glasspaperclip: (Bob // Anthem wouldn't explain it)
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Nicotine [1/2]
(495) // (Pg-13.)
Bob Bryar/Bert McCracken
"You’re like that Charlie kid, and the golden ticket to enter the fucking Chocolate Factory is in your hand. Don’t throw it away, you know how the book ends."
For the UST Challenge @ [livejournal.com profile] stereomer [here] + #008 - I can't make you mine @ [livejournal.com profile] fanfic50
Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to [livejournal.com profile] sorrowful_eagle


*

“So, are you about to leave? I mean, decisions have been made and all, right?”

“Well… yeah. I’ll be driving straight to the airport, my flight is already booked. I should land around… ah, I can’t remember. Too early in the morning, anyway.”

“Oh, okay.”

Bob shrugs. He’s forgotten – neglected? Not bothered? – to add that he should already be on the highway, speeding up his pace in order to be on time to check-in. Schechter would kick his ass all the way back to Chicago if he missed his flight for no valid reason.

(Bob can picture their conversation, he really can. ‘Did someone die? Did you die? Did terrorists take over the airport?’ ‘No, nothing like that,’ and then he’d be out. Without even having been in for a second, and how painfully ironic would that be?)

“It’s a good thing, you see. For yourself.”

Bert pauses and offers Bob a tiny smile, then he raises his hand. The half-smoked cigarette is between his fingers, slightly indented where Bert’s teeth have pressed too much into the filter.

“It’s the classic chance of a lifetime, man. You’re like that Charlie kid, and the golden ticket to enter the fucking Chocolate Factory is in your hand. Don’t throw it away, you know how the book ends. Cig?”

They’ve often shared smokes; one starts a new cigarette and the other finishes it, it’s nothing new, no big deal, never has been. And Bob’s never refused to take a drag, not when it’s free.

(‘You’ll do it for free?’ ‘Mikey. I believe I already said yes,’ talk about unrelated-but-not-really memories that hit like a punch. As if he needed a reminder about who he is, what he wants to be.)

“I don’t plan to,” states Bob and doesn’t make a move. They must look like total idiots, a singer sitting on the sidewalk at night, his left arm still outstretched, and a tech standing next to him, with both hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.

Bob inhales. The air smells of nicotine, his eyes go from the red, burning tip of the cig to Bert’s fingers, and Bob can’t tell which one he – hypothetically, just hypothetically, if he had time and strength left to blow on old embers – craves the most.

“I don’t plan to,” he repeats, a bit louder this time.

“Good. I was ready to personally kick your ass if you let it go, I swear. So, do you want my last Marlboro or not?”

There’s more than one question in Bert’s tone, but Bob shakes his head. Temptation is strong – so much, so fucking much – but no. No.

“I’ve gotta go. Next time. Next time it’ll be my turn, and I’ll offer you one of mine.”

“Sure.”

Bert smiles, silently wishing him good luck, then he brings the cigarette back to his mouth. When Bob turns – he has to, one last time – all he can see is the red tip, still burning.
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