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Three quarters of the world are starving, the rest are dead.
The song pounds in his earbuds as Irving picks up his battered pencil again. Black paint spreads across the canvas, cloaking it in shadow. This is the part he loves most: layering shades of grey to add depth into the scene. It’s always the same scene. It couldn’t be anything else. Not when this image claws its way into his dreams night after night. The corridor shifts in his mind: sometimes distant, sometimes so close he swears he’s one step from the door, one step from whatever waits beyond.
And then there’s the red light. He reaches for the most vivid red in his collection, smearing it across the canvas like a wound. The warning glows against the darkness, a scream in the silence.
The painting is done. And like the others, he doesn’t know what to do with it.
It’s late. Too late to bother fixing dinner, but he’s past the point of hunger anyway. Eating feels more like maintenance than anything. That’s the thing about living alone: survival becomes just another chore. He’s done the rounds: watered the plants, walked Radar, finished another painting. Now it leans against the others in the corner of the living room.
He looks at the growing pile and feels ill. He doesn’t want to think he’s losing his mind. So he reaches for his pack of cigarettes. It’s freezing outside, but the sting of cold feels necessary; something sharp to cut through the suffocating warmth of his apartment. He refuses to smoke indoors. He doesn’t want his space smelling like failure. Not that it matters, no one ever visits. Still, it’s one of those arbitrary rules he clings to, a small barrier against chaos.
But the pack is empty. No cigarettes. Shit. His chest tightens as though his body is already spiraling, panicked at the idea of no nicotine to steady his nerves. The craving takes on a life of its own, now he needs to smoke.
There’s a gas station just ten minutes away, but the snow makes walking impossible. He hates driving but he’s left with no choice. I have to quit, he tells himself again, as he steers the car out of the garage and into the quiet, snow-dusted street.
It’s pathetic, really. He hates seeing himself as the cliché of a lonely, aging man giving in to bad habits. But no matter how much he resents it, that’s exactly what he is. As he drives, he wonders if he’s any different at work. if anyone there might think of him as a friend, or maybe even find him funny, or interesting, or worth remembering at all.
The thought follows him as he parks and steps into the convenience store. It’s empty, apart from a cashier barely keeping their eyes open. The smell of burnt coffee hits him as he grabs a paper cup and heads for the espresso machine.
A familiar melody drifts through the quiet: Congratulations by Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. He stops. He hasn’t heard this song in years, probably not since after his father died, more than two decades ago. Back then, the lyrics felt like an eerie echo of his father’s own journey after spending most of his life in the Navy.
He was gone two years, two years
That I thought it would never end
Now P.F.C. Williams is just plain Old Jimmy again
At first, the song feels almost hopeful, like there’s redemption in the distance. But then the reality sinks in with the chorus.
His face has grown old and his eyes have grown cold
And they tell you of where he has been
Congratulations, you sure made a man out of him.
That’s it. The emptiness. The hollowness of coming home, of being lost outside of your duty. Irving feels it now, in his own way. He thinks about his life at Lumon, how he never really leaves. There’s no home to go back to, no place that feels real. Just a life that’s lost in the endless cycle of a job he can’t even begin to understand. It’s like being adrift without the anchor of purpose.
The paper cup is filled, but he’s just standing there, disconnected. As the fog starts to lift from his mind, a bell rings above the door. He’s at the back of the store, so he doesn’t see who’s entered. I just need to get a pack and leave, he thinks. It’s well past midnight, and he’s having an existential crisis over a Nancy Sinatra song in a gas station.
He steps toward the counter, only to notice that the cashier is now wide awake, talking animatedly with the new customer. The two of them are laughing, talking about something on TV, but Irving doesn’t catch it. He doesn’t even have a TV. His attention drifts to the cigarettes on the wall, the only thing that seems to matter in the moment.
Then a voice breaks through his thoughts.
"Is that it?"
It’s the cashier, asking about his coffee. Now, both of them are staring at him, and for the first time, he notices the stranger’s face. A face that somehow feels strangely familiar, like something out of a memory he can’t quite place.
“And a pack of American Spirit Blues, please.”
The cashier nods and leans back to grab it, and just as Irving lowers his gaze, the man beside him speaks.
