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Sam’s still got that New Kid Shine about him, even though by now he really ought to be all but. Harrison is much greener than him, but she doesn’t really act the part: Keeping her head down, hanging around with the old-timers; she’s starting to look gray and weary by association, even if the others are still giving her the new kid grace period. Isaacs can relate. Whenever he sees himself shaving in the mirror, it feels like his face can’t decide whether it’s 25 years old or 45.
But Harrison buckles down, or so Isaacs has heard. Her work ethic is not really his business, unless he was left to pick up the slack for her, but so far she’s been holding her own. She doesn’t talk much, and she has no reason to talk to him in particular, but she’s nice enough, and she’s certainly never called him at the ass crack of dawn asking if he can cover a shift for her like some other folks he could name, nor has she bummed what must be dozens of cigarettes off him whenever she sees him having a smoke.
Isaacs doesn’t mind when it’s Sam doing it, is the thing.
He used to mind, probably, ages ago. But then Sam approached him with a broad grin, eyes full of New Kid Shine - not like he's never worked in the Scarlet mines before, more like he's never worked a day in his life, period. Like the world was his oyster and he knew it, with a face that never even glanced in the direction of 45. And he put a hand on Isaacs' shoulder, and he said: "What's up, man? Isaacs, was it?", just like that.
Sam's like this with everyone, at least as far as the touching is concerned. Thank god. He doesn't even seem to think about it, really, tapping Baker's shoulder when he needs something, putting a hand on Harrison's back that one time she got the call about her sister having another embolism, even pushing back directly against Davis' broad chest when he'd been about to walk into a low-hanging strut. Isaacs doesn't know how Sam does it. During his time at school, the others were able to smell that there was something faggy about him from the start, and therefore, he was not to be touched.
“You got a smoke?” Sam asks, easy smile, hand-on-shoulder, like it’s not the first time Isaacs has seen him in days.
“Sure,” he replies, because it’s the least embarrassing way of spelling out of course.
So maybe Isaacs is soft on Sam in a way that’s not just due to him being the new kid for the better part of a year now. Sue him for having a part of the job he’s actually looking forward to. Maybe it’s nice having someone pay attention to him. Ain’t no need to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s not like Isaacs minds working below ground anyway, they all have to pull nightmare shifts eventually, and Isaacs still has enough life left in him to stomach it.
So of course he’s got smokes to spare. It’s a small price to pay.
There’s a few spots on the premises where smoking is permitted. Where Isaacs and Sam go to smoke isn’t any of them. But it’s secluded, away from the worst of the dust clouds, and that’s…something.
It sure is something, being secluded with another man. All the same, Isaacs is sure this isn’t anything Sam has to think about, if he ever spends any time thinking about anything they do together in the first place.
Sam hasn’t got a lighter, either, but it’s part of muscle memory by now to light his cigarette for him while it’s held between white teeth of a crooked smile. Fuck if Isaacs knows if that’s normal. Figures Sam wouldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t a guy thing to do.
Not like Isaacs knows shit about that, either.
He grabs beers with the guys because that’s the done thing, that’s the only way to ever talk about anything that’s got nothing to do with work, but in truth, he never used to do much talking before Sam came around. He’d nurse his beer because he never had anything more interesting to add than yeah and I guess, and he can’t even stand the Devils because his mother raised him right (go Tar Heels), so he knows to keep his mouth shut when half a dozen borderline geriatric miners swap their opinions on sports and try to convince each other that they could have gone pro back in the day if it weren’t for this and that.
Bullshit. It’s this or McDonald’s for the rest of your life until you want to dunk your head in the fryer. It’s a grim fucking world when coal mining is the better deal out of the two, but what’s Isaacs going to do? Enlist? He’s thought about it, of course, like all the guys he grew up with undoubtedly have. In the end, there’s barely any difference between breaking his back for the Scarlets and breaking his back for Uncle Sam himself, but the latter scares the hell out of him in ways that he can barely even name. It’s a matter of survival, in the end.
And yet, it’s something, to have Sam call over his shoulder, “Hey, Nick, I’ll see you tonight, right?” when quitting his shift, because the last person to call him by his first name was his mother, and damn, he should really call her again, because two months have come and gone since the last time that happened. Not that Isaacs ever knows what to say to her. His schedule leaves precious little opportunity to do much of anything with his time, there’s just no space between work and sleep to gather any fun anecdotes to pass on in order to make her believe he’s getting somewhere in life. So he says “I’m doing fine, how about you?” and she’d say “Oh, I can’t complain”, and they’re both not exactly lying, but they’re sure as hell not telling each other the whole truth of it.
