Scout still had yet to speak since they'd crossed the border of Massachusetts some ten hours ago. Sniper had learned long ago that it was best to let the Bostonian be whenever he adopted the thoughtful pucker of his lips, firmly pressing the blood from the naturally rosy flesh, pursed together subconsciously as a result of deep thought pushing its way outward, settling against the inner side. A silent Lawrence was one Sniper typically found he had to adjust to when the quiet Scout made his visits, though the debilitated haze of anger that routinely weighted the conversationless air between them, Sniper observes, is in this particular visit nonexistent.
That to Sniper was more shocking than the silence itself—that an anger directed at him was not the trigger of Scout's contemplative quietness for once.
"Y'alright?"
The question could hardly even be considered one if Scout could barely hear it. Perhaps this is why he won't answer—perhaps his continued stillness is purposeful, as if he had no intention to.
Thus Sniper simply settles with a short "hm?" as an adequate substitute for the reiteration of his inquiry, his thin lips twisting cautiously as he accepts that Scout clearly has no interest in ending his muted streak. The young man lets his eyes fall shut, lidding them as if snoozing off. Jack sighs as Scout's chest rises and falls in sync with his breathing, overall unaware that Sniper silently observes him, lip upturned at the image of the endearing napping position Lawrence always adjusted for himself whenever he dozed off in the van, the curl of his reminiscent of a nesting, sleeping cat.
'Little gremlin doesn't mean anythin' by it, he prolly can't even hear me past those thoughts o'his he's been messin' with all day,'
What kind of question was "Y'alright?" to ask someone who'd been through what Scout had anyway?! Whose sexuality was prematurely revealed before his already difficult and easily ticked loved ones, the disclosed knowledge resulting in his third oldest brother calling him filthy, unspeakable names and refusing to ever want to be in his company again?
The news had certainly spread to the poor Bostonian's other brothers by now, and Sniper could tell by the turbulent, unspoken anxiety that riddled every posable inch of his Scout that the young man knew it would be a long time before he'd be welcome to set foot in the city of his birth once more.
That he was stuck in the van for a three day car ride back to a military Fort where the struggle to attain his right to live was a daily thing on top of that—'Y'alright', in retrospect, seems more and more tactless the longer Sniper reflects on the question's asking—any other would have done a better job to soothe him, if only temporarily.
So Jack, after his twenty thousandth failed attempt at chatter in a row, backtracks and extends a hand from the steering wheel, allowing it to smooth through Scout's hair affectionately. Did he not know that there was no point in brushing the older man off, remaining solid in his stoic decision to refuse the Australian's words of comfort? Did he not know that Sniper understood and related to him as far as the abandonment from the family on behalf of sexual preference was concerned? Had Scout honestly forgotten that he hadn't been completely abandoned as the Australian had, because Lawrence had him, no matter what? Maybe that was simply Sniper's flaw; where others have broken weighted, indignant ties with the loud mouthed hooligan, he stayed around on account of pure, undiluted love for the very same individual.
Then again Sniper wouldn't have felt right if Scout had left Boston with ease, if he'd shrugged it off and continued with the pointless chatter revolving solely around Bonk cans and baseball. As much as the young man liked to convince himself (and others) otherwise, the cocky smirk and haughty sing song to his voice wasn't a natural attachment to his contemptuous character—sometimes there were simply moments where there are no words.
Now being one of those times lacking a means of expression.
He was handling the homophobia of his brother well—no tantrums, no rants, none of the ridiculous passive aggression he typically resorted to when things didn't go his way…
Sniper smiles softly as Scout shifts in his seat, rubbing his eyes and stretching lazily.
"'Ey, love…"
It certainly sounded a lot better than 'Y'alright'. Though still, as Scout's lips fold up so that only the corners smile just slightly, his previous question is the only one that comes to mind.
"How're ya holdin' up?"
There. That didn't sound as clueless.
Scout shrugs, his face instantly falling back into disappointment as the reality of things settle in alongside with consciousness. Sniper sighs sympathetically, bringing an arm around Scout's shoulder and giving him a slight kiss on the temple.
"I mean, it's whatever," he scoffs, leaning his head against the window.
"I have a feelin' I'll never be goin' back to Boston,"
"Hey, now, love, don't think so negatively; your brother was jus' caught off guard, is all—sure he said some stuff about gay people that didn't quite sit right, but I'm sure it was all outta anger 'nd not outta hate—your brothers love you, Lawrence, it would take a lot more for them t'abandon you like that,"
"So I'm supposed to just wait for Chris to not be a homophobe before goin' back?!" Scout asks exasperatedly, barring his teeth before scratching behind his neck.
'I really am the King o'comfort lines, huh….'
"Sorry, Jack—that wasn't directed at you…"
"'S'alright, love, I'd say you've earned a lashin' out or two, after today…"
"Yeah well, you shouldn't have to be the one to take it,"
"Well, thank you for acknowledgin' that…"
"I mean, it ain't your fault, we were just sharin' a kiss in the dining room, a quick one—I wasn't expectin' for him to walk in,"
"Yeah well, truth is we shouldn't'a been kissin' in your bro's home in the first place,"
"You were just comfortin' me, it wasn't like we were gonna hump each other,"
"I dunno, love, it turns quite naughty pretty fast with us,"
Sniper wasn't expecting Scout to actually smile at the comment. He does, however, and it only grows larger and toothier as he meets Sniper's grin of his own, Sniper running a hand along his thigh.
"It'll all work out, Lawrence, I promise—you're family, he's not just gonna let you go like that—your Mum'nd Luc were really pushin' for ya, too—those two would always host ya if you ever wanted to go back home…"
"Yeah, but what if Chris does just let me go?"
"Well, you've always got me 'nd the van, she's pretty used t'housin' runaway queers by now…"
The smirk and soft "heh" the man releases as the words reverberate in his mind don't appear to be homourous utterances, Scout observes; how could the man laugh at the fact that his family's intolerance toward his sexuality has literally driven him to the confines of a twenty year old van parked on the outskirts of their only son's deathbed, located thousands of miles away on the other side of the world? Not even Sniper was so morbid to laugh at such a fate, Scout ponders—especially not his own.
