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I never take smoke breaks
Michael rounded the corner of the hallway, circumventing the undulating mass of people lagging through the tight corridors. For someone so awkward and weedy in stature, he was able to control his gangly limbs with surprising grace. He needed to escape. He needed to move away from the throbbing heat that pervaded his senses, pollution provided by the sweaty bodies stuffed in the confines of the halls. He ached and wanted the itch in his brain to go away.
Solace could always be found behind the school; more specifically in the far side of the bleachers that adjoined the woods rather than the school. He crouched in the unkempt grass, casting his bag to the side. he fumbled his coat, shedding it enough to reach for his breast pocket.
Bingo.
A spare cigarette stolen from his father from a package long abandoned. A cigarette long since forgotten. Just like him. Perhaps the creased stick of tobacco had something in common with the equally robust boy, but with trembling fingers, he spare a moment's worth of thought for the metaphor. A stray dreg of brown fell from the tip, the lighter he always kept in his pocket lighting swiftly enough to prevent another from falling. He propped the stick in his mouth, lighting the tip whilst inhaling. The first puff was vile, the cool, minty taste of menthols flooding his sinuses, but it did its job. Inhaling as much of the toxic air as he could, he eased his frame against a pole holding up the bleachers. He reclined his head as he exhaled, relishing the feeling of his throat convulsing with the smoke violating it. He suppressed a cough, feeling his body lose some of the tension pinching at his muscles. He continued to puff away at the cigarette, taking as long of drags as he could, something about the cool stinging of his lungs bringing him peace of mind. The air felt clearer in his lungs as time persisted, tobacco providing serotonin while the air he breathed between puffs shooed away his worries. He always enjoyed vacantly observing the bleak scenery around him, finding something serene at the lack of interesting subjects to scrutinize. He was acutely aware of the shaking in his fingertips provided by the nicotine, euphoria accompanying the high. Before he knew it, the length of the dainty stick had been greatly reduced, ash hanging onto itself desperately. The closest drags were the ones that hurt the most, making the tip of his tongue burn and invading his throat. Yet he sucked at it regardless, a desperate quest for salvation.
He was so glad Jeremy wasn’t here to see him like this.
I could but I don’t
I could but I don’t, cause I know there’s a smoker inside of me somewhere.
And I don’t want to let him out.
“Hey man, are you alright?” Michael looked up to Jeremy, the only sign of repressed concern being the furrow in his eyebrows. Michael detested it when he worried.
“Y-yeah, why?” Perhaps the stutter gave him away. Michael shrank against the wall where he sat, Jeremy leaning down to enclose him with his body. The stairwell they lounged was usually abandoned, save for the stray person who would stumble across the vastly inconvenient stares by chance. It was an outlier to the school, distant to most routes that students had laid out for them. Intended for the prior layout of the building, the closed-off stairwell had long since lost its purpose.
“Mikey, stand up,” he heeded the command, getting off of the ground and rising to his full height. He towered over Jeremy, as he did for everyone else, though it felt different; as did everything else with the blonde. Something more comfortable, an endearment that rattled about his brain whenever he was near. The height difference was far less enjoyable for him in situations such as this, where he felt as though he were in trouble. His father made certain that he dread even the slightest shift in verbal tone.
Without any sort of warning, he closed in. In tandem, Michael attempted an instinctive step back, fully flush against the wall with the half stagger he was capable of making. He felt his heart skip a beat, proximity making him nauseous, albeit in a way he enjoyed. There was a hand placed on the wall beside his shoulder. The urge to shrink away from it was masked when he realized Jeremy leaning in on the other side, his intentions unclear. That was until he balled up the polo shirt Michael adorned in his fist, pressing his nose against the fabric. Panic flared in Michael’s eyes, the immediate wrinkle of the latter's nose and retreat thereafter solidifying what he feared.
Confrontation.
“Dude, you fucking reek,” Michael remained silent, guilt silencing him. “If you’re going to smoke at least invite me.”
It was just one time. The once in a million chance he smoked the cigarette that was getting worn away in his breast pocket, this had to be the time Jeremy noticed. Of course it did. It made him wince, culpable for a vice he didn’t have. He adverted his eyes downwards, not able to bear the ball of knotted, swollen emotions weighing him down at his core.
So I catch myself glancing from the backseat.
On the trip home from Plymouth from Lansing.
At the pack you keep in the cupholder.
