Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.
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Author's Note: to speedrun your mildly depressing wank, skip ahead to the second section.
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It's a tradition for pairs of us to take 'smoke breaks' outside the Pig, even though nobody smokes and our time at the bar is one giant break. Even with all the food, drinks, drugs, games, and music on tap inside, the smoke breaks are what I hold dear.
There are traditions to satisfy first. They're really not so bad. We drink our delicious drug cocktails, commiserate, raise a final toast to our endless workplace failures, and then catch up with each other about hobbies and interests -- anything other than sex, that is. I'm no better than average at complaining about work; I'm downright terrible at discussing hobbies and interests, because I barely have any. Then, finally, we're allowed to talk about sex, but it's just not the same inside. It's gossip and a bit of recipe-swapping.
Outside, one-on-one, is where the magic happens. It's two kids talking about everything and nothing while pretending that the curb is a tightrope. They believe it so hard that when one's foot slips, their body jolts them awake to desperately avoid a fall that never comes. The asphalt just a few centimeters down is a safety net that shouldn't be there. The shoe scuffs long and hard. The sense of relief is soured by the feeling that they've been cheated out of something.
It's two older kids taking that will-they-won't-they late-night walk to someplace on campus that feels like a secret, but most assuredly isn't one. It isn't a date. It's baring one's soul, knowing full well that it's just as pimply, asymmetrical, and half-formed as the body that carts it around -- and yet the other one emerges as divine revelation. It's the invention of philosophy, painfully stark, and coded messages passed back and forth on the wings of band names and song titles and holovids that actually have something to say.
It's the echo of old-world stuff we can read about, but will never experience for ourselves -- rites of passage that can only exist between ancient rocks and primitive hard places.
"Well, is it magic, or is it an echo?"
Yeah. Welcome to the conversation. It's two adults pretending to be kids who can pretend so hard that they believe in magic.
Itzy and I are outside on a smoke break. We're both still redlining, and both wearing our painfully unflattering getups. Hers makes her look like a tomboy who's hiding her femininity in an ocean of baggy gray -- the kind who refuses to shower and wastes her entire life playing hologames. The sterile scrubs she wears inside the lab compress and restrict all the excess fabric -- mummification as fashion-revictimization. My outfit just makes me look like a guy who doesn't know quite how to dress himself; the scrubs are a wash.
She's wearing a collar; I'm wearing my bracelet. She's got a Neutrex plug lodged firmly in her sissy hole, which she prefers to futzing with her permanent-chastity setup in front; I go 'commando,' which impresses everyone and disquiets the futas. I've got about thirty centimeters on her -- height, not equipment. Our hair is almost the same color tonight. Hers is a smidgen closer to blonde. Mine's a cartoon white meant for a cool, older-but-still-young guy. I know exactly how uncool that sounds, but it works. It's been a long time since anybody's had to stay ugly once they age up. You hardly even see an ugly kid anymore.
The sun has already set, hence us being alone. The air is fresh, which is something the human body just knows, even if it's never inhaled smog. As we talk, I can practically see the cigarettes that both of us are supposed to be holding and smoking. We all know about those ancient totems; they're art and history. They're black, evil magic lost to time, and all the more magical because we don't have to deal with their downsides.
"You ever done this with Ash?" she asks.
"I've never done it with any of them."
"They would."
"They'd try." I shrug and stuff my hands into my pockets; so much for that imaginary cigarette. "It's never the right time. Foreplay. Fucking. Napping. Snacking and hydrating. Showering. Sweet nothings. Doing it all again."
"You've said it to each other," she says. She doesn't need to make it a question, or utter those three little words.
"All the time. It's a very, very sweet nothing."
"Not nothing."
"No," I concede. "Not nothing."
Itzy tilts her head up in profile and takes in the sky. I see the peaceful acceptance of vast wonder in her blue eye balanced against her genuine concern for her smoke-break buddy. There are already a few stars visible besides the big one. The lab is a bit away from the city. We've got low-light zones all over. The Alliance gets it. It understands what magic means in mundane terms. The Guinness Pig's exterior trades in cheap hums and flickers from a bygone era -- the kind that primitively push back against the hush that falls, but don't obliterate it. You can flirt with danger -- with what we still lazily call 'nature' -- just by walking a few steps too far away from the building. Kids do that, too, don't they? Even when they're too scared to properly explore, they play chicken with each other, or with themselves.
"It's such a good trade," I say, exhaling dejection and defeat.
Itzy remains silent; we don't reward disconnected musings with coaxing questions. That's what mommies do for toddlers. We're both adults, or we're both adults pretending to be kids.
"Kids," I barely clarify. "Wonder. We still lose it, but it's such a good trade these days."
Itzy smiles -- my reward for using my words and not being a coy little shit. "But magic is always better." She nods. "Yeah. I get it. You're not even sure that what you're looking for is real."
"Irony abounds," I say. "You can't go home again, but I can find a mommy who wuvs me so vewy much anytime I want."