“Cold night, isn’t it?” His voice is deep, steady; calming, somehow. Irving looks at him properly now, and his eyes catch him off guard. A pale and blueish grey, soft and vivid. It’s the kind of color Irving separates from his other paints, careful not to let it mix with the darker, harsher shades.
Then there’s his hair. It’s grey too, but uneven, darker at the crown, fading toward the edges. There’s a gradient to it, like a deliberate stroke of a brush. It looks impossibly soft.
“Yes, it has been a cold month,” he replies, handing over the cash and preparing to leave. He keeps his gaze low, avoiding any lingering looks. After all, he’s just spent far too long studying this man, and there’s a sinking feeling that he wasn’t exactly subtle about it.
The man’s presence unnerves him, a strange mix of fascination and discomfort. The thought of being so affected by a stranger feels humiliating.
“Well, goodnight,” he says, voice stiff as he heads for the door. But as he steps outside, the cold bites hard, and the snow blinds him. There’s a heavy storm and his car is nothing but a vague silhouette.
He stands on the sidewalk, pulling his coat tighter as he fumbles with his cigarette and lighter. The wind howls, relentless, snuffing out every flicker of flame before it catches. He curses under his breath, the frustration building like the frost on his fingers.
“Fuck,” he mutters for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. He exhales sharply, watching his breath dissolve into the icy air. I just wanted a fucking cigarette.
It’s pointless. He can’t make it to the car. The cold cuts through his thin jacket like a blade, and he knows he wouldn’t get far without freezing. Driving in this storm is out of the question. Defeated, he turns back, pushing open the door to face the two men who now watch him with sympathetic eyes.
“How bad is it?” the cashier asks.
“I can’t even see my car,” Irving says, his voice tinged with defeat.
“Storm won’t last too long. You’re better off staying in here,” the cashier says kindly.
Irving nods stiffly, his jaw tight. He doesn’t want to stay here. He doesn’t want to make small talk or sit in awkward silence with two strangers, one of which clearly has an affect on him.
His nerves are fraying, and his craving is unbearable. Finally, he exhales sharply and asks, “Would it be okay if I smoked in here? I’ll go to the restroom or wherever—it doesn’t matter. I just really need it.”
The silence stretches just long enough to make Irving want to disappear. I sound like a loser. The thought claws at him, and he’s ready to bolt, face the snow, and leave. But then, the man chuckles softly, breaking the tension.
“Yeah, no problem. There is no smoke detector. I might join you, actually. Got a lighter?”
The casual response takes him completely off guard. “I—yeah. I do,” he stammers, pulling the lighter and pack from his coat. As he hands them over, the man smiles.
“You want a drink to go with it? Something from the freezer?” He nods toward the beer section.
Irving considers it for a second but shakes his head. “No, I’ll just stick to coffee,” he says, trying to keep his tone light.
“Suit yourself.”
Irving heads to the back of the store to refill his coffee, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. As he stands there, he notices the music again, clearer this time, realizing he's right beneath the speaker. The voice feels familiar, though the song doesn’t immediately come to him.
I finally broke into the prison,
I found my place in the chain
A low, melodic voice floats in from the front of the store, distinct and unhurried. “Even damnation is poisoned with rainbow,” someone is singing, likely the other customer. The voice is rich and warm, and Irving finds himself smiling as he makes his way back to their small group.
"All the brave young men, they’re waiting now to see a signal which some killer will be lighting for pay,” the voice belongs to the pretty stranger, of course. Irving can’t help but think how fitting it is that someone so beautiful would have a perfect voice to match. The stranger notices him approaching and smiles, an unspoken invitation. They’ve arranged a few chairs by the counter, and one sits empty, waiting for Irving. He settles in, his cigarette perched loosely between his lips, keeping his gaze lowered as the stranger continues singing.
After a pause, he looks at Irving, his expression thoughtful. “He was probably the best songwriter in the world,” he says, almost reverently. “He had a gift for articulating profound loneliness in ways that felt deeply familiar. I don’t think there’ll ever be another like him.”
Irving shifts in his seat, unsure how to respond. Finally, he ventures, “I don’t think I recognize the song. Who is it?” His voice comes out quieter than he intended, almost shy.
“It’s Leonard Cohen.”
“Oh…” Irving feels a wave of embarrassment crash over him. Of course it’s Leonard Cohen. Famously, the best songwriter in the world. He feels like he’s just failed a test. He nods, trying to play it off. What am I supposed to say now? I’ve never really gotten into Leonard Cohen.
