong in my head- I can’t feel a chill without tasting oil, I can’t hear fucking fireworks without thinking I’m going to die… I can’t look at a head of brown hair without seeing a dead kid.
“S’ the weather, bad weather always makes me…” he tries to think of a word for it, instead shuts the window with a thud and turns to face Peter, who looks a little stirred from the question. Alex smooths a hand over his cheek, “It’s just the weather.”
“Right, the weather.”