"How do you do it, Jack?"
"Do what, love?"
"I dunno—live away from home, never talkin' to your parents?"
Jack, whose lips slant thoughtfully at the mention of them, doesn't rush to answer. Instead Scout passes the time the Australian grants himself to formulate a response by watching the man's facial muscles twitch, his long, thin mouth no longer a slant but a crowning frown, his cheeks puckered as if the question of home tasted of rotten, sour lemon.
"Don't you feel like you lost everything?"
Sniper blinks.
"Well…" he begins, Scout sinking in his seat, knees against the dashboard, a customary listening position of his.
"I can tell ya that I'm loads happier bein' myself in a 2 foot wide trailer killin' people for a livin' than I ever was when my family had any involvement in my life whatsoever,"
"The tone o'your voice sure don't make it sound like you feel that way, slugger,"
"Then the worst part is I'm completely serious…"
"But you can still miss 'em, though…"
"Listen, Lawrence, I'm bein' completely honest when I say leavin' my family was prolly the best decision I've ever made in my life—'s prolly the only decision I've made, really—livin' in Adelaide was makin' me suicidal, my Father hated me for who he knew I really was, my Mother was disgusted—"
"What about your sister?"
"What about 'er? She never mistreated me, sure, but when you leave your whole family behind, y'end up losin' contact with everyone—'s just life, mongrel,"
Scout looks down at his hands sadly, holding back on questions for now.
'Well what were you expectin', love? 'S not like I have any good stories t'tell when I think of home'.
Though despite the matter-of-fact tone in which his inner monologue registers within his conscious, Jack can't help but find himself regretting the moody shortness of his thoughts; simply because he had twenty years of emotional detachment under his wings, the same could not be said of Lawrence. For a young man not quite used to losing one of the most important people in his life to something so melodramatic, the notion that the whole situation may require some time to get used to for Scout was not an absurdity.
"Am I happy that it had t'come down t'that? No, of course not—no child wants t'have t'face the reality that their family holds them for bein' nothin' short of a freak for true—'specially not at nineteen years old, when you're out on your own 'nd y'need 'em most. For years I always hoped 'nd hoped things would change, that my father would grow t'love me regardless of who I am, but that was some wishful thinkin', eh? My Mum didn't do shit—I could have stayed, I could have tried changin' myself, but it only would have made things worse—my Father knew he had a queer for a son, 'nd that's that…he wanted me out of his life? I'm out,"
Scout nods.
"I—"
"No, listen, love," Sniper interrupts. "Jus' 'cause leavin' 'nd runnin' away was what's best for me, that doesn't mean it's what's meant for you—what you have with your Mum 'nd brothers—'nd even Luc, no one can take that away from ya—there's no way they're gonna let that bond be broken by somethin' as simple as you snoggin' a bloke they at least like—there'll always be room for you in Boston, that I know for sure.
I never had the love t'lose from my family t'begin with, whereas Luc 'nd your Mum 'nd all six o'your brothers would rather die before lose you—that much I know just by spendin' a day 'nd a half with your Mum 'nd only three o'your siblings.
I guess what I mean is, there's always room in the camper for you, Scout, always—don't ever think y'don't have anywhere t'go, if it comes down to it, but the thing is I know it won't. You're not meant to live with me in a van, y'got your family, no matter what,"
"But say they don't want me back, would you really be alright with me livin' in here?! With you?! Full time?!"
"Well yeah, sure! We've only got two more years on our contracts, we'll pack up ship'nd take the van around, maybe even get 'er back to Aussieland 'nd we'll do a tour of the Bush t'gether,"
"We wouldn't have no money if we ain't workin', though,"
"I got a little saved up, 's not a problem,"
"Can we get a dog—?!"
"What?! Good Lord no—!"
"Cat?!"
"No!"
"A hamster—"
"How 'bout a rat? Always wanted a rat named Bauldelaire,"
"'Course we get the pet you want—"
"'S my van! 'Nd you're my little pet, love,"
"Did you just call me a fuckin' dog—?!"
"No, pet means darlin' to Australians!"
"Did you just call me darling?!"
"'S better than what your brother was callin' ya eleven hours ago!"
"Shove it up your ass, Jack!"
"Chris wants us to, that way we can fulfill his stereotype that all we ever do is have buttsex orgies with every man we see 'nd spread disease and ruin the American standard of families,"
Scout groans.
"Bullshit, I'm not even American, you can go bugger your standards…"
"He's always been like that though—well, I mean, when we were growin' up Chris was always kinda the odd one out—even Anthony kinda knew how to thug it up, dude was buildin' rockets, but you still didn't fuck with him, you know? Paul even hustled a little, stole radios outta cars and sold 'em around for cash, but he'd spend that on payin' girls to take their tops off and shit—but Chris? His tastes didn't exactly match with the reality of what was goin' on in Ma's chequebook, right?"
"How much older than you is Chris?"
"Eight years—but we were fuckin' lucky if trips to the thrift store didn't leave us comin' home with tight ass pants and that fuckin' mothball stench—dude always had to get the Lacoste polos while I was wearin' girl sweaters,"
"Hm,"
"Yeah, so—soon as he hit college, started studyin' Law, he thought he was the fuckin' shit, but that was the same year I went to jail, so I didn't have to deal with him, thank God,"
"Where'd he go?"
"Boston University, dude balled when Harvard rejected him—he seriously paid the extra tuition money to move twenty minutes away and live on campus, he was so desperate to get outta the welfare house, I guess—he was lucky he earned that scholarship otherwise his ass wouldn't'a gone,"
Sniper can tell a bit of bitterness lies in his voice, for Scout too had dreams of going to college, though schools had only given him so much money.
"Law? I figured he musta done somethin' along those lines, livin' in a house like that,"
"Nah, that's all his wife Martha, dude failed his Bar Exam like three times—just 'cause he wanted to live like a snob that didn't mean he wasn't a Fitzpatrick at heart—he wanted the life without the effort—'nd Ma didn't have the money to pay no law school off so he could "pass", "
"So what's he doin' then?"
