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The sharp, cool air carried a mournful whisper through the hollow night and filled the charred, barren tree with its melancholy song—a silent cry of sorrow. Beneath the tree stood two figures, their clothed bodies pressed tightly against its scorned bark.
The moon, half hidden by clouds, cast a pale glow over the scene, illuminating the men as they stood cloaked by twisted branches and balanced by dying roots. One of the men, Daniel, took two rolled cigarettes from a case he stored in his coat pocket, then smoothly lit the filter of one—using an old lighter he’d been gifted some years ago.
“Here,” he said at last to his companion, the first words of the night uttered through thick smoke. He held out the second cigarette in his left hand, graciously offering it to the man beside him.
“I don’t need ‘em,” his companion said, and before his breath could fog the air, he added, low and plain, “brought my own. No need for yours.”
“But mine are better,” Daniel proclaimed, his voice as easy as it was sure.
“Cheap, yours are,” the man countered, in no less of a tone than he’d used before.
But whether his words cut sharp or dull, Daniel said nothing. He only smiled softly and puffed out a short laugh as he took a drag off his cigarette, his left hand and the unlit cigarette now resting in his pocket.
The men stayed like that for a while—in their own silent state of companionship, Daniel content with his dwindling cigarette, and Thomas fumbling with his own.
“This old thing’s not got much time left, has it?” Daniel said suddenly, almost to himself, as he leaned his head against the tree. The muscles in his neck strained against his throat as he looked up. His voice was tight with emotion as he mused, his words thick with melancholy and fascination. Thomas, who stood beside him, turned his head slightly to look at Daniel before he, too, glanced up at the tree, its twisted limbs bare and thin.
“No, it’s nearly gone now. Like everything else ‘round here,” he agreed aloud, taking a long drag of his own lit cigarette.
“The fire damn near took everything. I’m surprised this old thing’s even standing.”
“Yeah,” Daniel said after a pause, his eyes shifting across the space between them to glance at Thomas’s somber face. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How things have a way of dying out when they’re not meant to last,” he added shortly.
And silence came again, filling the space between them with its weight, the only sound in the desolate forest the rustling of a few remaining leaves clinging desperately to the tree’s branches. Thomas was the one to break the quiet, his voice low and filled with uncertainty.
“What are you sayin’, Daniel?”
“Nothing… it’s nothing,” Daniel said at once, a sad look in his eyes all the same, the smoke from his cigarette mingling with his tears. And then, just for a moment, Daniel stared into the distance, the shield of smoke curling around his worn face. “Don’t think about it too much. I’m just…” He paused, taking time to soften his tone. “I’m just talking. It’s nothing serious.”
Thomas searched Daniel’s face for a moment, watching his unfocused gaze before his eyes eventually settled on a patch of dead grass in front of him. Then he spoke again, his voice almost breaking with the weight of shared tears.
“Daniel?” Thomas called, the cigarette in his shaky hand nearly burned to the filter. “I don’t wanna be alone, Daniel… not in this, not in us.”
Daniel moved closer to Thomas, his voice dropping to a whisper as he offered his companion unconvinced but practiced comfort.
“You’re not alone, Tom. Not as long as I’m here.”
Daniel reached out his hand as he spoke, his fingers lightly brushing against Thomas’s. Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the brief contact, before exhaling a shaky breath.
“I wish… I wish it could be different. Wish I could have you and the world.”
Daniel smiled sadly, his eyes reflecting Thomas’s sense of longing.
“I know, Tom, I know. But we’ve only got this, so might as well just make it last—this night, this tree.”
Thomas laughed slightly, his shaky breaths pushing down the cries of pain his mind begged to release.
“And when this tree is gone? What will we have then?”
As if by duty, Daniel looked up at the tree’s bare branches, then turned his face towards Thomas, a hint of regret in his eyes; it was a pitying look, really.
“We’ll find another tree… another place.”
Silence settled over them then, its song thick with emotion, as if it, too, carried the weight of their pain.
“It’s done,” Daniel said, gently taking the cigarette stub from Thomas’s hand. He took a final drag before stubbing it out on the cold ground.
“Could’ve just asked if you wanted a kiss,” Thomas said through a smirk, his eyes slightly closed.
“Tom,” Daniel started, “if I wanted a kiss, I would’ve brought you to my house instead of a burned-out forest.”
Thomas laughed then, and it was good, it was right. It was what he needed and what Daniel wanted.
Thomas looked down at the cigarette in Daniel’s hand, then glanced back up at his face, his smile still visible on his lips.
“You got another?” he asked Daniel, any trace of sadness now gone, replaced briefly with hope.
“Only the cheap ones you hate.”
“Didn’t say I hate ’em, just said they’re cheap.”
Daniel smirked, then pulled out the unlit cigarette from earlier.
“Here,” he said, in the same manner as before, when the illusion of contentment held him tight.
Daniel nudged the cigarette and his lighter closer to Thomas, the action mimicking a lover’s apology, and Thomas took the offering—both cigarette and lighter, his fingers lingering over Daniel’s for a moment longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” he murmured, carefully lighting the filter and exhaling a ring of smoke as he lowered it from his parted lips.
“Tom?” Daniel said softly, the name on his lips acting as a question of its own.
“You aren’t alone, in heart or in mind. The pain of your—”
“Stop,” Thomas begged, his lungs heavy with more than just smoke. “None of that poet shit. Not tonight. Save it for your readers—the press—the sad women and housewives in your stories—anyone but me. Not tonight, Daniel… please.”
The comfort of lies and the pain of truth; these things were one and the same for both men. Lies mixed with truth for Thomas, and truths pressed down with lies for Daniel. Both men knew, and both men said nothing.
Daniel nodded then, the act marked by grace, before he spoke as gently as he could.
“Yeah. I’m sorry, Tom.”
“I know,” Thomas said, the ashes from his cigarette falling loosely to the ground.
The wind picked up again, colder this time, still singing its sad song of sorrow as if in sympathy for the men’s inevitable pain. And there they both stood, Daniel and Thomas—each man smoking his cigarette, shielded in vain by the dying branches of the dying tree and discontentedly surrounded by the silence of their own making. And there they both stayed, side by side, until the moon grew high above them, and the sorrowful wind at last cried out the last of its sorrowful tears.