He knew that Jeremy smoked. He had been doing so since before they met. But it wasn't a concerning amount. Just a cigarette here and there to keep his mind off things. Michael knew the feeling. Despite this, he couldn’t help but feel his chest recoil every time he rediscovered evidence of this. The first thing his eyes fixed upon waking up in the back of Jeremy’s truck was the box of cigarettes in his cup holder, opened with a few exposing themselves as they protruded from their package. By the lack of Jeremy’s music, they were at a gas station, confirmed by the smell of gasoline that bled into the vehicle when the driver’s door opened. This was accompanied by the smell of the American Spirits he smoked. It was considerate that he didn’t want to drown Michael in the scent when he was driving, but it didn’t stop the aftertaste that kissed his skin upon rendering the truck from stinging Michael’s nostrils. He only smoked when he was stuck in an emotional pit after all. Dark eyes turned back to him, looking over his shoulder. They lit up considerably upon making eye contact with the brunette curled in the back, a dazzling smile following thereafter.
“Thought we would have at least made it across the border before you woke up,” Jeremy chuckled.
“You know I’ve never slept good,” Michael shot back, righting himself. In the process, he shook off the jacket Jeremy had shed in favor of covering him. It smelled like him, the nice scent of the woods sticking to his clothes. He relished this for just a moment before folding it and situating it to the side. He then climbed over the center console, over the temptation packaged neatly on top.
“Might as well keep you company. It would be lame if you drove home all by yourself.” He situated himself, offering a crooked grin to Jeremy, who inserted the keys into the ignition.
“I mean I had fun with you, it’s a nice little getaway y’know?” He was referring to their ‘little’ trips they liked to embark on from time to time. When Jeremy’s parents turned an eye away from him in favor of a business trip, he would seize any opportunity to break the norm with Michael. They wouldn’t be notified of Jeremy skipping a week of school, and Michael’s father hardly had the mind to care. These breaths away from the grip of their parents were relieving, a little break shared by the two of them. A place away from the confines of Hurricane Utah, anywhere really. Whether they just wanted to drive around or wanted to go halfway across the United States to visit some amusement park they heard about in passing was something they would determine along the way. So long as they had each other, they were content.
“Oh, I gotcha something Mikey,” Jeremy lifted the comically large cup that was placed in the cup holder, which Michael hadn’t paid any mind to up until that moment. A slushie by the looks of the label. Jeremy took a sip off of it, eyeing Michael all the while.
It made him sweat.
Jeremy then pointed the straw to him, grinning from ear to ear. He didn’t fail to notice the blue dye that stained the inside of his lips. Didn't miss a beat to obediently lean in, refusing to let up eye contact as he sipped on the drink. It was his favorite, blue raspberry. He pulled away, though he only really situated himself above the cup, closer to Jeremy than before. They stared for a moment, just absorbing one another’s presence. A desaturated, dull blue mixing with the warmest, melty brown the world had to offer. Michael took the cup from Jeremy, sipping on it again as he continued to stare.
Someplace away from Utah, someplace away from the news, and away from the people and their biases against them. Or rather the feelings that actively flickered between them like a docile flame. The escape provided a moment to slip out of his skin and enjoy the comfort that Jeremy’s lips had to provide. Perhaps they could get a bit intimate here, tinted windows hiding their love from the world.
“Your tongue is probably blue.” Michael dumbly stated.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Bought some Marlboro Reds for my eighteenth birthday.
And I smoked a couple.
Only a couple.
And gave the rest away.
‘Cause I don’t wanna think that it’s already too late.
“Michael.” His father’s voice always shook him to his core, especially when addressed by name. It was a rare enough instance that it became an occasion. One grim like a funeral.
“Care to explain?” In his hand was the Marlboro Reds he had bought just the day before, only one cigarette rattling around in the box. They wouldn’t have been questioned if they were menthols, but the bitterness of the tobacco was far more preferable for the teen. Why couldn’t he just have been smart about this? Why did he never think things through?
“Father. It’s legal,” was the only comment he could make. It was true, but it didn’t answer the question.
“You turn eighteen in a week.” He didn’t understand why his father pretend to care. It was stupid as though he didn’t know. They both knew, William was hardly in the mind to care about what Michael did, whether or not it was behind closed doors. After all, he doesn’t even remember his birthday. He knew that the talking was all preamble. A reason to justify what was to come next. Another instance of mutual knowledge.