"I dunno, Project Manager or some shit,"
"Of a company?"
"Of bein' a homophobic dick—seriously, how are you gonna say I'm a fag 'nd fags are the reason he fears his daughters growin' up in the world 'cause we 'sleaze it up' when he spent the first 18 years of his life eatin' food bank green beans?!"
"Sounds like a problem he's gotta deal with, love,"
"Yeah well, I'm glad he kicked me outta town, I ain't his shrink no way,"
"Don't worry, love, your Mum's not gonna let too much time pass before you're back in Little Ireland…"
"Yeah, well, maybe I don't wanna go back…"
"What?! 'Course you do, don't be ridiculous…"
"No, maybe I actually kinda wanna take the camper and see Australia with ya,"
"Hm, you're sweet," is all Sniper can say—it was much too late to try and convince the young man that spending the rest of his days cramped with a bitter, aging man in his trailer wasn't any way he wanted to spend his life.
"Yeah, well…listen, love, it's already almost midnight 'nd I really think we should call it a night…"
"Yeah…"
"Put this day behind us, no?"
Scout nods, grabbing Sniper's hand, letting his fingers run over the leather of his glove as the man finds a suitable place to park the van for the night.
"There," he sighs, taking the key from the ignition, leaning back against his seat, eyes closed for a good minute as he takes the time to wind down after the day's events. Scout watches him silently, crawling closer against him however, Sniper smiling as Scout takes the man's chin into his hand, kissing along his cheek until eventually reaching Sniper's thin mouth.
"You're all lovin'…" he chuckles, stretching before stepping out of the van, cracking his lower back as he goes to unlock the camper.
"Do you mind if I sit out here a moment? I ain't moved all day, my legs are stiff as Hell,"
"Jus' be careful, love," Sniper warns, tossing the young man his pistol. "If anythin' happens, shout for me,"
"Like I couldn't handle myself,"
"Jus' used t'savin' ya, why deviate from what works?" Sniper smiles, Scout flashing him a small pout of a stare before beckoning the man inside.
-
Scout has decided. A German Shephard named Boston, and Sniper can have Bauldelaire.
It would play out so:
The two would be driving along the single paved road for miles, the van's air conditioning busted, the chink of rocks catching in the tires would be the soundtrack to their wayward adventure. The black rims would be further muddled by the orange red dust the treads kick up and extraordinary speeds, glistening against the iron like foxfire. The parched Outback would actually appear to undulate as the heat stagnates without a hint of mercy, and the scorch would be so intense that Sniper drive with no shirt on, sweat trickling in an unknowingly seductive manner down his toned, muscular front - though this particular detail is certainly Lawrence's brainchild.
Sniper would ignore Scout's first call to stop, but by the second or third he'd utter a muffled "wanker" before parking along side the brush to get a better view of what it is scout would frantically point at—and namely a white, fluffy object left in a cardboard box (Scout knew it was cliché but he couldn't be damned, this was his day dream).
Scout, who typically assumed the more passionate and sympathetic role of the two lovers, would insist to bring the conveniently abandoned puppy along with them, whilst Sniper, after a few minutes of protest, decides that it would be cruel to leave the young thing out in the heat alone—Scout gets his way with little effort (as with every day dream of his).
And so they'd have the puppy. Sniper would threaten him with cruel hintings that the man planned to dump it on his family once finally reaching Adelaide, but would succumb to Scout's insistence to keep her (yes, it would be a girl, Scout hums) both because he cannot resist Scout himself, but because he too has grown attached to the animal (though he'd never admit it).
And so the two (or three, more like) would surprise Sniper's family at their ranch, both of his biological parents hysterical at the sight of their son, and Mr. Mundy would beg for his son's forgiveness—
Scout jumps as he swears Sniper mumbles "wishful thinkin'" into his fantasy clogged ear, Scout jumping as the nighttime sounds of the woods bring him out of his thinly conjured dreamworld. He must've only been out for five minutes, but Lawrence decides it's best to not worry Sniper and just turn in for the night.
He never did like the way Sniper never reacted to the sound of the camper door opening.
'What if I'm the resident woods axe murderer?' Scout scoffs—then again the jars of human urine along the coffee table and various rifles and bullet shells littering the entry room of the camper may play a part to deter any potential intruders—Hell, it does much to deter Scout himself from coming in any further, and he was looking to move in with the man and his camper…
"Aw, dude, what the fuck—"
The quickly placed hand that covers his mouth and nose only just barely stop Scout from actually hurling. The concealing of his mouth and nose from the contaminated air still does nothing to protect the inner workings of his respiratory system, the young man gagging at the oily, heavy air, the metallic, earthy fumes heated with a pungent humidity.
"Jack, holy shit!" Scout snaps, staggering into the sleeping room tactlessly. "What the fuck smells like hot ass skunk?!"
Sniper, who sits up on the mattress, head rolled back completely, eyes closed, shows no sign of having heard Scout nor his heavy footed bumbling about the allegedly skunk scented trailer.
"Jack!" Scout throws his grey cap at the man, the hat bouncing off his chest as if constructed purely from feathered rubber.
"Look at me!" Scout growls, stalking to the bathroom as he realizes he isn't to stem an answer from the Australian, undoing his cleats and leaving them next to the sink (it was the only rule Sniper actually demanded be upheld whilst in the camper—Scout even sniffs his cleat to make sure his shoes weren't the source of the smell).
"Jack!" Scout whines, crashing onto the bed and rolling his head into the man's lap. Scout wraps his arms around the man's waist and gives his frame a shake in an attempt to grab his attention, his fingers digging through the thin material of the wife beater, clutching onto the warm, healthy flesh underneath.
Scout groans, folding his arms as Sniper allows himself to open his left eye, the size of his pupil dilating in a sluggish expansion as the yellow light of the bedside lamp hits it.
"Wot?" Sniper croaks, falling prey to a harsh coughing fit, his chest heaving as the rupture expels itself from his lungs.
