Work Text:
Whenever.
Flux’s curt answer to pretty much anything about smoking. When do you smoke? Whenever; only on occasion. Could we have a sesh? Whenever you’re available. When are you stopping? Whenever.
Whenever I fucking want to.
Because he isn’t addicted. He knows what addiction looks like. He isn’t anything like the bong-owning, ash-reeking Saparata he lives with. He isn’t anything like the chain-smoking Crow he is unfortunately tied to by blood. He smokes one here and there, and the intervals between here and there shouldn’t matter too much.
Right now, there’s a cigarette in between his fingers, and he’s smoking in the parking lot of their apartment complex. Because smoking isn’t allowed in the building, and even if Saps could help him cover up, he didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.
He preferred smoking alone — so much so that whenever he did not have the energy to talk to anyone at all, he’d opt to snag a bit of Saps’ and look up how to roll a blunt on WikiHow.
And that’s definitely not what he did just now. He can definitely pop out pearls like they were nothing, and not spend an awkward amount of time fumbling.
He blows out the smoke; it billows and furls in the air, and then scatters. Another hit. More smoke. The clouds bump into each other, but never merge — like atoms that never touch, but come very close.
This is definitely part of the appeal, Flux thinks. More than the THC and nicotine itself, it's the whole show that comes out of it that tickles quite literally all of your senses. The smoke, the smell, hell, even the taste.
It’s something of a Placebo effect. Absent the nicotine, Fluixon thinks he could get addicted to smoking with this alone. The roll fits snugly in his two fingers, too — like a linchpin he never knew he was missing. This, and a quiet night in a… somewhat… empty parking lot. Leave Flux here, and he can dream on for days.
On any other day, he’d be more discreet, but it’s a little late, so he doesn’t expect too many of his neighbors to be pulling up. Except maybe randy teenagers who make out in their cars, or walking-middle-age-crises cheating on their spouses — but Fluixon wouldn’t fraternize with losers of that sort, so he doesn’t give a damn if they see him smoking while crouched on the ground. Smoking alone, on the ground, like a dud. Like a loser with no friends.
Unfortunately, his calm little escapade is interrupted by Saparata. He can see his coming in the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t turn to look at him until he’s at an appropriate distance away from him to wave without an awkward amount of walking time. His brain fills in the blank for him — anticipating a bottle of water and his own stash. But when he arrives, all he has is a half-baked smile and a trace of concern in his tone that pisses Fluixon off.
“Hey, Flux,” he calls out. Fluixon nods in acknowledgement, scooting over on the little wheel stop he’s been perched on.
Saps takes a butterfly seat and there’s a few seconds of silence while Flux nurses his joint. Sometimes, Flux feels like Saps can watch the gears in his head turn as he thinks. The intimacy of it irks him too much. He can’t believe he let someone in like this.
Flux almost enjoys the moment, until Saps opens his mouth.
“Where’d you even get that?” he starts. Fluixon, from that alone, already feels like a kindergartener being told off by his teacher, while said teacher tries to make sure he doesn’t burst out in tears. He hates being treated like that, and everybody’s been treating him that way lately. Even the Conspiracy.
He blows, and he’d like to think he’s doing it coolly. “Guess.”
“My stash?” it comes out a tad accusatory.
“Hmmm...”
Saps tenses a little. Fluixon doesn’t care.
“You could’ve— hell, should’ve asked, y’know.”
You’ve been saying “no”, why the fuck would I? Fluixon thinks. But he bites his tongue.
“Sorry,” he leaves it at that. He’s been less chatty, he knows, but there’s no use conjuring so much energy to say something nobody cares about.
Saps pensively watches the smoke around them for a couple of minutes, as if they spell out the words he needs. Fluixon avoids his eye, opting to look forward if he’s not being spoken to.
Saps finally starts again, “Look, dude, you’ve been smoking a lot… what’s up with that?”
Flux takes a drag at that. “...It helps me think.”
“Okay, sure, I expected you to say that… but—like… you should probably cut down, even just a bit.”