Perhaps his hesitation to respond quickened the flow of the ‘conversation,’ as his father skipped all further dialogue and went straight to him, grabbing him by the fringe of hair he had long since ceased taking care of. A firm blow was delivered to his cheekbone, bony knuckles imprinting violent crimson into his skin. He clenched his jaw to not give his father the gratification of a cry, wanting to get the violence over with. He knew that Liz was watching at this point. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if she were the one to have showed their father the cigarettes in the first place. She always did have a habit of tattling.
It wasn’t long until he dragged Michael to the basement, his protests a common ambiance for the Afton household. The unfurnished basement was stained with his blood and moments he had long wished he had forgotten. He knew this place was only hidden out of formality so that Liz could continue doing homework in the kitchen. So that Michael groveling on the ground in post could be hidden and disregarded. Their house was a family picture, and the basement was the crude, grimy stand that kept the damn thing upright.
So I never take smoke breaks
I know one day that they’ll get me.
“Maybe we can try quitting,” the comment from Jeremy made Michael whip his head over his shoulder. His eyes were wide, his companion not returning his gaze. Jeremy was instead wringing his wrists, the comforter pulled up and over the length of his body. Only his bare shoulders, head, and hands were exposed beneath it, staring straight ahead as he laid on his stomach. Michael remained fully clothed, forehead plastered with sweat and jaw sore.
“What?” He was entirely still, freezing his hands where they were once reorganizing the CDs that Jeremy had lying about. Idly cleaning was something frequently he did to ease his mind, sometimes too scared to lie beside Jeremy in the aftermath. Overthinking was his specialty, and the silence of Jeremy resting occasionally made his mind wander to places he would rather it not. He would always join the blonde if he asked him to, though today he feared resting beside the other. One hand slipping up his shirt could result in the exposure of an open, ill-treated wound rising questions he rather not answer.
“Well. I think that people are finding out, my dad said he could smell it on me last time. I’m pretty sure I would be fucked if they got evidence on us.” A pause, “I like it, I really do, but it could have consequences. People have been doing some research about how bad it is, and… I dunno man… it just doesn’t sit right with me.” Michael felt as though he were going to throw up, sweat going cold along the back of his neck. He knew something like this was bound to happen, a fallout of some sort. Though he was wanting to be far more prepared, he supposed ending things prematurely was only bound to happen. The longer he had to grow attached to Jeremy, the more he knew it would hurt. Though he swiftly reasoned that it'd be better to have a part of his soul ripped out at his last source of happiness as opposed to becoming like his father the moment Jeremy would leave. His touch had the effect of ruining things he touched, and he didn’t want Jeremy to become one of them.
“Oh. I see,” his throat was thick, head throbbing. He wanted nothing more than to collapse and reduce himself to hysterical sobs, trembling at the thought of abstaining, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He licked over his lips, wanting desperately to loosen the knot tying itself in his throat with a cigarette. He turned his back to Jeremy, his ears ringing as though he were underwater. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t remember the rest of what the blonde said before turning over and going back to bed.
Yeah one day, you’ll pull into this parking lot
To the sight of me puffing away.
At the second half
Of the second pack
That day.
Michael could hardly breathe, much less see for that matter. He was entirely submerged in smoke, his vision hazy from the heat he refused to let out. It made his eyes burn, though he forced them open in some cruel sense of self-fulfillment. The leather seat was just hardly reclined so that he could relax, his father’s Dodge Miranda turned off as not to waste energy. The cold from the night outside had long since seeped into the car, making the tip of his nose and fingertips cold. He was so uncomfortable, but yet the most soothed he had felt in his recent memory. He hadn’t spoken to Jeremy since that day, though he hadn’t had the opportunity to. He skipped school for the following two weeks, drowning himself in whatever substance he had been advised to stay away from. Though out of the lot of them, the one that always seemed to do the trick was the faithful pack he kept in his breast pocket, too careless to acknowledge if it was shown to the world or not.
He took a drag of the cigarette in his hand, tasting the filter, though he hardly had the energy to realize how far down he had gone. He opened his mouth, feeling smoke spill from his lips. A bowl full of smoke. He allowed it to sit there, holding his breath. After nearly a minute, he breathed in carefully through his nose, smoke long since pooling across the surface of his face and invading his nostrils. It burned, but he forced his breath to remain steady. It felt like he was suffocating of his own volition, and he would be damned if it wasn’t the most gratifying feeling he had felt in a long time. His eyes watered in the effort to control his breathing, body shaking in the effort.
However, he was only human.