He can’t admit that. Not with this beautiful stranger sitting across from him, looking like he could quote Leonard Cohen in his sleep. Irving is the kind of guy who can talk about obscure punk bands for hours, but when it comes to 70s singer-songwriters, he's completely out of his depth.
He thinks of his studio, where stacks of old punk tapes fill the walls. Crass, Conflict, Rudimentary Peni, all the raw, angry sounds of his youth that still seem to suit him.
“Not your kind of music?” He asks, one eyebrow arched, his lips curling into a playful grin.
“Oh, no, I like Cohen,” Irving says quickly. “The little I’ve heard of him is great. I just don’t typically... go for music like that.” He winces inwardly, cringing at how stupid that sounds. He takes a drag from his cigarette, forcing himself to meet the stranger’s gaze, and in doing so, catches the spark in those grayish, impossibly beautiful eyes.
The stranger leans in slightly, his grin widening. “What is it that you listen to, then?”
Irving exhales smoke and shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Really bad punk bands from the late seventies and early eighties. Like real bad. The kind where no one in the band could play their instruments properly.”
“You used to be a punk?” The cashier asks, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and interest.
“If you can believe that,” Irving replies with a shrug, though his tone carries more irony than conviction. He can’t help but think about how little he resembles his younger self now. With his gray hair, lean frame, and a face etched by time, he looks more like someone’s boring uncle. Probably just another tired, divorced guy who should’ve retired years ago. Nothing about him screams personality.
"You’re smoking indoors, on a weeknight, like rules don’t apply to you. Feels like you still have some fight left." His tone is dry, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward.
The comment catches Irving off guard, and he laughs. Really laughs. It’s the kind of laugh he hasn’t heard from himself in a while, and for a moment, he realizes he’s actually enjoying himself.
“I never got your name,” the other customer says, eyes glimmering with curiosity.
“Irving.”
“Nice to meet you, Irving. I’m Burt,” the man replies with a smile that’s both easy and knowing. He gestures toward the cashier. “And this is Bob.”
-
The storm refused to let up, howling against the windows for another hour. It was enough time for Irving to get to know his new companions a little better. Or at least until Bob retreated to the supply closet. “I’ve got a pillow back there. Call me when you’re leaving. And don’t steal anything over ten bucks,” he muttered, disappearing with a casual wave.
That left Irving alone with Burt.
Burt, as it turned out, was also a Lumon worker. Well, a retired one. He talked about his love for gardening, morning talk shows, and Russian novels. “An old spirit before I was old,” he described himself with a small chuckle, now fully embracing the quiet rhythms of retired life. He kept the conversation light, steering it away from anything too personal after briefly mentioning his days at Lumon. Irving wanted to ask more, but he wasn’t even sure what more would be.
“What about you?” Burt asked after a while.
“What about me?”
“You’ve barely told me anything about yourself. All I know is that you have questionable taste in music and smoke American Spirit Blues. Which, frankly, tells me more than you think.” Burt’s smirk had that warm edge Irving was finding himself far too fond of.
“You’re making me sound cooler than I actually am,” Irving said with a shrug. But when he saw Burt was waiting for more, he sighed and continued, “I don’t know. I like to paint. I have a dog named Radar. I spent some time in the Navy, and honestly, that life might’ve been even more sinister than whatever we do at Lumon. I buy cigarettes at convenience stores in the middle of the night. I’m old. I don’t own a TV. And…” He paused, smirking back now, “I don’t really care for Leonard Cohen.”
He delivered the last line with a mock-sassy tilt, leaning into the exhaustion that had softened into comfort in Burt’s presence.
Burt laughed, his hand naturally landing on Irving’s arm. “Blasphemy,” he teased.
Their shared smile lingered as Burt’s hand rested casually on Irving’s arm. Irving didn’t move, didn’t even glance down, afraid that acknowledging it would make Burt think twice and withdraw.
Three layers of clothing, and still his skin burned where Burt’s fingers rested. How long had it been since he felt this way? Had he ever? He’d given up on dating years ago, not long after leaving the Navy. The idea of intimacy had seemed impossible. No one could make him feel at ease, not after everything he’d been through. Every attempt at connection left him hollow and frustrated; no one ever got close enough to be worth the effort.
