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“Do you ever miss it?”
“Hmm?” Ghoul mumbles distractedly around the joint in his mouth, fumbling with the lighter a bit. It’s windy tonight and the damn thing won’t stay lit long enough for the paper to really catch.
Poison sighs and sits up. He leans over where Fun Ghoul is sprawled out on the hood of the Trans Am and cups his hands- bigwarmgentleartist’s hands - around Ghoul’s, blocking out the wind. The edge of his pinky where their skin meets feels flushed with warmth. Warmth always seems to radiate from Poison. Something about them just bleeds fire.
The joint lights and Ghoul sucks the smoke down deep, letting it reach all the way to the aching craving at the bottom of his lungs. He can’t remember the last time they scored cigarettes out here in the Zones, let alone weed. It really was their lucky day.
“Do you ever miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Before-” Poison gestures broadly, vaguely, sweeping his arm around, “-before all this?”
Ghoul huffs out a bitter laugh. “I think everyone misses it, dude.”
“Okay, fine,” Poison says. “Maybe I’m asking the wrong question.”
“Maybe you are.” He takes another draw from the joint, smaller this time. Poison is eyeing it in a really unsubtle way, even for him. He rolls his eyes and hands it over, chuckling more genuinely at the way it’s snatched away with a razor sharp flash of a smile as quick as he can blink, like Poison thinks it belongs to them. He thinks everything is his. That, at the very least, includes weed. He’s kinda always been a possessive, benignly entitled bastard, and Ghoul likes him so, so much. “You wanna try that again?” he drawls.
Poison shakes his head, coughing a bit on the exhale. They always did try to take on more than they could really handle. “In a while, maybe. Gotta think about it.” He quickly raises the joint back up to his mouth, the cherry lighting up bright red and matching his hair. It’s glowing in the last bit of the sunset like it’s on fire too, a wild, burning halo that’s utterly incongruous with his delicate eyelashes but right at home among beat up leather boots and calloused knuckles.
It’s a pretty picture, and something Ghoul might have stopped to take a picture of, before, to keep in a scrapbook of memories or secreted away in his wallet between tours. They don’t make cameras anymore, but even if they did manage to find one, there’d be no one to develop the film. He’ll never take a picture of him again. It hits him like an ax to the breastbone, out of nowhere, the ache sudden and leaving him breathless.
“I miss it,” he says, confessing so quickly and quietly he’s honestly not sure if Poison can even hear him over the sounds of the desert at dusk. It's been almost six years since the bombs fell. Everything has changed, but this- this thing, between them- has stayed the same. Poison just knows how to make him feel things he'd rather not look at directly. Always has.
Poison nods, though, small and stiff against the windshield. "Yeah?" They hold out the joint again, and he takes it back, just to have something to do with his frigid hands. He'll never get used to how quickly the desert cold sets in at night.
The weed is good though, surprisingly good, and it settles something in his bones and blurs him out, leaving him feeling just into the realm of fuzzy.
"It's not fair," he says suddenly, breathing out his third hit. Poison mumbles an assent, an odd, troubled look in the set of his face. "It's not fair," he repeats, louder this time. More desperate. He's the one who sits up, then, and leans over Poison, needing to look them in the eye. Poison looks back steadily, his expression unreadable. "I- fuck," he swears, his arm braced on the car next to his stupid goddamn face. "Fucking Christ, Gerard, of course I miss it." His voice is shaky, crackling like he might cry. And isn't that something? He hasn't cried in ages, only to end up with all this over wanting to take his picture, of all things.
"I miss it too, you know," he says quietly, patting his shoulder rather ineffectually before he visibly hesitates. "Don't- don't say my name. I mean, we shouldn't. Who knows if they've got cyber flies planted around here."
He flops back with a huff. "A little late for the warning." He takes another drag off the joint. It's nearly gone. He offers it up to them, one last time. Poison finishes it off in two swift pulls, stubbing the homemade cardboard filter out on the hood of the car and then dropping it onto the sand.
There's something he wants to say. But Poison beats him to the punch. "You on watch, tonight?" he asks, fiddling with a loose string at his wrist.
"No," he answers. "It's Jet and the Kid, tonight." He can see them, actually, a ways away, where they're out on the ridge gathering up the last pieces of wood they'll need for tonight's fire. They'll head back in the next couple minutes, he guesses. "I'm just on dinner duty. You'll never guess what we're having."
They smile wryly. "Is it canned?"
"You know it, baby," he laughs. Well, it's somewhere between a laugh and a giggle. Maybe the weed was stronger than he realized.
"Shit, I'd kill for something real. Some fruit, oh my god," Poison practically whines.
"You're such a complainer," Ghoul teases.
"Oh, fuck off," he grumbles, valiantly fighting back a smile.
He laughs again. It's just so easy to rile him up. Then he frowns. The light is fading quickly. The glow is about to leave where it sits, high and golden on Poison's cheek. Damn.
"What?"
"What?" he echos dumbly.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Poison asks.
"I'm not looking at you like anything," he retorts, and gets nothing but a sternly raised eyebrow for his efforts. "Fine, fine," he continues hastily. "I just- " and fuck there's that choking-up feeling again. Poison waits while he tucks his forehead against his own knees, silently begging the emotion rising in him to go the hell away.
"I just wish I could take your picture," he says, when he can breathe again. "The light, and your face just now, just you. You look beautiful," he finishes miserably, picking his head back up.
Poison looks utterly stricken. Devastated, even.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes quickly.
"You're sorry?" he asks incredulously, his voice pinched.
"Forget it. It's stupid-" he shifts to get off of the hood but Poison's hand shoots out, lightning quick, latching onto his wrist in a vice grip and keeping him up there with him.
"It's not," he breathes. The worry lines on his forehead and around his eyes deepen. Ghoul can't tear his eyes off him. "It's not stupid."
"No?" he asks, still feeling wrong-footed and unsure.
"No," Poison says, searching his eyes for something. Whatever they find there seems to answer whatever question they had. His voice lowers, intently. "It's not stupid, Frankie."
The point of contact encircling his wrist is incandescent. He feels his face blush with it, the heat racing through his body and propelled by his wildly jumping heart. Whatever Gerard sees in him right now, it's too much. Frank doesn't want him to see. He wants to hide, jump away, pull his hand free and never let Gerard look into his fucking soul like this again.
Instead he nods, helplessly, unable to speak, afraid he'll miss something important in his state. Gerard's other hand comes up to the side of his face, thumb moving the hair out of his eyes and then settling on his cheek like a brand. He looks at him, then leans in, his eyes unbearably tender.
The tiny kiss Gerard brushes at the corner of his mouth feels inevitable. And the next. And the next. And the next.