One-Shots

Flashed Junk Mind {S}

The flicker of Mark's soul was a mere glint in Jack's eyes and mind. Of course, it looked like stars, named after Mark's passion for space. Jack could see the galaxies forming in his skull. Each one a different nebula of pink, blue, or purple. Mark could see Jack's soul in the same way. Jack's was very colorful, splatters of paint decorated the white canvas of his soul. 

They sat on the hood of an old and rusty pickup truck in the junkyard in the city of L.A. Jack was drinking a beer, being the Irishman he was, whereas Mark was smoking a cigarette. They stared out at the city lights, illuminating the cars below them and drowning out the stars. 

Jack loved to look out at the city. He imagined he would one day come here when he was successful, he'd bring his canvas and paints and paint the city as it was moving. The lights reflecting off the metal of  the cars. 

Mark on the other hand, wasn't sure about it. It drowned out his second favorite thing, the stars,  but it made his second favorite thing glow. Mark smiled softly at a beaming Jack. Mark had heard his story of the canvas and the paint loads of times, but he knew Jack would never afford it. That's why he took it upon himself to buy it for him. Mark smiled to himself at the thought.

They were bound to the city life, stuck here for eternity. Not that it was a bad city, or they were being held hostage, they just couldn't bring themselves to leave their memories. Even their bad ones. It made up most of their soul, memories. Good and bad. It didn't matter. It's just what happened. 

Jack looked at Mark, peeling his tired eyes away from the dim city. He glanced and quickly turned his head back to the city. He had to do a double take. And when he did, he wished he didn't.

Mark's soul had faded into a deep, rich, black. 

And oh how that wasn't good. 

Jack knew what it meant. He studied the soul in school. Mark had cancer. But it wasn't any type of cancer. 

A cancer called Squamous cell carcinoma, caused by smoking, quickly attacked your lungs and heart. It restricted blood and air flow. 9 out of 10 cases end in death within two hours, and chemotherapy never worked fast enough. 

Mark was a walking, breathing, living, dead man. Jack wiped a single tear from his face. He knew he had to make Mark's last two hours the best he could. 

Jack took Mark to the place they met, the place they had their first date and kiss, and finally, out to the field. It was far away from the city and streetlights. You could see the stars for miles. Mark had always wanted to go out there. An hour and  half had passed.

They lay on the grass, Jack's hands tangled in Mark's hair, kissing him endlessly, never wanting to forget that feeling. 

"I'm sleepy," Mark said, laying on his back, looking at the stars.

"Hey Mark?" Jack said in barely a whisper. "I love you."

And that is where Mark died. In that field, laying down, looking at the stars, without telling Jack he loved him.