Ellis sat on the bed, leaned up against the headboard, staring across the room at the blank television set as he munched on the box of Wheat Thins. He dug his hand deep into the cardboard container, the plastic crinkling; he was nearly to the crumbs and he was still hungry. But it was one of the highest protein things they actually still had, besides the oatmeal which he had let Coach and Rochelle have. He gave a small little sigh, eying the remote control on the nightstand that had once operated the television set, back when there had been power in the state. Shoot, he couldn't even recall what the last thing he would have watched on the 'tube' was before the infection had swept the country. Probably some race or another. Or one of those documentaries on machines or building shit. All he knew was that he wished he had some sort of distraction to keep his mind off the gnawing hunger in his stomach that wouldn't go away, regardless of how much junk food he consumed.
He emptied the last of the broken corners of crackers into his palm and put them in his mouth before chucking the box across the room at the trash can, where it went in with a thunk.
Nick was standing near the bathroom, the mini ironing board out across the counter. Ellis had successfully hooked up both the blowdryer and iron to one of the car batteries, and the older man had since removed his jacket and dried it. Now he was working the iron across the lapels in slow, meticulous strokes.
"Man, ain't'chu hungry?" he asked sort of incredulously. He hadn't seen the guy touch food since the car ride.
The older man gave a shrug, lifting the iron to inspect his garment. "I dunno. I guess I'm kind of used to going hungry."
Ellis quirked an eyebrow at the statement. "Used'ta goin' hungry? Shit, how kin anyone be used'ta goin' hungry?"
"Well, if you've done it before," Nick responded matter-of-factly.
The mechanic shook his head. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, stomach growling even now. His family hadn't always been all that well-off, but they had always had food on the table. They ate well. His Ma made damn sure of that above all else. Ellis chuckled slightly, thinking of all the pies she used to bake up, all sorts of flavors– apple, cherry, coconut creme, pecan, and of course, peach cobbler. And Sunday dinners. Holy hell, those were the best. More often than not she'd whip up something huge, like a whole turkey or a spiral ham so there'd be leftovers throughout the week. And that was just the main course to the heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and numerous ears of corn on the cob and the basket of fluffy golden-brown biscuits. He began to salivate, mouth growing wet with the memories. It was like Thanksgiving every weekend! He could recall just how hard it was to wait through the Blessing with all that delectable food wafting its aroma through the air, straight to his nostrils.
Oh what he wouldn't do for a whole leg of lamb right now. Or an entire filet of trout. Shit. Everything sounded good. Lord, was he ever hungry.
Ellis laid down on his front, hoping that applying some pressure to his stomach would make some of the hunger go away. He drummed his fingers against the mattress and peered at the gambler, who had gone back to pressing his jacket. The man lifted the iron again and this time seemed satisfied, grabbing one of the motel-supplied hangars to put the suit coat on it. Ellis' eyes drifted up and down his turned form, hanging particularly, as it turned out, on his ass.
Normally the cut of the coat went down past the area on the conman, obscuring it. Without it though, there was only the slacks and where his blue shirt tucked into the waist, the curved muscle well defined by the white fabric.
The southerner was a little chagrinned when he poked the mattress beneath him.
He averted his eyes a moment, but ultimately they returned to the older man and his jacket. Yeah, it looked real fine on him, he was probably the nicest dressed feller in the apocalypse, but damn it looked good off him too. Or rather he looked good without it– he was mixing his prepositions. Nick certainly hadn't been wearing it during that dream of his last night, and that had sent him for a loop. Ellis wet his lips slowly. "Ya don't always hafta wear yer coat, y'know…" the mechanic spoke up in a murmur.
Nick turned to tip an eyebrow upward at him, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right.
"Ya look… good without it," he admitted.
The gambler stopped to laugh. "Next you'll be telling me I look good buck naked," he joked as his fingers popped loose the buckle on his belt.
Ellis laughed uneasily. "Well, prolly." He watched with keen eyes as Nick slung the leather through the belt loops, removing it from the slacks to coil it on the counter. Oh hell, he was losing more clothing? He willed his cheeks not to redden as the man took off his suit pants one leg at a time. "I ain't exactly seen ya 'buck naked', so I wouldn't really know, now would I?" his mouth took off, invoking even more embarrassment. He tugged his hat down over his eyes, wondering why he sometimes didn't have the sense to keep his big mouth shut.
"I guess not," Nick merely chuckled, turning to flick on the blowdryer, the loud noise preventing any further dialogue between them, which was probably a good thing.
The mechanic braved another peek towards the man who now stood in only dress shirt, boxers and socks.
Shit, if he lost any more, he'd be fit to burst.
Well, at least he'd forgotten about his hunger.