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teethrotter · 2 years

Text

new person, same old mistakes.

Hol's diminishing smoke breaks tend to be more thoughtful these days. Oingo occasionally finds an excuse to join him.

CW for smoking / cigarettes, brief descriptions of nicotine withdrawal, allusions to past abuse and internalized homophobia, etc.

Nighttime disturbances had been a staple in Hol’s life for as long as he could recall. He grew accustomed to thumps and bumps throughout his childhood, particularly after the birth of his feisty younger siblings, but the abrupt presence of such sounds never failed to have him reaching for the bedside lamp.

He was a surprisingly light sleeper, all things considered. He gradually taught himself to simply roll onto his side and return to sleep once he confirmed there was no imminent danger, but sudden movements and similar phenomena still managed to rouse him near instantaneously well into his adolescent years - quite analogous to the pull of a trigger.

Leaving home at sixteen removed most of the threat, but his twenties brought an altogether new disturbance to fill the void left by the absence of his siblings’ nightly squabbles, this one much more discreet.

He consumed his first cigarette at fourteen years old - it was bummed off of an older cousin. Given that stale smoke had burrowed into the floorboards and walls of his own childhood home ( and those of his relatives ) long before he was born, it was only logical that he would follow the set pattern.

With puberty came a square, bold facial structure, a charismatic, low voice, and sandy blonde hair sheared by the razor adjoining the bathroom sink, intentionally highlighting any rugged features that he possessed.

At fifteen years old, any brand of cigarettes his heart desired was consistently given without suspicion or simply pocketed surreptitiously from the counter. He had been tethered to a chain ever since, exhaling the smoke of innumerable packs from the porch of their mobile home or toward the bedroom ceiling in the night. The smell already permeated any enclosed space in the house, so his further caking failed to be noticed.

With his twenties came random nocturnal awakenings a few days out of every week. There was rarely any sound to warrant such arousal, but his body could indubitably produce a cause for him instead: nicotine dependency. After it settled that it had waited long enough, it begun to stubbornly demand its fix.

Hol was initially annoyed by these events, but he soon realized that he did not particularly mind the ritual. Bemoaning insignificant, uncontrollable happenings clashed heavily with his life’s philosophy of lackadaisical lethargy. Besides, he lived alone in an apartment atop a hill in Columbus, Georgia - observing a portion of the city’s nightlife at unpredictable hours always proved to be better entertainment than anything he could have sought out.

Any shifts in a city’s early morning routine tended to be subtle. Most of them began as quiet and contemplative, perhaps indolent; Hol was content to watch the ash from his cigarettes drift down to the ground adjoining multiple motel rooms. He typically returned to bed after his craving was sated, later being woken again naturally as his body grew impatient. That would usually mark when he rose to address the remainder of the day.

Egypt was one of the countries he regarded most fondly from his years of near penniless world travel. Cairo was perpetually bustling and pipe smokers could be found at every turn / intersection ( not even to mention the comparative brashness of sociability and the ease with which he could slip into obscurity ).

After vacating his home state of Alabama, Hol embodied the ideal definition of a drifter or vagabond, much preferring to keep to himself unless he happened upon a captivating woman. If that proved to be the case, he was content to seduce and toy with her for a brief period, purely in the selfish pursuits of amusing and occupying himself. Odd jobs, tobacco, and liquor could only stimulate for so long.

Under his parents’ roof, Hol’s hair was never permitted to grow beyond his ears. It was both in nebulous rebellion and blithe unconcern that he allowed its length to reach his midback over the course of a decade ( plus a handful more years ). He undeniably did not maintain it as well as he should have, but it was not especially thick, so surely there was no real harm being done.

A dismissive and downplaying frame of mind seemed to be his default response to any unhealthy habits he may have accumulated. His thought patterns often followed a similar disorganized sequence whenever he would step outside to smoke as of late.

He was well into his thirties now and had learned more about the functioning of the world within the past five years than he ever could have over the course of his wandering.

As much as Hol preferred to pin it as a contagion from his husband’s meek demeanor, he had unquestionably become more introspective / reflective with age. Devoid of constant stimulation, he had little else to do during his brief breaks from the world.

Despite everything, he could not honestly say that he held any palpable regrets ( definitely not as of late ), but there was a novel stability to his life that was utterly alien. Not that it was a negative circumstance - he rather enjoyed allowing thoughts of the past come and go as they pleased, operating as an objective observer and nothing more.

He managed to purchase his first static home, realized that he was not ( and never truly had been ) interested in women, gotten married, adopted children, all the occurrences he never would have anticipated for himself. Of them all, accepting his own sexuality had easily been the most difficult, but he elected not to dwell on that whole fiasco all too much. The important part was that he was here in this moment, very predominantly satisfied with his course in life.

His first cigarette was through: the heat of the embers above the filter lapped at his calloused fingers.

In the months following the move into his inaugural house, Hol began making a conscious effort not to smoke inside, more due to the gorgeous front patio than anything else. It would be a heinous crime not to utilize it as much as possible.