And yet, here he was, his composure crumbling from the simplest touch of a man he’d only known for hours.
“Irving…” Burt said after a moment of silence.
“Yes?” There was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Will we ever see each other again?”
Irving hesitated, caught off guard. A valid question. An uncomfortable one. There was no real reason for them to lose touch after tonight. They got along well. It had been ages since Irving had felt this connected to someone, especially someone he’d just met. But he knew himself. And, apparently, so did Burt.
Irving was a loner. He had no friends. He found nothing more dreadful than being casual. Could he visit Burt someday? Could they go for a walk together? He wanted to. More than anything. But the thought felt distant, like a life he wasn’t meant to live. So instead, he wished the storm would never end. That he could stay here forever; feeling Burt’s quiet touches, listening to him talk about everything and nothing.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I don’t have any friends.” It was pathetic, but he was past the point of shame.
Burt smiled, something unreadable in the curve of his lips. “Great. I could be your first.” Then, after a pause, “But that’s not what I meant. I’d like to take you out on a date.”
Irving went completely still. His mind blanked. Seconds stretched impossibly long, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
“I’m sorry,” Burt said quickly. “I must’ve misread the situation. I thought there was something here. My apologies, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He started to pull his hand away, but Irving caught it faster than he realized. Now, he was holding Burt’s hand. It was warm. Or maybe Irving was burning. It certainly felt like it.
“You didn’t misread anything. Don’t apologize,” Irving rushes to say “I just… don’t get it. There are a million reasons I’d want to go out with you, but why would you want to go out with me?”
Burt studies him for a moment, then smiles. “Because I find you incredibly attractive.”
Irving feels his face heat up.
“And because I like being around you,” Burt adds. “You make me curious. I want to know more; see your paintings, meet your dog. But if that’s too much, we can start small. Dinner, maybe. Or breakfast, if we’re still stuck here by morning.”
Irving exhales, steadying himself. “I’d like that. But I should warn you, I might be difficult to date.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’ve never been in a serious relationship.”
“That’s also fine.”
“I’m very methodical.”
“I am too.”
And then, because Irving starts to see this as a game, because it’s so late at night, because Burt looks beautiful under these fluorescent lights, and because he’s terrified of ruining this before it even begins, he says:
“I’ve never kissed a man.”
He’s straightforward about it. He has to be. Burt has been nothing but gentle with his hesitations so far, but what if this is the breaking point? What if Burt doesn’t need a middle-aged man who never got the chance to explore his own sexuality, especially when Burt himself seems so open about it? The thought is suffocating. His heart hammers, and he’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t realize Burt is leaning in until he’s impossibly close. The world tilts. Irving’s breath catches. His eyes flutter shut like a defense mechanism.
The first touch is barely there: a soft, fleeting peck. Even with his eyes closed, Irving feels Burt smile against his lips, and something inside him melts. He smiles too. Burt takes that as a green light, tilting in again. They’re so close now, sharing the same air. The anticipation is dizzying. Irving feels like he could pass out.
“Is this okay?” Burt whispers.
"Yeah," he replies, or at least makes a sound that’s meant to be confirmation. But then it happens. It feels like something new, something he’s been waiting for without knowing it. Kissing was always this soft, this tender? Or is it just Burt? The way his lips press so gently against his own… He doesn’t move at first, just lost in the feeling, until he feels Burt’s hand at the back of his neck, guiding him. Slowly, Burt tilts his head, and he follows, clumsy, trying to keep up. He’s not sure what he’s doing, but he doesn’t care. He wants this to last forever: kissing Burt while the storm rages outside, the soft hum of music wrapping around them like it’s meant for no one else.
But I will still be here
I have no thought of leaving
I do not count the time
For who knows where the time goes?
He’s so lost in the moment that the noise from the supply closet barely registers. It’s Burt who pulls away first, leaving him dazed for a second. When he catches Irving’s expression, he laughs softly.
“Did you hear that?” Burt murmurs, still so close their breaths mingle.
“What?”
“There’s a noise coming from the supply closet.”
Only now does Irving hear it. Shit. Sounds like Bob is making his way to the front again. He stiffens, instinct kicking in, and immediately steps back. The rush of anxiety is almost dizzying. Burt notices—of course he does—and squeezes his hand before letting go. His voice is calm, steady.