"Whassamatter with your voice, you sound like you've been workin' in a bar for fifty years—and why weren't you answerin' me—and what the fuck is that smell—?!"
Scout scrunches his face as Sniper chuckles, puffs of smoke swirling in semi translucent figure eights from the depths of his nostrils, the man's breath weighted with a complimentary scent of coffee and what he can best pinpoint as freshly mown grass.
"Jack…?"
He simply laughs. Both eyes open—squinted, but open—he hones in on Scout's widened ones, auburn cattails crisscrossing their way across Sniper's grey irises, twisting like thin, rust coloured railroad tracks, destination bound to the center of an ocular like the strain of a black hole upon the entirety of space around it.
"What have you been smokin'…?" Scout tisks as Sniper's smile grows an impressive wide, teeth concealed behind his flushed mouth.
"Hm—nothin'," Sniper chuckles, Scout craning his head about in search of an ashtray—eyes darting suspiciously back up to Sniper's as his search yields nothing. Sniper's eyes are still the same narrowed, pleasant and lethargic hazes of unspoken emotion, their motion in following Scout's head about only further proving the man operates on another plane of existence entirely.
"Nothin'," Scout snaps, leaning over the side of mattress and taking an extinguished hand rolled cigarette in between his thumb and forefingers.
"'Ey now, gimmie that—'s not for kiddies—cigarettes're terrible— "
"I ain't no kid, 'nd this ain't no cigarette, neither," Scout glares, Sniper chuckling softly.
"I don't believe you—where'd you—where'd you even get this stuff, anyway—?!"
"No matter," Sniper grunts. "Well, I s'pose you're gonna wanna end it now, eh? You're takin' the kids 'nd the van, accuse me o'bein' a drug addict—"
"N—nah, but it makes the camper smell like shit,"
"So I've heard…"
"I mean, I would never smoke dope—"
"'S good, drug free's the way t'be, love…"
"Ma always told me only losers smoke the stuff, that you lose your memory and get addicted to it, 'nd it makes you steal, and commit crimes, and turns women into hussies!"
"Cute, I bet ya Ma said all that stuff high off her arse—"
"You sayin' my Mom is a drug addict?!"
"I thought you said 'dope' doesn't automatically make y'one…"
"Well, I dunno about you—"
But Sniper cuts him short by taking his ashtray (among other things) into his hand before hoisting himself off the mattress and sauntering off toward the kitchenette.
"Hey, where're you goin'?" Scout snaps, quick to follow the man—though it doesn't take much effort, for Sniper is slower than usual in his sedated state.
"Outside—'could use the fresh air," he slurs, opening the camper door and leaving it open.
"See? You're already forgettin'—leavin' the door open—"
"I'm airin' it out, love…" Sniper rolls his eyes, Scout plopping down next to the man on the solid but slightly dampened earth, the small flame of his lighter the only one save the streetlights along the highway that sits a ways off—though bright enough to provide the two men with sufficient light.
"Now how come it don't smell like fuckin' skunk 'til you light it?!" Why does it smell like skunk in the first place?!"
"Well, not all of it smells like skunk, love—there're different strains o'marijuana, 'nd each of 'em smell different,"
"'Course you would know…"
"'Course I would…" Sniper chuckles. "Some of it's got a spicy smell—some's sweeter, citrusy, fruity, dirt like, whatever—'ve even smoked some that smelled a bit like burnt cornbread some time ago," he sighs, releasing smoke from his mouth after a solid twenty seconds of holding it in.
"Great, am I gonna start hallucinatin' breathin' in your smoke?!"
"Y'don't get high off second hand smoke, love, let alone hallucinate—marijuana isn't even a hallucinogen—good lord, didn't you learn anythin' 'bout drugs in school?!"
"That they're bad!"
"Oi, yoi, yoi—ace teacher y'musta had…"
"Miss Landers was a wonderful teacher, dick," Scout pouts.
"I mean, y'smoke cigarettes with me without a problem!"
"Yeah, well—! Well—!"
"'Nd y'smoke one o'these 'nd walk away from it feelin' happy instead o'hackin' your way back to the base 'nd insistin' you'll kill Luc any day now—"
"Yeah, but cigarettes don't alter my mind—!"
"Oi now, y'get nicotine rushes, don't ya? Besides, the more you're talkin' the more apparent it is y'don't know a damn thing about the bloody plant,"
"What's there to know? It's bad for you,"
"McDonald's is bad for you, lyin' in court is bad for you—"
"Yeah, so?"
"Look love—forget Miss Landers, 'nd forget the jokes—I've been smokin' for nearly fifteen years, do I seem like a drug abusin' psychopath?"
"Y'know you're almost askin' for it,"
"I know it, but my question still stands, love,"
"I mean—"
"I mean, if you're gonna sit there 'nd call me a psychopathic drug abuser, then at least have the nerve t'know a little somethin' about the 'drug' I'm usin'—otherwise you're lookin' right dopey thinkin' you trip inhalin' second hand smoke from a joint—no pun intended,"
"Fuck off,"
"I mean, if you're gonna scold me, have a better argument than 'Miss Landers was talkin' out her ass 'nd I gobbled every word she tooted out',"
"Alright, alright!" Scout scoffs, Sniper smirking, taking another hit of the lightly smoldering joint in his hand.
"Why do you smoke it, anyway?"
Sniper chuckles softly, quickly, turning his content expression to face the interrogator.
"I could tell ya—or I could show ya," Sniper grunts, sitting up and producing his lighter from beside him, flicking the end of the smokable again, rekindling the flame. He inhales deeply, Scout watching as the flame browned paper draws back as the fire hits it.
"'Ere," Sniper coughs, expelling the air soundly through his nostrils, handing the young man the joint in his hand.
"You serious?! You really want me to smoke that?"
"Oi, if anythin', consider it a learnin' experience—you've killed people for God's sake, love, I'm sure you smokin' a little bud is the least o'your Mum's worries,"
"Hey, I don't wanna smoke because I don't want to! Not because I care about what Ma would say!"