He repositioned each of his ashtrays outside, one placed on top of the patio’s side table and the other perched on the railing of the back deck. Ogling the sunset while drawing on a cigarette deposited him back into his teenage years regardless, and feeling younger was never unwelcome.

Legally adopting Oingo and Boingo so that they could more easily acquire legitimate American paperwork only cemented his decision to regulate smoking solely to the outdoors.

Once Daniel moved in, Hol began to actively mind his habitual chain smoking. Vaping served as a useful alternative for a time in Egypt, but following his release from the hospital, cigarettes were simply the more accessible option. Daniel did not particularly care for smoke anymore ( it choked his lungs ) and Hol was reluctant to leave him deserted and desolate for any prolonged period of time, so breaking the habit at least marginally seemed to be the best option.

Really, he did not need the unending intake, anyway. That was what he told himself when he ceased to feel any form of satisfaction immediately tailing his singular cigarettes.

Tending to Oingo and Boingo was something that Hol religiously abided by. Truthfully, Oingo had already done most of the work for him, something that he would never be able to fix for him - the streets of Cairo were far too unforgiving and inhospitable for a young child raising his infant sibling on scraps.

Oingo was above the age of eighteen when Hol began seriously considering adoption; he could have lived separately on his own if he so wished. However, he would have to be cold and dead to ever willingly abandon Boingo to the man who once abducted them. He ultimately consented to legal adoption once Boingo made their own decision, something that delighted Hol more than anything else had in a long while.

Even after the legal proceedings, Oingo continued to bear the brunt of parenting simply due to an assumed reflex, but Boingo was much less trouble to him than they had been in years past. They minded Oingo on a level far superior to what Hol or Daniel could ever hope to achieve, but that was already common knowledge. They were content with merely having the siblings together in their home.

His curated family was a prime distraction, Hol settled, and so he was soon able to limit his cigarette consumption to one per session. He was still tearing through a pack on a daily basis, but it was far better than mindlessly chain smoking until his body grew too sick to continue.

Hol stubbed the filter out in his patio ash tray, making a mental note to clear it. The stray cats would be swarming the porch soon; most of them materialized around dusk.

Another shift accompanying Daniel’s presence was the cats. Wildcard was an old, pretty, lovable thing, content to mellowly lie in the sun most days and be fawned over. She was a spoiled lap cat, Daniel’s sole companion through all aspects of his life. Hol swiftly fell smitten with her.

The meandering strays were introduced as a result of Daniel regularly leaving bowls of food out on the patio after stumbling upon a pregnant cat pawing at the door one night. Of course, he captured her and brought her to the veterinarian the very next day.

After figuring that she was in decent health, Daniel attentively fussed and cooed whenever she would return for his daily feedings. Once her litter was born, their home was swiftly established as a buffet, several farm cats nonchalantly visiting throughout the day. Hol and Daniel made a combined effort to place names to any new arrivals and restock the bowls on a routine basis.

Truth be told, Hol enjoyed the company while he smoked. He would lightly stroke their ears and ruffle their fur, crooning at them in his sandpapery voice and occasionally receiving purrs or another vocal response in turn. He chose his favorites among them, but as Wildcard was now a house cat, it was only fair that she secured her place in first.

He reclined into his rocking chair, humming throatily to himself. His eyes drifted lazily to observe the morphing sky, reminiscent of the Deep South sunsets from his childhood. His thoughts momentarily lapsed after consuming his cigarette, leaving his fingers to drum passively over the arms of his chair.

Summer was indisputably taking root. The pads of his fingertips were slightly sticky with sweat.

Abruptly, the screen door banged open. Hol ceased rocking, turning his head toward the noise.

Oingo was shutting the glass door behind him, maneuvering himself to sit in what was typically Daniel’s adjoining chair. Hol merely leaned back to press against the pillow he situated in his seat long ago.

“Christ, Oingo. Scared the shit outta me,” Hol chuckled, lips splitting into an easy grin to display his teeth. His voice was smoky now, gravelly and hoarse. His fingers intertwined to rest over his protruding gut.

Oingo only grunted. He carried something of a cold shoulder with Hol, given his history with Boingo, but he inarguably warmed some over the years; Hol cannot and does not ask for anything more. Affability must have its perks.

“Where’s Boingo? Do they not wanna spend some time with me out here, too?”

“They went down for bed already. I think Daniel got them tired.”

Daniel went to bed far in advance of any of the others in the house, but none of them minded. Hol would more than likely join him upon stepping back inside.

“Damn.” The word was jovial: Hol was visibly relaxed, body all but sliding out of his rocking chair onto the wooden floor below. “Was hopin’ they’d come and see me before they conked out.”

Oingo snorted amicably. He wordlessly reached for Hol’s vulnerable pack of cigarettes on the table, removing one and slotting it between his lips. His next words were slightly muffled as a result. “This is really the hottest region in America? Pretty damn weak. Nothing at all compared to Egypt.”

“Damn straight. The humidity makes it fuckin’ awful, though.”

Hol hardly even glanced as his pack was shifted. Oingo did not make it a habit to smoke, but Hol was fully aware that he had a teenage history of smuggling tobacco from vendors. Not wishing to coerce Boingo into bad habits more than he ( unwittingly ) already had, Oingo made it a personal rule to instead slip out a few nights of the month to bum a cigarette or two off of Hol once he was certain that his sibling was deeply asleep.