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
And then Bob is back in the circle, his eyes half-lidded, still swimming somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. He blinks at them sluggishly before his face lights up in recognition.
“Oh, thank God. I thought you two had left. Or—” He rubs his face. “Might’ve dreamt that, actually.”
Irving’s heart is hammering, but Burt, as always, is composed. He smiles easily.
“Still here. Snow’s still strong.”
Bob exhales, glancing at the windows. “Yeah, I noticed. Damn, thought it’d pass quick.”
Burt follows his gaze, watching the snow swirl under the streetlights. It’s almost hypnotic. “Give it another hour,” he says. “If you want to take another nap in the meantime, we’ll wake you when it stops.”
Bob hesitates, torn between responsibility and exhaustion. Eventually, sleep wins out. He grunts, running a hand over his face.
“Yeah. Think I’ll do that. Thanks, Burt.”
And just like that, he shuffles off again, leaving the store silent except for the storm and the lingering hum of music. Irving and Burt remain still, listening as the door clicks shut. Only when it’s fully closed does Burt turn to Irving, who hasn’t moved since they pulled apart.
“Well, that was clos—” Irving cuts him off with a kiss. Urgent, reckless. A surprised sound escapes Burt, but he recovers quickly, parting his lips to let Irving in. Now they’re really kissing, and Irving is the one taking charge. It feels like his whole life led to this moment, like there’s no reason to hit pause. He’s never been good at stopping once he’s started. Burt pulls Irving in, one hand tugging at his jacket, the other threading through his curls, soft and tender. In that instant, Irving feels an overwhelming rush of warmth, a quiet love for the way Burt’s hand moves through his hair, for the way this moment feels like it was meant to happen.
They only pull apart when they need to breathe, but Irving always comes back, eager to return to where they left off. Time feels stretched, like hours, yet fleeting, like seconds. Irving has so much he wants to say to Burt, but words fail him, so instead, he kisses him again, and again, and again. Each kiss is an expression of his feelings, and Burt lets him, letting the silent communication unfold. He lets Irving touch his hair and hold him close. He also allows Irving to kiss his cheeks and his neck. As their connection deepens, Burt smiles, feeling the bond between them grow stronger with each passing moment.
The storm is gone, but neither of them notices at first. Their foreheads are pressed together, breaths soft and in sync, a quiet intimacy that drowns out the world.
Irving is the first to sense the change. His eyes are closed, as if savoring the stillness, before he whispers, “It stopped. The storm.”
Burt exhales slowly, “Oh,” He lingers on the moment, then asks, almost hesitantly, “Should we call Bob?”
Irving doesn’t answer immediately, his hand resting lightly on Burt’s arm, grounding him in the moment. “Probably,” he says, but his voice is soft, unwilling to break the fragile peace between them. Neither of them moves.
Burt’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You don’t want to go?”
Irving’s breath catches, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Do you?”
Burt’s eyes glimmer with amusement, but there’s something deeper, something more vulnerable beneath the surface. “No,” he admits with a soft laugh. “But honestly, if it were up to me, I’d just stay right here forever.”
Irving’s gaze softens. “I feel the same.”
They stare at each other, as if trying to hold onto the instant, to the quiet comfort between them.
Burt’s voice cracks the stillness again. “Say you’ll call me.”
Irving’s expression is steady, but there’s a tenderness to it. “I will call you.”
Burt shakes his head, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I don’t think you will.”
Irving touches his cheek, a gesture so simple yet so full of meaning. He leans in, his voice firm, a vow in every syllable. “I promise.”
Burt glances at Irving, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as the song plays softly in the background. “Do you know this one?”
Irving raises an eyebrow, shaking his head with a soft smile. “No. I told you, folk music isn’t my scene.”
"It’s called Little Bit of Rain," Burt responds, his tone gentle but unwavering. “I’m convinced it’s the most beautiful song in the world.”
If I should leave you
Try to remember all the good times
Long days filled with sunshine
And just a little bit of rain
Their gazes meet, both silent, their hands meeting in a quiet, natural gesture. Standing up together, neither of them rushes. They’re not in a hurry, the world outside can wait a little longer.
Irving might quit cigarettes one day, but he knows one thing for sure: he’ll be eternally grateful for the bad habit that brought him here, to this very moment, with Burt by his side.