"Jon," Tim says suddenly, puffs of grey still trailing from his lips, "Where do you keep your feelings?"
"My- feelings?" Jon echoes flatly, his own cigarette dangling between his fingers. The air is hazy with smoke, the stench of it curling lazily in his gut.
"You know," Tim gestures vaguely, "your emotions- feelings- even you must have them, I'm sure."
Jon steals a glance at his face, turning back at the slight quirk of his lips, an indication that Tim was joking. He takes another drag, whistling out the next exhale. Exasperated, he replies, "In my brain, I suppose? Isn't that where all emotions originate?"
"Well, yes," Tim says, "but you're going about it too literally."
"No. Not like that, at least. For example," Tim puts the cigarette between his lips, takes a drag, and holds his breath. His cheeks puff out from the effort. After a few seconds, he releases his breath, smoke rolling out of his mouth like a creek. "I keep my happiness here, in my cheeks. When I smile, I feel it pulling. When I'm happy, it almost hurts."
"Or--" Tim's hand lowers, lightly patting his abdomen. Jon eyes the still lit cigarette nervously. "--I feel fear here, in my stomach. Sometimes I get so nervous I want to puke."
He flicks his hand up again, staccato, stopping by the hollow of his throat. The tips of his fingers run over his adam's apple, lightly tracing the skin of his neck as he swallows. His voice is significantly softer when he says, "I feel grief in my throat. It almost feels like choking."
"And my anger," he says, turning his hand over, fingers spread out and reaching, "I feel it in my palms, my fingers." He closes it into a fist, hard enough that Jon can see his knuckles turn white. "Like lightning."
Jon stares at his own hand thoughtfully, brow slightly furrowed. He says, haltingly, "Well- I suppose my happiness is in my hands," lightly grazing his fingers over his palm, "they've their own mind sometimes."
"And," Jon taps his collarbone, expression still pinched in thought, "my sadness is in my lungs. Sometimes I can hardly breathe." He huffs a quiet laugh, "Though that might just be all the smoking."
His hand travels to his jaw, hovering before dropping to his side. "My anger is in my tongue, in my gritted teeth. The words fly out before I can reign them in."
Tim snorts. "I can attest to that."
Jon shoves a bony elbow into his side, pointedly ignoring the expletives that follow. His hand wavers in the air for a second, before he tucks it into himself, arms crossed and cigarette dangling from his fingertips. "I guess feel fear in my bones. They burrow into me, like- hm- a worm?"
"A worm." Tim echoes, teasing. "You've got fear worms in you?"
"You asked." Jon shoots back, face warm. "I've never tried to put it into words before. You know what I meant."
"I guess I do," Tim says, leaning back against the wall. His head knocks against the brick with a soft thump. He takes another drag of the cigarette and heaves out the smoke like putting out a fire.
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