Daniel was probably aware of their unspoken agreement somehow, but he never dragged it into conversation, so Hol let it continue. Daniel would not be capable of adequately understanding Hol’s willingness to occasionally indulge Oingo’s secret, regardless - better supplied sporadically by him than regularly by a clerk.

Oingo gripped Hol’s prone lighter, also positioned on the table, and torched the end of the rod. Hol could hear him inhale and smelled the tobacco as it escaped his mouth. “At least there is humidity. I don’t think I even understood what it was before coming here.”

“Fair enough. I’d still trade it for Cairo’s dry ass air any day. At least that shit ain’t hell on long hair - I don’t need no damn frizz, you know.” He tipped the brim of his hat to rest over his eyes and avoid the sun’s glare, sighing deeply as his chin tucked into his chest. His hair was tied back because of both the humidity and the inclination the nape of his neck had to sweat ( it would still easily frizz ).

“You think you know what frizz is, Hol Horse? I’m Black.”

Hol laughed, a husky noise from deep in his chest. “Fair point, fair point.”

Comfortable silence settled between them, Oingo puffing on his cigarette as Hol briefly rested. Warm, suffocating summer air could inspire drowsiness for him like almost nothing else. The sun ducked below the horizon, washing the scenery of their rural home in dark purples and blues.

The first of the strays began to appear, Oingo bending down to rub gently at its ears as it ducked its head into one of the food bowls. This one was somewhat narrow and coarse, aptly dubbed “Billy the Kid” by Hol after it visited for the second or third time. It paid Oingo’s attention little mind.

Oingo reclined back into Daniel’s chair after a moment more of petting, exhaling smoke into the damp air. His voice was low, monotonous, soft. “I think I’ll take Boingo to get ice cream tomorrow. They heard at school today the stand that one old man runs is open for the summer now.”

“As long as y’all get somethin’ for your old men.” Hol grinned, indicating his humor. “Nah, just kiddin’. I’ll make sure y’all have money. Just walk there after you pick up Boingo?”

“Mhm.” Oingo had taken up a part-time job recently, one that coincided with Boingo’s school hours.

Learning to properly drive had been an arduous task for Oingo to undertake but he eventually managed to pass and acquire his license, consequently insisting on attending to any of Boingo’s transportation needs ( though each of them still preferred to walk whenever possible ).

Oingo suddenly bent forward, eyes sliding closed. The cigarette dangled loosely from his fingers.

Hol was only aware that his position changed because the sound of wood teetering against wood subsided. He does not bother to open his eyes.

“Somethin’ wrong, Oingo?”

“Nah. Headrush.”

Hol snorted, his upper lip curling in amused fondness. “Hah. Headrushes. Don’t remember the last time I had one of those.”

“Shut up. I can probably still handle it better than you can. You haven’t tried Jotaro’s cigarette trick without fucking up.”

“Hey, now. That’s a sore spot.” Hol’s tone was filled with unconcerned jocularity.

That was another benefit of being alone with Oingo: they were both much more willing to allude to thorny subjects of the past without needing to account for accidentally triggering Daniel / Boingo’s PTSD symptoms. Dark humor was a coping mechanism in and of itself, one that could only be indulged in the proper company.

“Serves you right. At least I can still get some enjoyment out of a cigarette. I’m not just a damn nicotine fiend.”

“I could still technically send you to the corner, you know.”

“I’ve never been sent to the corner in my life.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Oingo scoffed. A pleasant silence took root as his cigarettes gradually died, stubbing the embers out into Hol’s ash tray once a fraction of the tobacco remains outside of the filter.

“Not as strong as Egyptian tobacco. American cigarettes are still tolerable, though.”

“You’re tellin’ me. American tobacco is nothing compared to a ton of other countries. We’re kinda just worse at everything, you know.” Hol winked, finally pushing himself into a proper sitting position. He sighed deep in his chest as he audibly set his joints back into place, grimacing all the while.

“Old man.” Oingo’s head tilted to compress the headrest of Daniel’s rocking chair. His eyes flitted passively to behold the night sky, stray cats slowly collecting at the food bowls about his feet.

Hol pocketed his cigarettes and lighter, standing from his chair.

“For damn sure. Just remember to lock the door when you come in, alright? Don’t need Boingo or Daniel worried about no crooks.”

Oingo merely offered a hum in reply. He glanced up to the older man from his current seat and wordlessly extended his hand for the brief handshake they concocted over the years.

Hol returned the gesture on reflex and stepped into the living room, screen door banging shut behind him.

Soon, he would need to quit entirely, whether as a result of Daniel’s subtle pleading or because of his own conviction. He could always think of such things tomorrow; expending the willpower on it tonight would be helpful to nobody at all. There were always greater things to address.

One of them being the fact that Daniel was likely waiting up for him.

#fanfiction #hol horse #oingo jjba #jojo's bizzare adventure stardust crusaders #headcanon #writing tag #original date: 04 / 19 #more context on ao3 under same username and title as per usual

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