"Alright," Sniper concedes, taking the stub back to his lips and inhaling its final dregs of life. "Won't force ya to,"
"You're smokin' the filter—"
"'S the best part! 'S nothing' at all like a nasty cigarette filter,"
"Now how're you even talkin'?! You're high!"
"It's not gonna knock the wind outta ya unless you're smokin' some real good stuff—'s here is just a mid—or at least I thought it was, certainly shouldn't smell like this," Sniper grumbles, Scout silent and mesmerized as the man sprinkles flakes of green onto a brown piece of paper, rolling it carefully, licking the rolled up edges and producing a fatter cigar than the previous one.
"Ew, the paper is fuckin' grey with your slobber!"
"Don't matter when you smoke it, love," Sniper sighs, using the edge of the flame of his lighter to dry it shut.
"Gimmie that," Scout snaps, taking the joint in hand and rolling it in his fingers, surveying it criically. "Hey where's your lighter?"
"Thought you weren't smokin'?!"
"Hey whatever, alright? Just gimmie your damn lighter,"
"How're you gonna smoke my weed and tell me t'butt out?!"
Scout sticks his tongue out at the Australian, who hands him the lighter reluctantly.
"I really gotta wonder sometimes what the Hell it is I see in ya, Lawrence,"
Scout shrugs, placing the end of the joint in between his dry lips, taking a few flicks to spark a flame from Sniper's lighter.
"No no no, love, you're about t'light the filter…" Sniper positions it correctly, lighting it for him.
"Now take a deep hit, love—no, no, y'don't blow the smoke out right away, 's not a cigarette—good ten seconds—"
"Ow! Fuckin' smoke is hot!" Scout sputters, gripping onto his throat and wretching.
"Stop bein' such a pansy, love, if y'don't take the smoke in you're not gonna get high,"
"You didn't tell me that shit fuckin' burned!"
"I figured you'd put the two together, but—look, the more used to it the get the more mucus builds up in the back o'your throat, then it won't hurt so much,"
"Fuckin' grody—"
"Take another hit, love, otherwise you're just wastin' good bud—don't suck it like a bloody vacuum, just—real gentle, through a little sliver of your lips—there y'go—now hold it in," Sniper instructs, smiling as Scout literally holds his breath, quickly growing light headed.
"Alright, now let it out,"
Scout exhales, his chest falling, smoke billowing before his eyes through his parted lips. He smacks them, an organic, somewhat cheesey taste left behind in his mouth, Scout nodding slowly as he passes it back to its owner.
"Eh?" Sniper asks from the corner of his mouth, taking a long, satisfying hit.
"Good Lord, y'drooled all over the filter—what'dja do, tongue kiss the damn thing?"
"Nah, I burned my fuckin' throat, now my mouth tastes like cheese puffs 'nd I ain't even high,"
"Well, lots o'people don't get high the first time—maybe you're just not hittin' it right,"
"How do you even know when you're high if you don't hallucinate?!"
"Trust me love, y'just know,"
"Fuckin' hippie bullshit," Scout snaps, taking the cigar in his fingers as Sniper passes it to him. "You know? It's all startin' to make sense," Scout sighs in between inhales.
"Oh really?"
"Yeah—you got that thick hair, them sunglasses, those weird ass shoes, you bathe like every other day, do drugs—you're a hippie!"
"Come off it, I murder people—"
"Which would ya rather be, a crazed gunman or hippie?!"
"Crazed gunmen at least have sharpshootin' as a skill, hippies don't do anythin' but wank about free love 'nd write music,"
"You justifyin' murder?"
"No, but I have other hobbies besides smokin', love—I'd rather indulge in 'em than play hacky sack with those lice balls—the dames hardly ever wear underwear—'s just not my scene,"
"You're weird, wombat," Scout sighs, glaring up at the stars.
"So this is all weed is? It's nothin', I ain't even high,"
"It takes a second, love—sometimes it hits ya right away, but it's your first time, be a little patient…"
"Uhuh—so then, about my brother—do you think Chris told my other brothers? I'm sure Alex knows, 'nd Paul probably knows too, secrets get around Boston hella fast, but—seriously, why do they gotta act like this? Is it 'cause I'm the only one of them who has a boyfriend? Though, you know what I think?"
"Hm?" Sniper asks, eyes shut, the man in absolute repose.
"Alright—it's gonna sound crazy, but—I don't understand why he would care, right? We're all just people, Jack—we're blood related—it should be his instinct to always be by my side—Anthony ain't married, Alex hasn't had a girlfriend in a while—what if they're gay too? What if, we're all gay? Seriously? Like—here's—here's what I think—we're all born bisexual, 'cause how can you know what you like if you've never tried sex with both genders? I think we're all a little gay, don't you? And that hate—it's them denyin' it,"
"…you're high off your mind, aren't you?" Sniper chuckles, Scout furrowing his brow.
"What? No,"
"Try standin' up," Sniper still smirks, the young man making a motion to stand upon his feet—his head instantly spinning, his vision compressed to pulsating white dots due to the sudden movement, a comfortable pressure throbbing against the back of his head and hands.
"Yup," Sniper smiles as Scout plops back down, the young man quickly smiling himself. "It's hittin' ya."
He pulls an arm around the Bostonian's shoulder, Scout smiling as his body tilts so they rest closer together, his equilibrium sliding loosely behind his eyes, reacting slowly to the momentum of his physical self.
"Man, Jack," Scout beams, his hand brushing idly against Sniper's thin thigh.
"'S nice, isn't it?! Y'don't hallucinate—you're a little slow, a little heavy, but everythin's just alright…"
The two sit in silence as they look up dreamily at the sky, Scout's expression absolutely blissful. Sniper can't help but chuckle at his darling buck teeth, the extent of the young man's smile exposing them in an entirety free from self consciousness; he really did find Scout beautiful, the teeth a charming characteristic of his—he'd always told him not to allow any dental work be done on them…
"You good?" Sniper asks again, Scout nuzzling his way against the Australian, the closeness of their bodies an especially enticing sensation in his current state of mind.
