They lay on their backs, not talking, passing the cigarette between the two of them. The radio was on in the background, keeping any suffocating silence at bay. Mac hadn't been thinking about much of anything, and he was only vaguely aware of what song was playing. It was slow, sad, the kind of song you want to hear when you're drunk.
"This world's tearing me apart, Mac."
It's the first thing Atticus has said in hours, his voice is steady and quiet. Like a secret passed in the middle of the night. MacCready looks over and is surprised to see him crying. Atticus curses as he quickly wipes away the tears that had welled up in his eyes.
He looks over at the mercenary, the cigarette burns away between his lips. Smoke lifts up lazily to the ceiling. Atticus reaches over, with two fingers he plucks the cigarette out of Macs lips and places it between his own. Macs eyes follow Atticus' hand, and settle on his lips as he takes a long drag.
When Mac looks back up, he's surprised to find Atticus watching him with the same intensity. He could feel his stomach tighten, a knot forming as both men refused to look away. Atticus blew the smoke out of his nose, and Mac felt something like pride knowing that he wasn't the only one holding his breath.
Atticus took the cigarette out of his mouth and brought it back to Mac. As soon as the butt touched Macs lips he begins to breathe in, letting the smoke fill his lungs, letting Atticus hold the cigarette for him.
With his free arm, Atticus propped himself up so he was leaning over Mac. Mac's breath died at his lips and all he could see was Atticus. The green eyes, sad and soft, waited for any sign of rejection. Before Mac could even decide if he wanted to offer any, they were both interrupted by the sound of the shack door opening.
Atticus and the cigarette were gone. He sat rigid and tall in front of Mac, the cigarette planted firmly between his lips as if that had always been its home. He made no attempt to move the cigarette when he greeted Hancock and Deacon.