Sometimes, he’s tempted to say something along the lines of “so I’ve met this guy…”, but he knows he never will. It’s useless, nothing will ever come of it, anyway, and somehow, the only thing more desperately lonely than never mentioning any friends at all to his mother is telling her about the guy whose shifts he’s covering once a week, the guy who bums a smoke off him every now and again. It’s sad, is what it is, and his mother doesn’t need to know that.
Ma, I’ve met this guy. No, I don’t know where he’s from. We just talk sometimes, when our breaks overlap, and we go drinking together, him and me and the guys. We live in the same street, Ma, so there’s a good stretch of road where it’s just us, walking together, in the dead of night with truly nobody around…
If he’s honest with himself, he can barely imagine a world where he even makes it past the first sentence.
So Sam bums a smoke, fire and a few more minutes of Isaacs’ time. All in all, it’s not a bad deal. Not like he was doing anything more exciting with all three of those things.
“Did you manage to get that ticket sorted?” Sam asks, by the by, and Isaacs is stunned for a good few moments. Not because he doesn’t know what Sam’s talking about, fucking hell, he’s been trying to play the waiting game until his next paycheck comes in so he can afford the fine for one horrendous parking job a town over before he’s declared an enemy of the state for being poor. It’s one of those things that’s always nagging at the back of his mind even as he’s trying to enjoy the few bright spots in his life. He’s been having stress dreams about the damn thing. But what he can’t figure out is how the hell Sam would know, until he vaguely recalls mentioning it the last time Johnson was bitching about having his death trap on wheels impounded. Sam’s the type to remember these sorts of details, and it makes Isaacs feel like a piece of shit because he isn’t, probably because he’s not even trying all that hard. He’s learned within his first month on job, in another town, in another mine, that they’re all replaceable, and now that he’s in the know he can’t put that cat back into the bag. He can’t go back to a world in which they’re not all nothing more than a collection of nametags that can be taken off the board and removed from the lockers in a matter of minutes. But he’s been paying attention as of late, if only because he doesn’t want to look like an ass in front of Sam.
Here’s what Isaacs knows: Sam has some half-siblings somewhere in the States, but they don’t talk, which could be a minefield of a topic, or could be nothing. He drives a Yamaha motorcycle, which is fun and a little hot. He bought it used many years ago, and it was already ancient then, so any drive could be its last. He’s mentioned ex-girlfriends before, so that’s good for Sam if nothing else. Isaacs has no idea what to do with this information or how to drop it into a conversation in the effortless way Sam does when he’s being aggressively likeable. But he can hold onto it, at least. Possibly forever.
“Eh, it’ll sort itself. Just waiting for my paycheck to come in.” At least they’ve always been paid on time at the Scarlet mines. He’s worked places where you couldn’t even count on that.
“Have you seen the boss around?”
Sam doesn’t say this with the weariness invoking either of the Scarlets on one of their few breaks calls for. He sounds almost conspiratorial, which doesn’t bode well, but Isaacs also can’t deny that the prospect of sharing something other than cigarettes with Sam doesn’t call to him in a way that borders on pathetic. He can face the truth: He’s a sucker for Sam, the laid-back, devil-may-care kind of guy.
“Which one?” he asks. “‘Cause I saw Pearlanne storm through earlier, mad as hell - not that I’ve ever seen her any other way. I think she was out for Zachs’ blood today.”
Sam grimaces. “Well, she’s shit out of luck there. I don’t think there’s any blood left in his body, there’s nothing more to him than gristle and spite.”
Isaacs’ lips curl into a smile around his cigarette. “No idea where the other one is, though. Why do you want to know? Don’t tell me you’re planning on playing hooky.”
Wouldn’t be the first time. Sam’s looking to New Kid Shine his way out of any trouble, it seems.
“Not with Scarlet senior on the warpath,” he says, shaking his head. “But I actually have somewhere to be later.”
Isaacs takes a long drag on his cigarette. He’s pretty sure Sam wants him to ask for details, but he still has some pride, so he silently waits for the other man to continue.
“You ever been up in the estate, Nick?”
Isaacs squints at him quizzically. “What the hell would I want there?”
Even passing below the cliff where the estate is perched like a decrepit buzzard waiting for its next meal is enough to make him shudder. He finds himself pulling his jacket tighter around his body and hastening his steps until he’s left its looming shadow behind, and he’s watched others on their way home, so he knows he’s not the only one. Maybe it’s the fact that the entire building looks liable to crumble downhill any minute now. Maybe it’s some deeper superstition that’s spread from the old-timers to them, the young blood, the fresh meat. Maybe you just turn a little strange when you start to take root in the Holler.
But hey, they get paid on time. That’s something.