"'S not like you did ecstasy," he laughs, referring to Scout's sudden affection.
"But, about your brother—'s nothin', forget about it—you're all old enough t'live your own lives now—not that you shouldn't love them 'nd want to be with them, but it's Lawrence O'clock now—'s your life, be happy the way you want to—y'don't have to sacrifice anythin' so you can all survive anymore—'s not nine o'you to an apartment like before—live for you, love, don't ever compromise who you are…"
"How about we just…don't go back to the base, Jack? We could stay here, forever—we could just like, never show up again, go AWOL—and by time the Administrator knows, like, shit, we're gonna be long gone on the way to Australia…"
"She'd figure out, 'nd send someone out t'find us—she knows everythin', love—that screen of hers, prolly watches you on the toot, too,"
"…Dude I'm so high right now," Scout chuckles, his head lulling on his shoulders, his cheeks flushed, eyes narrowed with mirth. "So fuckin' high…"
"Oh stop it, y'sound like a fourteen year old smokin' for the first time…"
"fourteen year olds smoke this stuff?"
"Come on, you're from Boston—livin' in a neighbourhood like Springfield, you prolly came 'cross substances much worse than a little bit o' cannabis…"
"Yeah, but—I like—I was good, though, always inside when Ma told me to be—Paul probably knows….or you…"
"Oi, I've tried everythin' at least once, but I'd hardly call myself an addict,"
"So like, what's the worst you've done?" Scout folds his arms, Sniper hesitating slightly.
"I dunno if y'really wanna know, gremlin…"
"What was it, like heroin or somethin'?"
"The worst I've done?! PCP, but I really enjoy cocaine—maybe a little too much," Sniper clears his throat, and Sniper knows that if it weren't for the state of his mind, his eyes would be much wider than they are.
"I mean—I was young, about twenty two—was flingin' around, hoolin' up with this bloke from Brisbane—real looker, real charmer—liked it rough in the van, heh—went back t'his place, had no idea 'his place' was code for him 'nd some friends of his snortin' that shit in his livin' room,"
"So you just like…did it?"
"Well—I mean—yeah, got real pumped up—ended up havin' wild sex with 'im in his room because of it—but stimulants are pretty bad for my heart, love, figured that one out the bad way,"
"What happened, Snipes?"
"Eh—forget about it—'s jus' say it involved me high tailin' outta Brisbane with a powdered upper lip, naked in the van, goin' 160 kilometers 'n hour tryin' t'get outta there,"
"You don't do it anymore, do you?"
"Larry...I...on occasion..." Jack admits, Lawrence slumping against the van. "But it's different now, love—I didn't care back in those days, I was depressed 'nd alone, stealin' in order t'keep gas in the car—didn't care 'bout myself or where I was headed in life, 'nd was completely uneducated 'bout drugs for that matter—figured, I already smoked, what else was there t'lose? Well…"
"Jeeze, Jack, you make me sound like—so inexperienced…"
"They weren't good experiences, love, the best I can say is that I learned from them—'nd if I ever, ever hear you mess with it—I'll kick your little arse, you best believe that, mate—"
"Hypocrite…"
"Hmph—maybe, but 's different with you, I gotta keep you safe—then again that bloody Bonk! you're always drinkin' wires you up like cocaine does…"
"So then…I'm a drug addict?"
"Depends on what the Hell's in that stuff…" Sniper chuckles, Scout chewing on his bottom lip.
"So like…how much farther from the base are we?"
"Hm—nice topic change, there—dunno—two days, maybe? If we don't drive straight through?"
"So then we'll have a couple days to the Fort by ourselves…"
"Luc'll be there too, remember?"
"Aw, fuck—"
"Oi now, but you'll be spendin' those days with me in bed, 's not like you'll have t'see him…" Sniper growls, bring Scout into his lap, kissing his forehead absentmindedly.
"'S that all you think about? Sex?"
"Havin' it—with you—"
"Am I that good?" Scout smirks pridefully, Sniper scoffing.
"I do all the work, all you have t'do is lean back 'nd make those little noises…"
"Yeah well, keeps your joints from freezin' up on ya, so you get an orgasm and a work out…"
"I'm not old…"
"You're getting' there,"
"So're you—you're not too far from thirty yourself,"
"Whatever,"
"I don't have a single grey hair!"
"Cradle robber,"
"Come off it, you wouldn't last a week without my cock,"
Scout chuckles, running his hand through his hair, meeting Sniper's smile, shifting a bit so he sits lazily still in the man's lap.
"No, but honestly—I'll take you out to Teufort itself—the town's nice 'nd small, so we could hit it in a day, maybe we could go hikin' in one o'the nearby canyons—"
"They got a sport's bar in Teufort? The Sox're playin' in three days and I wanna see it!"
"Hm—alright, we'll grab some nice scotch 'nd watch the game, too…"
"Maybe smoke a little afterward?"
"'Ey now, if you're gonna get into this too you're gonna need t'pitch in for sure,"
"How 'bout I just pay you in—you know…"
Sniper smirks. Oh boy, did he know. They both know, judging by the way Scout's hand runs its course along his front, stopping his fingers to fiddle with the button of his slacks…
Sniper knows, alright. There were many things he didn't, the future wasn't his to predict. How it would all end, if Scout was to ever return to Boston, if they'd grow old together and die in the van, he couldn't say.
"'S'arlight, love," Sniper soothes.
Yeah. It would be alright. They didn't need any sort of drugs for Sniper to conclude that much. He'd make it all alright if he had to.
"We'll work somethin' out."
-
Scout had lost a bit of heaviness to him, Sniper notes, for carrying him into the sleeping room seemed to be an easier feat compared to when Sniper had last carried him in his arms—then again it helped that Scout's clothing was not weighed down by the influence of copious amounts of blood seeping into them this time around.
They'd fallen asleep outside, and if it weren't for Sniper having awoken randomly to find Scout plastered against him, snoring lightly, they might've even remained so until morning.