Without any sort of warning or thinking for that matter, he unintentionally sucked in a desperate gulp of air through his mouth, though no such oxygen was provided. He choked on the thick cloud of mouth residing in the cavern of his lips, his throat convulsing painfully. His body reeled as he began coughing, his eyes watering at the force of the convulsions of his throat. A few minutes passed like that, the boy throwing himself in his seat in an attempt to clear his lungs in a car full of smoke, the filter burning in his hand.
His eyelashes were wet when he ceased, only half aware of the knocking on his window. He turned, squinting past the clouds of tobacco to see a familiar face on the other side. Jeremy peered in, those familiar eyes stained with a hollowing concern. Michael felt his heart wrench, feeling pathetic where he was sitting. There he was, suffocating on a cloud of smoke of many cigarettes long since smoked, coughing his troubles away in some attempt to feel something aside from the heartache that always ebbed its way back into the edges of his brain.
When their eyes met, there was a silent communication that seemed to be attempted, though the smoke seemed to carry away the message. After a moment of tension, Michael caved, rolling down the window, releasing his troubles with the slight breeze of the night air. Jeremy coughed, fanning his face with his hands as though that would help the billow of smoke that lunged at him.
“Jesus fuck dude. What the fuck are you doing?” When the air was clear, he opened his eyes to stare at Michael, who pinched the cigarette between his fingers. He nervously flicked it, shedding the ashes to show how desperately he had been sucking at tobacco long since burned.
“Smoking.” He responded plainly, keeping his eyes on the door that separated them. He couldn’t bear to look at him. Not now.
And I know what you’ll say
“Michael, since when did you smoke like this?” His tone was indecipherable. It made Michael want to scream. Pity? Rage? Disgust? He wasn’t able to tell.
“Since the day I gave up and decided to fuck myself over.”
The following minutes confused him. Jeremy stared at him for an uncomfortable amount of time, making his skin crawl. He wanted to shrink away, maybe even die. He knew that his family wouldn’t miss him, and if he could convince Jeremy that he wasn’t worth it, he wouldn’t either. Though all these moments of self-pity were trumped by the very man before him, moving to the other side of the car in silence, opening the door, and sitting beside him. He took in the sight of the ashtray resting in between them, stuffed with the butts of countless cigarettes. He examined it far too long for Michael’s taste, who busied himself by rolling up the window again, stuffing the cigarette in his hand into the ashtray along with the others. He lit a new one, attempting to ignore the way Jeremy’s eyes followed up his arm, then refocusing onto him. Michael didn't ask if him smoking in the car was alright, following through the notions of lighting the end. He was the one who decided to stay, after all. Attempting to decipher why he stayed in the first place frayed Michael’s long since worn nerves. He closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling smoke in an attempt to soothe himself.
“Mikey.” He ignored him at first, far too lost in his thoughts to pay him any mind.
“Michael.” He turned to face him, eyes still watery from before. It added an ethereal look to the already fatigued boy, his features sunken and angular. They stared at one another for a moment, making Michael realize just how much he missed the other. The supple dips and curves of his face, the warmth his complexion and eyes had to offer. The frown on his lips made Michael frustrated.
The young man reached to the package that lie on the square of space just above the cup holder, shaking it just to find it empty. He didn’t make any sort of condescending comment though, merely casting it to the side before grabbing the other, the second of three. The other was still sealed, intentions clear. Jeremy placed it between his lips, Michael staring all the while. He could spend the rest of his days staring at the other, their time apart making it all the more depressing to be around him. As if reading his thoughts, Jeremy turned to him, adjusting his lips so the cigarette stood erect between them. He leaned in, placing a hand on the red leather of the armrest that lie as a pathetic barrier between them. His free hand cupped Michael oh so tenderly just behind his ear. He pressed their cigarettes together, their eye contact never breaking. He was well aware that his cigarette had lit seamlessly, but the proximity kept him frozen there. He slipped his free hand down Michael’s jaw, earning a shudder in turn. He then migrated higher to pluck the cigarette from Michael's lips, then removed his own. His cunning was endearing, Michael useless to refute.
He kissed him.
His tongue tasted of blue raspberry.
His favorite.
And it’s more a question of when than a question of if.
“I thought you wanted to stop,” Michael was breathless. It was the first time that he had ever extinguished a cigarette before it had smoked to the filter, though Jeremy was more persuasive than any D.A.R.E advocate in the school. Jeremy had cornered him in his seat, one hand supporting his weight on the seat they mutually decided to recline, and the other cradling and touching his body as though it were something sacred. It was awkward, but the passion between them spurred them on.