Yeah, sure, whatever that meant. He’s been smoking for, what, a few weeks? All of a sudden, he’s the addict?
When Flux doesn’t say anything, Saparata takes it as a sign to ramble on: “You brood so much as is, you know? Maybe… maybe thinking too much is a thing.”
And maybe you should consider you’re not thinking enough, Flux would grit out if he had no heart. But he does. So he settles—
“Whatever you say,” he says, and that’s already with so much restraint. His patience already runs thin. He tries not to pin it on the weed.
“Hey, I’m serious! You got a life, Flux. You have friends! You’re smart and shit! You have a bright future ahead of you!”
A twisting, warping dread festers in Flux’s chest. Burying himself in worldly connections had been mooring him to actually caring about living. If there are commitments and duties, then there are people to disappoint when he spirals and slips away. He hates when they’re used against him like this. It takes him back to his parents reminding him to “be grateful” for whatever bullshit he gets from them.
Flux can’t stifle the scoff that comes out, and it serves as a commitment for him to quickly come up with a response.
“Um, is this,” he gestures, as if literally encircling the entire situation, “going to affect them in any way? Besides, I can stop, cold turkey, whenever.”
“Kind of, actually…” he says honestly, “but not in a bad way, okay? We… or, at least, I’m worried. I really am.”
Fluixon murmurs. Saparata doesn’t catch it.
"I know — real shocker! People are capable of caring about you, Flux!"
More silence. More grumbling.
Saps sighs, exasperated, “No, like, I’m really worried about you. Like, really. You think I don’t notice you’ve been asking me for blunts? I used to have to ask you to smoke with me.”
Flux grimaces, then he straight up frowns.
“Well, you’ve gotten what you wanted!” he says, too loud to sound like himself, “I’m smoking, I’m smoking right now! Take a fucking hit if you want me to smoke with you, Christ!” he holds it up against Saps’ lips, who retreats vehemently: a very uncharacteristic response to a blunt in his face.
“I didn’t mean—”
Fluixon pushes, “No, I know what you mean! Say it. Say it to my fucking face, Saps—”
“For goodness sake, Flux!” he says, swatting Flux's hand away with so much force the blunt falls onto the ground. “I didn’t wanna fucking say it, but I don’t want you to end up like me! I can’t go a day without smoking, and it started… just like whatever the fuck you’re doing!”
That makes something inside Flux snap.
“God, it’s always me, me, me with you people! Just because you ended up like that — like a fucking no-life addicted bum who’s only scraping by because everybody tolerates your sorry, annoying, stoner ass — doesn’t mean I’m going down that fucking pipeline too. Don’t project your shit onto me. You don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do, so I hate how much you act like you know me more than I fucking know myself!”
Fluixon barely recognizes his own voice. It’s angry. And ugly. It’s angry and ugly and too reminiscent of his father and he’s never been more shocked in his life.
Saps stares — gapes — at him. He wears an unreadable expression. Either that, or Fluixon is too stoned or angry or a fucked-up amalgamation to be able to tell. Fluixon wants to take it back, apologize, and go back inside with Saps. Make amends. Kiss it all better. But there’s a tinge (read: a lot) of pride tethering him from doing so.
But before the regret can fully set in, Saps raises his hand and slaps him.
Slaps him.
Only then does Fluixon realize there are tears in Saps’s eyes.
The older stands up, dusts off his clothes—
“Maybe you’re right,” his voice quivers, “I don’t know you as well as I thought I did,” he turns around, and starts trudging back to the apartment. Their shared apartment.
Fluixon is still processing the entire ordeal, but Saparata turns around again. As if to hammer in the final nail in the coffin—
“Maybe I didn’t know you at all.”
And then he’s gone, for real.
And Fluixon is left alone, with a snuffed-out blunt, remnants of smoke, a shattered ego, and heaps and bounds of regret.
But he’s alone. Just like he wanted.
And whenever — whenever that is — seems to have to be now.