"The things I do for you, mongrel…" Sniper rolls his eyes, taking a cleat into his hand, bracing himself and letting the lids fall over his eyes as he stops himself from breathing. He sweeps it off Scout's foot in a swift motion in an attempt to just get it over with, but even by steeling his respiratory system Sniper still catches an inhalation of the inside of the young man'srunning shoes. Not that he could help it, of course they were going to smell unpleasant—still…
He plucks the socks off both feet, rolling them up and throwing them in a basket for wash—they'd have to stop by a laundromat on the way back to the 'Fort. He nearly chucks the cleats, putting as much distance between them as quickly as possible; Sniper'd settled with simply naming the shoes 'death'. God forbid Scout should ever find out.
Scout was to be twenty five this coming August, and yet here Sniper was, placing him in his night clothes as if he were some sort of infant. It beat the risk of waking him, Scout would never stop talking if Sniper were to break him out of his sleep in order to dress himself. It was a fair enough exchange, putting on his pajamas and tucking him in as opposed to Scout's late night bitching about whatever the fuck.
Sniper smirks down at him, placing a kiss upon his forehead, continuing with his own nightly routine.
'If the me from fifteen years ago were to ever have any idea I'd be tuckin' in a boyfriend, I think he'd shoot 'imself.'
It was a funny thing to think about. To go from years of unstructured flings, careless physical escapades with men whose names he'd often never even known before making love to them—to whatever the Hell this was he had with the Bostonian.
Sniper chuckles out loud, smirking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror; the man who gazes back at him clearly finds it just as hilarious that his relationship with Scout was easily the most stable and healthy one he's ever had.
What in the world did it say about him that a little shit some twelve years his junior (with a highly annoying accent, to boot) whom he was lucky to not anger at the end of every given day was the closest he'd ever been to doing something right in his life?!
Lawrence was the only thing about his whole existence that Sniper couldn't label as being a complete failure—and even then the love he had for him was subordinately objectionable on every level—even his love for Lawrence was, more or less, wrong. A queer, A Yank (his father despised both, a queer Yank would probably give the man a heart attack), a BLU with whom he could say he often did not get along with…
Perhaps, then, Sniper concludes, smacking his razor against the small metal sink and dragging it further across his stubble laden jaw, Lawrence was, along with everything else, completely wrong too; but like Hell he'd ever want it to be right.
After years and years of bedding handsome men in some of the seediest situations, and Sniper settles with the blue eyed brat whose name he'd actually bothered to learn before fucking. Hell, he'd even gone as far as to befriend and genuinely carefor him.
But it wasn't settling, the man truly did love Lawrence more than anything, more than he could possibly love someone in his life. Everything about him Sniper hated was that exactly what he couldn't get enough of. It was the exception of war—had Sniper crossed paths with Scout anywhere else, he probably would have murdered the young man.
Then again maybe not, Scout also had the ability to be a compassionate, sweet, genuinely loving person. He was loyal and ambitious, always dreaming—it took a lot to bring Scout down, and even then he was already fighting his way back up—without him, Sniper had nothing else to live for. There were many wonderful qualities Scout possessed, and Sniper had honestly grown to love each and every one, be they ideal or not.
What then, he wonders quietly as he cups water to wash the small brown hairs down the drain, was it that the younger of the two saw in him? Surely there was a boy closer to his own age that could offer him more than a van and a jaded, halfhearted outlook on life through the eyes of a killer who had no hope for either himself or the world. Perhaps Scout was the one who was really settling.
"Hey, Snipes…"
Sniper looks up, smiling at the reflection of the very subject of his most recent thoughts. He smiles as Scout rubs his eyes, obviously just having gotten up a few seconds ago.
"Hey, love…"
Scout yawns before stretching.
"I just wanted to say that—y'know, I had fun with you out there…"
"Oh—I'm glad, mongrel," Sniper nods, splashing the last of the cream off his face with water.
"Told ya you'd prolly like it—'nd you're not an addicted hussy like Miss Landers insisted you were,"
"Yeah—I wasn't expectin' smokin' dope to be so fun—'specially not with your ass, but hey, I really did have a good time—it felt good as Hell…"
"Well, don't get too caught up in it, smokin' too much too often'll kill your memory 'nd make ya kinda flabby, like your brother,"
"Who, Alex?!"
"Yeah,"
"He smokes?!"
Sniper chuckles; only Scout would be so oblivious.
"Oh, Lawrence, you crack me up, y'really do, love…"
"I had no idea he smokes,"
"He's about as active as a sloth—'nd I don't want your Doc comin' at me if you don't pass your next physical 'cause you're a little too into the—y'know…"
"Nah, you ain't gotta worry 'bout him—Lard fat passes 'em somehow, I'll be fine,"
Scout brings a hand to pat against Sniper's smooth cheek, his fingers twisting the man's profile so he may get a better look at the whole of his face.
"You were gettin' a little hairy, yeah—but how the fuck do you get such a close shave?!"
"Patience,"
"Oh? 'Cause I always end up missin' like a patch, 'nd it looks super awkward,"
"You shave?!"
"'Course I do!" Scout attempts to scoff as if it were so obvious, but instead ends up sounding hysterical.
"Why you gotta sound so surprised, though?!"
"Seriously?! Y'don't even have hair on your arms, let along anythin' worth shavin' on your face!"
"Hey now, I got some shadow!"
Sniper raises an eyebrow; save the freckles near his nose and the imprint of his dimples upon his cheeks, his face was completely unblemished by hair (or any traces of it) or acne—he must've had a relatively painless transition into puberty.
Though clearly an adolescent, there was still somewhat of a boyish air about him—perhaps it was his attitude, his highly unadult like attitude regarding himself and his own greatness doing much to setback the mature aura his developed body would otherwise radiate. It didn't help that he was lean and rather small anyway, as a runner's physique was already slim to begin with.
Shaving should have been the last thing on his mind.
"You've seen me naked, the hair above my dick—"
"Yeah, but what's that got t'do with shavin' hair on your face that doesn't exist?!"
Scout takes a superfluous squeeze of shaving cream into his hands, spreading it aggressively about his jaw and grimacing at the reflection of the Australian in the mirror.