Sam steps closer, leaning towards him like he’s about to let him in on something big. Isaacs can’t tell whether the smoke he’s smelling is coming from Sam or from his own cigarette.
But this is exactly how Sam acted when he’d told him the cafeteria had put garlic rolls back on the menu, so it’s anyone’s guess what he’s going to come out with next.
“Because the boss invited me there.” Like it’s the only obvious answer. He doesn’t have to specify which boss he’s talking about, because while it’s never good to have either of them aware of you, when Pearlanne singles you out, your days are counted. Zachs says it was worse under Edwardine, that she ruled this place with an iron fist and murder in her eyes, but Isaacs wasn’t there for that, and Zachs is generally full of shit on any given day. It’s a wonder he still insists on pissing off the Scarlets every chance he gets knowing full well how much worse it could be. Not like he isn’t right, when all is said and done. Not like the rest of them couldn’t really use someone in their corner who’s not yet fully beaten into submission. Isaacs has no idea where the hell he even takes the strength to try and fight back, get the union in on the Scarlet mines, talk about collective bargaining until the cows come home. Gristle and spite, in all likelihood.
“And what does she want with you?”
It’s never good to have either of the Scarlet’s eyes on you. Shit, he hopes Sam isn’t in trouble - Isaacs might not mind covering for Sam every now and again, but the Scarlets might mind keeping someone on payroll who can’t be bothered to show up if it’s cold out, or hot out, or the booze packed a punch the night before.
“That depends on my charms,” Sam chuckles, “and how well I can behave, probably. As far as I can tell, the way to her heart seems to be mostly knowing when to shut up.”
“You’re joking,” Isaacs says, flatly. Surely, he must be - Isaacs can’t decide which notion is more laughable, the image of charming, funny, personable Sam Wayne seeing someone like Tabitha Scarlet, or the thought that the Scarlets see any of them as anything other than interchangeable names on a board and a series of infractions in their files.
There have been rumors, of course, but the old-timers around here would make up anything to gossip about, just to make the day-to-day less mind-numbingly monotonous.
“I’m not.”
There have been rumors. About Etherwood, who got publicly shitcanned by Scarlet senior on Isaacs’ third day on the job, which was a very effective way of teaching him the ins and outs of survival here. The others were more or less glad to see him go. A rat, some of the old-timers said, and not even a subtle one at that. There was talk about Lloyd, too, who texted Baker one day asking him to clean out his locker because he wouldn’t be coming back. That was hardly unusual, though: Everyone with half a brain and half a chance would skip town the second opportunity presented itself; only that Lloyd always seemed to lack both.
It just feels off, is the thing. The whole idea seems like the punchline to a joke.
“Yeah, right. You’re bullshitting me.”
Sam’s obviously enjoying this. “What, is it so hard to believe that I might be seeing someone?”
“It is when we’re talking about Tabitha fucking Scarlet. Have you met her?”
“I’m gonna hazard a guess and say more often than you have.”
Isaacs scoffs. “Yeah, because I know what’s good for me. Be real, Sam, are you trying to tell me that she’s secretly a kind and loving person under all that Scarlet?”
Sam makes a non-committal noise, kicking up some dust with the steel-toe tip of his boot. “She’s not all bad, Nick.”
He sounds genuine for once, and somehow, that’s worse. Tabitha Scarlet can be not all bad if she pleases, she can be Mother Theresa herself for all he cares, she still owns every second of his time, both of their time, the roof they sleep under, the slop they’re fed.
“Not all bad,” Isaacs echoes, the words so caustic they catch in his throat. He coughs under his breath. “Well, shit, guess that’s all you need in a woman.”
Sam lightly cuffs him with his elbow. “Like you’d know.”
Hit dogs holler, and Isaacs reacts with the teeth-baring snap of a cornered animal. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sam gives him a look, not particularly affronted, not particularly amused, just a look, and it crawls under Isaacs’ skin.
“Don’t be stupid, man,” Isaacs spits, “You can’t get involved with the boss. She already fucking owns you! What do you think will happen if you piss her off?!”
Sam shrugs. “Guess I won’t do that, then.”
If Isaacs were grinding his teeth any harder they’d crack cleanly in two. Guess I just won’t do that, like there’s anything anyone can do to keep the Scarlets happy. Like Sam not being a person with opinions and interests isn’t enough to be an imposition to them. The likes of the Scarlets don’t go together with the likes of them, because if Isaacs and Sam and Zachs and every single one of the other suckers weren’t where they are right now, the Scarlets wouldn’t be sitting high up on their cliff.
Fuck, he’s starting to sound like Zachs, and he’ll eat a bullet before he lets that be his future. He needs to learn how to suck it up already.
