carl smoking cigarettes but only because he’s seen negan do it and wants to be cool like him.
Quietly shutting the door, he slinks out into the calm Alexandrian streets, the moon overhead casting its pale guidance through the night. The streets—these damn streets—taunt him. Their normalcy grating at him now that he’s tasted the bitterness of the Sanctuary: devastatingly sweet, like blood filling his mouth. He swallows against the thought. Padding through the dewy grass, rounding the back of his house, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the box. It’s battered and worn, like everything else at the end of the world.
Marlboro Gold: four of them. They stare up at him like the ugly thoughts that worm their way into his head. The cigarette feels more delicate than he thought it would, breakable. He resists the urge to snap it in two. Instead, he lifts it to his lips, thinking back to the way Negan had lifted his—calloused hands holding something so dainty. A soft laugh catches in his throat.
He remembers how Negan had lit his with the flick of flame, tossing the lighter carelessly onto the table in front of him. The inhale came next, deep and deliberate, before he leaned back like a monarch on his throne. Then the smoke—twisting, swirling, a living thing coiling around him—turned him into every part the devil Carl knows he is.
But the devil’s purpose is to tempt, and tempt he did. The small red tip burned its way into Carl’s brain—a flare that hasn’t fizzled out yet.
The click of his lighter echoes through the night. He touches the flame to the tip and breathes in. The taste is novel: savory, smooth. It clings to every part of his mouth and settles at the back of his throat. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t hate it either. It’s just another gray space, another thing he can’t quite feel.
He exhales, smoke slipping from his lips, drifting into the night; he pictures the faces of those he’s lost among the swirls. Is this why people do this? To have something disappear that doesn’t matter for once?
No, that isn’t it.
He takes a second drag.
The question lingers. Why would anyone do this? Why would Negan—a man with the world bending at his feet—waste his time on something so trivial?
He takes a third drag.
He feels dizzy. Is this the reason? A pseudo-high that goes as soon as it comes?
He takes a fourth drag.
Negan, sprawled out like a king on his chair, had made it look like power, like indulgence. But here and now, Carl feels like nothing more than a court fool.
He grinds the half-burned cigarette underfoot and slips back inside, the chilly night leaving him with more questions than answers.
The next night, he smokes a whole cigarette.
