Fic: Tea and Cigarettes
E-mail:violet147@yahoo.com
Rating: R.
Warnings: Language, really. And touching.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Pairings: John/Marie, slight reference to John/Marie/Bobby.
Summary: Marie is going through the motions of a ritual she could never walk away from.


It was a late night ritual. It was one that neither one of them talked about when the sun was shining. It was one that they did not speak of even as they sat together, with the moon peeking in through the windows.

She always sat at the counter with her back facing the fridge. He always sat with his back facing the windows, hunched over like he was a hundred years old. He would sit his lighter down and pick up a Marlboro Light, plucking it in his mouth. Then he’d scoot his lighter over to her and wait patiently for her to pick it up and light his cigarette. She didn’t know why he would want to smoke, she figured he wouldn’t want to bring more heat into himself when he was already a furnace, but he seemed to love watching the smoke rise from his mouth, so she never said anything.

It always took her a minute, because as soon as she got in the kitchen, she’d start making hot tea. It wasn’t until the kettle was on the stove that she’d come over and pick up the lighter. The very first time he slid the lighter over to her, she looked at him as if he were insane, but he had merely smiled and said, “Can I get a light or what?” as the cigarette bobbed in between his lips. It became routine, and familiar, though, picking the lighter up, flicking it open and bringing it to John’s lips, and watching with envy as he inhaled the cancer deep into his lungs, wishing she could inhale someone and only bring harm to herself.

But she always shook herself from these thoughts, and she always sat the lighter down as he took in that first inhale, closing his eyes and savoring it. When he’d open his eyes, he would look at her, see the envy and the longing that wore her face, and would hold an arm out for her. She’d always straighten the straps on her nightgown and walk over to him, and she’d always remind herself that the tea was on the stove as she slid herself in between his legs and his arm came around her waist. She’d always tell herself to not let it get too hot this time.

Every time they used to speak during the day, it was always with tension, so they usually refrained from conversation while they sat here. Neither of them wanted to ruin the moment, and besides, she realizes now that they had never needed words anyway.

They would sit there, she in between his legs, he smoking a cigarette and his fingers would start drawing circles on her hip. He said once, while they sat like that and he ran his fingers over the silk that clung to her hip, that she should get a tattoo there, and she had idly replied that in order to get a tattoo, the tattoo artist had to put his or her hands on your flesh. He had put his hand on the top of her head and pushed her head down onto his shoulder and sighed against her skin, and she shivered. And he had smiled and said, “You’re much too afraid of yourself. Get the fucking tattoo.”

But most of the time he didn’t say anything as he drew patterns into her hips, and his fingers would always stray down her leg. She would put her hands on his thighs and tilt her head to the side, pretending she was looking at the stove, like she wasn’t waiting for something. And she’d close her eyes every time she felt his breath on her neck, like it was something she was afraid to get used to, and she’d always say to herself, “Don’t forget about the tea. Don’t let it burn.”

And his fingers would always crawl back up the length of her body, up to her stomach, up to her breasts, and he’d always use a finger to outline their shape, like he couldn’t believe they were there and he was touching them. Maybe it was because it wasn’t part of their pact, maybe it was because his fingers had memorized many bodies, but none with the feminine curve she has. She never analyzed his actions, though, while they were like this. She only agonizes about them now.

And he used to let his lips linger right above her ear, and she’d always dig her fingers into his thighs, as if to warn him, don’t get too close. But he never paid heed, and one time he actually reached his tongue out and took a quick, two-second swipe at her earlobe. She tried to scramble away, but his arm tightened around her waist and kept her close, and she could feel the smile on his lips. “You’re much too afraid of yourself,” he had whispered.

“I’m afraid for you,” she had confessed, turning her head and looking up into his eyes. “You’re so reckless. You can’t just play around like this. Bobby-“

“Bobby’s also much too afraid of you,” he had spat out, a little angrier than he had probably intended. But it was all replaced by a tender smile, and she had sworn she could see a flame dancing around in his eyes, although the room had been much too dark to really know for sure. “You can’t burn me, not even if you tried,” he had murmured, pressing his cheek against the side of her head where her hair laid.

And eventually she got to the point where she let him do what he wanted. If he put his hand up her nightgown and drew patterns into her panties, then she let him. If he used his tongue (and he did it often) to quickly lick away the tears that came from her eyes, then she let him. And she always, always stayed where she was, never stepping out of their circle, even when the kettle started to wheeze and whine for attention.

She could never let go of him, not when he was the only one who hadn’t been afraid to show his love. She had no doubt, that Bobby loved her, but he was so afraid, so afraid that he recruited his best friend to act his frustrations out on, thinking it would work out for the three of them, thinking it would be the answer to solve all their problems, thinking it was a good idea.

She had agreed to it, but how could she be satisfied when in the end, she was the one sitting in the corner as the temperature dropped and went up without warning, when she went to bed with unshed tears in her eyes because she had no release, because she hadn’t the courage to give it to herself, and because no one else had the courage either.

Except for one person, and she could never walk away from him, not John, who had enough courage for the entire student body. She could never untangle herself from his embrace. She had thought it was because it was the only embrace she knew, but she had been wrong. It was because it was his embrace, and his courage, and his tongue, and his lighter, the one thing that meant everything to him, that he shared with her as he ran it along the slopes of her body, bringing the fire and the coldness of the metal all in one to her not because no one else would, but because he wanted to. No, she could never ever walk away from that, not even when the kettle started to scream and cry and the tea started to pour out, all over the floor.

Now she wakes up in the night, and when she walks in the kitchen, she has to remind herself that he’s not going to be there, that he will not be sitting there with a cigarette in his mouth, waiting for her to give it life. It never works, she always walks in and expects him there, and she goes through the routine as if he were. She puts the kettle on, and she takes out a Marlboro light and lights it, savoring the first inhale like he always did.

Then she walks around the counter to his stool, straightening the straps of her night gown and sits down. She doesn’t talk to herself as she draws lazy circles into her hips, and she closes her eyes as she applies the same amount of pressure his fingers used to. And her fingers follow the length of her legs, and she tells herself to not forget about the tea, and as her fingers follow the phantom of his fingers on her breasts, she starts to cry, tiny little tears. The kettle signals it’s ready, but she doesn’t move. She cannot walk away, not now, when this is as close to him as she can get.

Her hands always shake, and sometimes she thinks the cigarette is going to fall out of her fingers. But as she takes in each toxin, she imagines it swirling inside of her, and she knows this is what he used to do too, each time he took a drag. She closes her eyes, as her fingers creep up her nightgown, and she hears his voice, like a whistle, “You’re much too afraid of yourself.”

And when she’s done with her cigarette, she grabs her lighter, cold and metal just like his, and runs it all along her body. She wonders if he does the same, wherever he is, if he can see her and uses his lighter to bring back their moments. She wonders if he’s echoing her movements right now, if he is sitting on a stool, pretending she is in his arms like she is pretending to be in his. She wonders if it’s hard for him to break the routine, because God knows she can’t. God knows she cannot walk away from this, even though he is not there to keep her here.

It is a ritual, one she does not speak of during the day. It is not spoken of even in the night, even as she sits alone. But it is not forgotten or ignored, even when one half of the ritual is gone… or even when the tea spills out all over the floor.


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