Jeremy licked his lips, breath feathering over Michael’s face. The sweetness of his kisses faded away, growing an itch of his own from the abstinence of his favorite thing to breathe.
“Y’know, you’re addicting Mikey.” He had hardly noticed it before, but there was faint swelling in his eye socket, a slight discoloration bleeding to his cheekbone. He wasn’t entirely sure before, as the only credible source of lighting was the street lamps that stood over the parking lot a meter or so away. He could easily deduce where it came from, his father was never one to take change well. “I think I could live with the consequences if I have you. I’m not too worried about the long-term effects anyways.”
That was all he breathed about before he was on him again, breathing Michael in until he had nothing more to offer.
Since that night you hopped out of my car.
Left behind your American Spirits
He had finally returned home, breathless and content. He was grinning even as he opened the door, well aware of what awaited him with crossed arms and a belt in hand. He didn’t even bother to hide the hickies that Jeremy had left just beneath and above his collar. The basement was cold, but every mark left on his body was warm, every touch lingering longer than his father’s blows would ever hope to.
Even when Liz came down in the aftermath as she always did to confirm Michael’s condition, he was only acutely aware of the blood and swelling transpiring about his bare body. All he could think of was the single cigarette that Jeremy had given him, tucked away in the breast pocket of his shirt.
And I keep a lighter
In my pocket
At all times ‘cause you never know when you’ll need one.
He was the sole reason he returned to school, 7 hours of lingering just for the moments where he got to reunite with him. The stairwell was quiet that day as they hiked down the stairs, the two agreeing that they would spend lunch with one another in the solace that the bleachers had to offer. They made their way across the field, no gym class there to cause any sort of potential risk. Only the buzzing of the nearby woods, and the occasional words spread between them.
He still had that cigarette there, bent and creased in ways that threaten its use, but he didn’t have much of a use for it anymore. He would much rather use his breaths to breathe in the boy of his dreams.
Never know when you’ll need one
They were together for everything. Ever since his little brother died. When Michael insisted on getting a summer job at his father’s pizzeria to get some money, and eventually to see what was going on behind the scenes as his crimes began to grow rampant.
That was until 1987.
“Hey Michael, since when were you a smoker?”
He knew who it was as soon as he heard the news. He had woken up for his night shift, turned on the television idly, the news playing as he cooked himself and Jeremy something to eat. His breakfast, Jeremy’s dinner for when he got home.
Freddy’s was in the news again, garnering Michael's attention. It was never spoken of in a positive light. He was even more aware that Jeremy was the sole man on the job at night. As soon as he heard the name of that god-forsaken diner, he dashed to the living room, eyes wide and skillet sizzling in his hand. His eyes widened when Jeremy’s face flashed on the screen, the news anchor’s voice fading into buzzing in his ears. He felt nauseous as if he was going to vomit.
The hospital visit wasn’t any easier, speeding all the way there only for the nurses to deter him further. After excruciating minutes of persistence, they permitted him inside. He nearly swooned as soon as burst into the room, clamoring to Jeremy’s side in a rush. Bandages only allowed one of his eyes to be exposed, his frame frighteningly still. The only sign his dear Jeremy was grasping onto life was his shallow breathing and heartbeat voiced on monitors. He wasn’t even aware he was crying, grabbing hold of his hand, and shamelessly weeping. Nobody else was there for him, just Michael and a nurse who buzzed about the room to monitor his health. He continued to sob, muttering incoherently to the still man residing in the confines of the hospital bed.
He had to be pulled out of the room by three nurses when he flatlined.
Michael waited inside of Jeremy’s truck, which now belonged to him. He stared absently at the night before him, swerving into a random gas station’s parking lot. He had rummaged through the center console to find his American Spirits, Jeremy’s American Spirits. He lit it with shaking hands, hardly managing to hold the light steady enough to light the cigarette hanging limply from his lips, burning his finger as he shielded it from nothing. Force of habit.
He had entered the gas station whose parking lot he resided in on four separate occasions, buying two packs every time from a man who looked more and more concerned each time. He spent the night smoking away, only aware of the passing of time when the sun illuminated the smoke inside the truck from above. He was dizzy from the smoke he drowned himself in, tears making his face itch.
Since the day I gave up and decided to fuck myself over.
Fuck myself over.