"Think you're so fuckin' great with your chest and armhair—"
"I'm not sayin' it's great, just that you've got smooth skin—'s not a problem, you don't look like a child, you just, aren't—"
"What, Snipes, manly?!"
"Now you're puttin' words into my mouth—"
"Maybe I don't wanna look like a fuckin' bear no way—"
"Oi, now, I'm not a bear…"
"Hairy thighs—"
"'Nd yet you love my treasure trail," Sniper teases, Scout flipping him off, still searching for a clean razor. "Drives ya crazy the way it just disappears below the belt," Sniper jokes, bringing his hands to tug at the waist of his slacks.
"Y'got nice, smooth skin, love—what, do you want to look like puberty exploded on ya ten years too late?!"
"Watch, I'm gonna shave 'nd you're gonna see a fuckin' difference,"
"Alright, I'll watch 'nd wait for you t'use my razor 'nd my cream, 'cause clearly you've never needed the products on your own—"
"Fuck OFF, Snipes—!"
"Only for you to not look any different whatsoever—"
"Do you always gotta be a dick?! Why can't you just watch me shave 'nd cum your pants 'cause it's so hot?!"
"Who said I wasn't gonna?" Sniper chuckles, Scout scoffing and twisting to reach his left cheek.
"Fuckin' perv…"
"You said you wanted me t'jizz from admiration of your manly display, love!"
"I didn't say tell me about it—hey, what're you doin'?!"
"Why're you shavin' your damn cheek, love, jus' bring it 'round the jaw, like this…" Sniper instructs, taking Scout's chin into his fingertips, guiding the razor gently along Scout's prominent jawline.
"You've never even shaved the dust off your upper lip, have you?!"
Scout sticks out his tongue, grimacing as he catches the cream he'd slathered upon his skin in his mouth.
"See? Nice slow strokes like how I've gotcha—not those ridiculous cat scratches on your cheek," he laughs, smacking the razor against the sink, a glob of hairless cream landing in it with a moist plop.
"Oi—didja cut yourself?" Sniper asks, rubbing his thumb against a small knick near his mouth, fresh blood seeping into the pad of it.
"Oi now, you didn't have any idea what you were doin', did ya?" Sniper sighs, grabbing a towel and wiping Scout's face, pressing it against the small cut.
"Why do you always gotta assume I just don't know?! Maybe my hand slipped—I ain't no kid," Scout spits, though Sniper has a feeling he harbours a general, long cultivated frustration at this sort of thing as opposed to Sniper himself.
"'S wrong, your brothers used t'tease you about it?"
Scout says nothing, taking the towel in hand, and growling as not a difference was made.
"Luc 'nd them always used to hog up the bathroom in the mornin' shavin' 'nd shit, 'nd I was lucky if I had a hair sproutin' out a fuckin' zit—"
"Y'know why your brothers were shavin' like mad, love?! 'Cause they have that ridiculous, red haired peach fuzz that grows like a thicket if they don't nab it everyday—seriously, 've you seen Christopher's unibrow? He's a handsome guy, you all are, but he's got a red haired unibrow, 'nd Alex prolly has the most awkward peach fuzz I've ever seen in my life—seriously love—red haired peach fuzz—they prolly all look at you 'nd wish that they had a face like yours—seriously! You're absolutelystunnin', love, you've got that perfect, clear skin, those flushed little cheeks, those blue eyes—'nd those cute little freckles—not only're you the baby, but you're the hot one 'nd they prolly all want you dead for it! 'Course they're gonna make you feel like less of a man 'cause you don't have awkward ginger forests sproutin' in between your toes. So own it 'nd quit cuttin' your cute little face up goin' after an imaginary unibrow you should be glad you didn't inherit,"
Scout is speechless.
Sniper smiles, lifting the towel away from his cheek, the small gash flesh coloured, camouflaging with the natural redness of Scout's cheeks to begin with. He lets Scout grab hold of his cheeks and pull him into a gentle kiss, his soft lips garnished with the sour taste of the shaving cream's spice, the words obviously having done much to comfort him.
"You waste too much time tryin' t'convince people you're somethin' by drawin' attention to the things you're not," Sniper explains, leading Scout back into the sleeping room.
"I know you're not a child—you can act like one 'nd you can be a bloody handful with that 'tude o'yours, but you're hidin' away a real sweet person behind all that wankery 'cause you're too blind t'realise just how good you've actually got it—I mean, come on, you're so hot you're datin' an Aussie! We're hot, right?"
"Pfft—you're a jaw dropper, pickin' me up for dates in your camper van,"
"'Nd t'think you wanna move in with me,"
"Naw, this is how it's gonna happen—we're gonna tour the US in the van, right?! Then we're gonna find a way to get to Europe with it, get fucked up, have some crazy ass adventures—maybe even almost die a couple times—have some run ins with some crazy ass Euro pigs, and I'm gonna bail you outta jail, then we're gonna flee and end up getting' held up at the Soviet border—so then we hustle our way around and we find our way to Australia—then we tour out there, find a nice house, move in, and then we just chill,"
"Sounds turbulent,"
"Yeah, 'nd we're gonna be all 'I'm too old for this shit,' and we're just gonna have a house down there—with Boston 'nd Bauldelaire, 'nd, y'know…"
"What?"
"Not tell our families the address 'cause then they'd come and kill us for bein' fags,"
"'Ey now, forget all them; this is your fantasy, 'nd they don't matter 'cause they don't love you like I do…"
"Aw," Scout groans, growing embarrassed, though obviously touched by Sniper's words.
"Hm—y'got some resin on your lips, from earlier," Sniper chuckles, bringing his thumb to brush the crystalline proof of their earlier indulgences from his mouth, leaning to turn off the bedside lamp seconds later.
"Honestly—forget about them—y'gotta get your head back in 'Fort mode if y'wanna keep your wits about ya,"
Scout rests against him, his smooth, shaven cheek pressed against Sniper's chest, wasting no time in dozing back off to sleep.
"Forget about 'em, love; I've got ya, no matter what."