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You never considered loving him.
You never thought about what it might be like to trade knife sharp words for something softer, less biting, just barbed enough so it doesn't get boring.
You’ve never wondered what it might be like to just ask him what’s wrong when he gets that faraway look in his eyes, all quiet and still.
You’ve never considered rubbing his back when he gets sick, immune system repressed so your organs don't lash out and kill him.
You don’t ever think about reaching across that arm's length distance in the night and just. Slipping your hand into his. Letting him know you’re there, in every way you can be, in every way he'd let you.
(You certainly never think about stomping over there and grabbing his face to get a taste of that smoke that gets to linger on his lips for your goddamn self.)
You don’t think about it.
YOU DON’T THINK ABOUT IT.
Ok?
Ok. Great.
Next to you, Grif finishes his cigarette and makes to stand. You can see his quizzical look when you glance over your arms resting on the top of your knees that you’ve unintentionally pulled close to your chest.
You put your head back down between your arms. You can’t look at his eyes or hair or lips or hands or chest or him right now.
You wait for the sound of footsteps leaving you to your silliness.
He…
You hear a sigh and a thump as he sits back down.
With the flick of a cheap old lighter, he lights another cigarette, a gray haze drifting up to blur out everything but his face, which is left in more detail than one can stand.
Cherry red light illuminates the plushness of his lips, the roughness of his scruff, the softness in the curve of his chin. He drags a hand through frizzy curls, pulling out his hair tie. He shakes his head back and forth once, sending dark brown waves to freely flow over his shoulders. His hair tie gets pulled onto his wrist and he takes another drag of his cigarette.
You feel electric, like you did the wiring backwards on your arm and now lightning runs from it to you, to your heart, to your hands, to your lungs. You can barely breathe.
Oh shit wait fuck you actually can’t breathe goddamnit shit-
You scrabble for your inhaler that's in- here- somewhere-! Where the fuck did you put it- There! You pull it out of the depths of a pocket but in your haste, fumble it and it falls from your hands.
The sound of plastic sliding across concrete rings in your ears as Grif pushes the inhaler back to you, turning away towards his right to blow out a long stream of smoke down at the ground beneath the platform you’re on.
You swiftly grab the inhaler, shaking it before putting it in your mouth. You breathe in deeply, cheeks burning in the chill night. It’s quiet, so very quiet. You hold for a moment longer, then breathe out, long and far less cool than Grif’s billowing smoke.
You peek out the corner of your eye at him. He’s stubbed out his cigarette but it still dangles from his- hands.
You look away over your other shoulder, scanning the land and night sky for anything to focus on. The stars are so beautiful. They look at you and make you feel safe and warm and like maybe you haven’t fucked up every single thing you’ve ever touched. The stars, yes the stars , do this.
You hear a huff and turn back towards Grif. He’s smiling, just the barest hint in the darkness.
“So, ever wonder why we’re here?”
God fucking lord have you.
“That’s- That’s my line you dick.” It’s the most you can say, still breathless.
“Well you weren’t saying it so…” He grins.
“I was having an asthma attack you mother fucker! I swear to god-” There you go, train back on its rails.
This is where you always end up. Under sun or stars, bickering about something that couldn’t matter less.
It’s…
Okay. You’ll admit that it’s not completely awful all of the time.
It’s what you’ve got.
You’re so fucking good at not thinking about things, so you’ll just continue to not think about things you already haven’t been thinking about.
Fucking easy.
(Somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, the image of plush lips awash with maroon light, tucks itself away. It waits, knowing well that it won’t be long till it’s pulled out of storage, the memory run through your mind’s eye like fabric in your hands. If a clump of neurons could have an expression, it would smirk.)