Neon Rush {M/M} ❀

Ch. 8.2 Panicked and Penitent

Zef doesn't hesitate. His instincts are firing fast, telling him Gray's not okay. Any hurt he felt over the lacklustre response to his good news gets swallowed up by that.

He follows.

The night air is humid and hits his overheated face like soup. Ahead, Gray nearly bumps into a couple necking against a brick wall. He grips his head like it's about to split and abruptly turns left into an alley. Zef jogs to catch up. Dumpsters overflow with rancid garbage. It hasn't rained, but there are puddles, and it smells like piss back here.

Gray stops next to the dumpster and shakes out a cigarette from his pack. His fingers tremble too badly, and he fumbles it. It rolls into one of the puddles.

"Shit."

He tries to shake out another, but the entire pack spills out. They tumble around the alley like little, white animal bones.

"Fuck."

Zef crouches and picks up a lucky one that didn't land anywhere wet. He rubs the filter against his shirt. Gray holds out his hand for it, but Zef says, "Let me," and takes the lighter from him before he can protest. He lights it up and, with exquisite caution, puts the filter between Gray's lips. Carefully, carefully. So their skin doesn't touch.

Gray notices.

In the warm light of the flame dancing in his eyes, he manages to look both afraid and grateful. Panicked and penitent. A worshipper lighting a candle for a prayer in church rather than a strung-out assassin lighting a cigarette in a cum-stained back-alley while having a panic attack.

'Cause that's what this is. Zef's seen it before.

Zef steps back. Gives him space. Gray sucks on the filter like it's his only source of clean oxygen, not a cancer stick. He exhales smoke on a shaky breath. Leans his head back and bumps it against the brick in a steady, firm rhythm. Zef steps gingerly around puddles and leans against the wall, a reasonable two-foot distance between them.

Gray closes his eyes, but he doesn't look peaceful. One hand clutching the cigarette. The other fisted in his shirt, stuffed into the open zipper of his leather jacket.

He reminds Zef painfully of Ollie.

They stand in silence. Gray sucks the life out of his cigarette. Zef watches like a cowboy settling a spooked horse. The city sings a background chorus of night traffic, club bass and—somewhere—the distinctively uncreative cursing of a drunk couple having a fight. Weirdly comforting. The city buzzes with so many people. Not all of them are having a good time, either.

Gray finishes his cigarette and stubs it out. His breathing's a bit more normal. Less rasping.

"You okay?" says Zef.

"Fine. Was fine."

"No, you weren't." Zef studies his shoes. "You have panic attacks often?"

Gray looks at him sidelong. "Nah. Just when friends do stupid shit."

There's that word again. Friend. Said like he means it.

"Care to tell me why top surgery counts as stupid shit? Not to be, like, 'me, me, me,' about this, but I thought you'd be...happy for me. Or something."

Gray kicks his heel against the wall a few times. Turns, leaning one shoulder against it so he can look at Zef. "I am. And I'm not. Look. I ain't got no place telling you what to do with your body. I know. But I— You gotta make sure it's yours, understand? If you go corporate, read the fine print. All of it. Every line."

Zef's heart gives a feeble throb. "You think there's some catch?"

"There's always a catch with caps."