Still, a guy like Sam with someone like Tabitha Scarlet…just trying to wrap his head around it is like cramming a round peg in a square hole; it just won’t go together.
“Good luck with that, dude. Your funeral,” he murmurs. He can’t help the bitterness in his voice, but if Sam doesn’t like it, he can damn well take a hike. He’s being realistic. This is bad news all the way down. He doesn’t need Sam to go the way of Etherwood or Lloyd. And he’s well aware he’s taking this far too seriously, that he can’t take this frustration anywhere because Sam’s just talking, just sharing, like normal people do, and Isaacs is the one making a mountain out of a molehill here.
“It’s not like a guy is spoiled for choice here,” Sam says, gesturing at their surroundings in a wide arc, from the office containers to the locker rooms to the conveyor belt puking up the contents of the earth, gray in gray in gray. It’s another one of those conversations that call for a yeah or I guess from Isaacs, where he might just as well be a cardboard cutout of himself for Sam to talk at, and that smarts. A bit.
Isaacs does try, like he’s always tried and failed to be a part of a conversation like a normal person, because everyone’s always been able to smell the fag on him. He could mention Harrison, who he supposes is pretty by virtue of not standing out as ugly to him, but she’s just here to get through the shift and go home, keeping her head down all through the day, and that’s hardly any different from what he’s doing. He’s never seen her at the bar, or anywhere that wasn’t work. Maybe that’s why she’s following the old-timers around like a lost duckling; sure as shit can’t be easy being the only woman around - but wait, shit, there’s Klebb also, but she hardly counts. Isaacs didn’t realize she was a woman for his entire first week, and she doesn’t seem to carry a chip on her shoulder about it, so Isaacs assumes she’s had a lot of time to get used to that sort of thing. And now he’s really grasping at straws, but there’s the girl from the general store? Though every time he’s interacted with her when he couldn’t be bothered to drive out to the next dollar general she’s always made the impression of being one bad day away from pulling a Lloyd.
Fuck, what is he even doing? He doesn’t want to pretend to humor this line of thought because that’s not the point, the point is that he doesn’t want to drag himself to work one day only to find Sam’s name has been taken off the board and his replacement has already filled out Sam’s locker like he was never even there.
“And the fact that she’s the heiress of the Scarlet estate is just a convenient coincidence, right?”
“It’s not a turn-off, if that’s what you’re sayin’,” Sam replies, and he’s still joking, he’s always joking, cause you’ve really got to laugh when you’re stuck here, or else you’ll find yourself turning grayer than dust before your time. They’re all stuck, leg in a sling like rabid coyotes, the lot of them, even when they’ve put down the tools and shed their jackets. When the Game’s been talked to death and every other glimpse of their life is too sad to even share with one’s own mother, they talk about their shitty job, their shitty hours and their shitty bosses, and then the job follows them home and stares back at them with tired eyes from a mirror they don’t even own.
He’s sick of it, sick to death, Isaacs is so sick of never speaking when he’s talking.
“I’m saying that you deserve better, Sam!”
This is as far as Isaacs’ brief burst of anger gets him. He doesn’t even get to I care about you, though it feels like he said it, and then some. Every time he opens his mouth he lives to regret it; this is how it always goes. Yeah and I guess is such a comfortable way to slip through the cracks. And damn, would Isaacs love to slip away never to be seen again right now, because Sam’s eyes flicker and his brows furrow. There’s something genuine there again, and it’s something Isaacs would love to capture if it didn’t scare him half to death. But the moment is brief, and Sam’s features smooth over again: Gleaming eyes and rogueish grin that always sits a little crooked on his face. New Kid Shine. He’s clean-shaven, Isaacs notices with a start, when he’s gotten used to Sam’s stubble. He wonders, briefly, if that’s Tabitha’s preference, before resolving to not wonder about it any longer.
Sam puts a hand on his shoulder; it’s heavy and warm, and Isaacs doesn’t wonder about this any longer either. Sam’s voice is ever so slightly gravelly as he says, “Come on, don’t get jealous on me now, I need someone in my corner!”
Isaacs feels every single muscle in his body tense, every reply he might have given curdle in his mouth.
“Piss off, Wayne,” he says, but he doesn’t think he means it. His words don’t sound like he does, there’s not an ounce of strength behind them, no trace of follow-through. He can’t even pretend that this time, he’ll stop taking on the nightmare shifts for the guy whose only reaction to his words is a snort, a jovial punch in the arm and a “Right back at ya.”
Isaacs flicks the butt of his cigarette - not even burnt down halfway - onto the ground and grinds it into the dust under his boot.
“Whatever. I’ve got to get back to it. Smoke break’s over.”
There won’t be another.