It's Definitely Not All Mary Poppins

Smoke Break (1)

Leaning against Lloyd's hood, hands trembling as his thumb flicked the lighter, Matthew breathed in deeply, the cigarette's singed paper crawling towards him. Relief flooded through him as he blew the smoke into the night air, its pale wisps caught in an updraft.

Matthew sighed, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead as the relief washing through him. Elliot, for God knows why, put up the fight to end all bedtime fights, smashing his bedside lamp and a hallway window. Coupled with Lilliana bursting into tears over a nightgown stained with tomato sauce she insisted on wearing to dinner, the children were finally put to sleep. Matthew figured, as a reward, he could indulge himself. Just a little.

He took another drag of the cigarette, bought at their most recent grocery visit just a day before, and blew through his clenched jaw, the rush of air hissing in all directions. The guilt dug into his stomach, yet his hands stopped shaking.

The house had been blessed with an unusually hot day, which translated into the building being unnaturally humid but providing a wonderful breeze with all the doors and windows open. The summer night air, however, hung heavy with moisture, the constant breeze now only short bursts of wind, but Matthew couldn't feel it; his body ached and glistened with a thin film of sweat and dust. The loggia doors opened back to the house, the wind whistled through the carport's perforated semicircle screens and into the building. Rustling trees and trickling water underscored the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird sang.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Yang's voice boomed.

Matthew twitched upright, hiding the lit cigarette against Lloyd's fender.

The man appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. "Why is the door open? It's making my office drafty. Draftier."

He stubbed it out on the carport wall. "Sorry, sir."

His eyes narrowing, Mr. Yang closed the loggia doors, stepping out onto the graveled drive. "I thought you were quitting. You said you were quitting, though it seems to be some kind of open secret with my children that you haven't."

Matthew stared, swallowing thickly against the muggy night air. He relit the stubbed cigarette and took in a slow inhale, a thousand excuses filtering through his head. Something in him couldn't put up the energy to be "proper" at that moment. He sighed and turned away, unable to keep his eyes on the other man. "It's hard to."

"If the children spot you – "

"I'm aware," he whispered, wiping his eyes. He took another drag of his cigarette. "That's why I'm here and not out back."

"You seem to have everything planned out, don't you?"

He didn't answer. His energy leaked out of him, following his breath and the billowing smoke.

"You know, if they came downstairs – "

Matthew sighed, his eyes still fixed on the darkened horizon ahead. His gaze moving to his employer, he asked, "...is there anything in particular you need, sir?"

Yang's eyes studied him for a moment, seemingly perplexed. He licked his teeth, eyes narrowed, before holding out his hand. He let out a breath. "I might regret this, but...may I?"

For a moment, Matthew wasn't entirely sure what he was asking until he glanced down into his hand. "...oh. Y-yeah, yeah. Sure." Mathew's fingers fumbled on the cigarette carton, popping one out far enough for the man to take it.

Mr. Yang withdrew his own lighter – a silver thing with snapback top – and took a slow drag of the cigarette. His eyes narrowing on Matthew, he blew the smoke into his face and asked, "I suppose this is where you'll tell me 'The children can smell it on you' and 'You should quit'?" He took another slow inhale of the cigarette, eyes scrutinizing him.

"I could," Matthew noted, "but it would be kind of hypocritical of me to do it."

"Hm." This was a short, understanding-sounding thing. "Am I not allowed to do that to you?"

His eyes moved back to him. "Only when I've been unusually hypocritical."

"Hm." Yang took another drag of the cigarette.

"...tough day?"

"If you are skipping the pleasantries, Mr. Robinson, then I am in no mood to continue them." He took in another slow inhale.

Matthew glanced away, taking his own thoughtful inhale. "What's got you pissed?"

"Rephrase. I am still your employer."

He let out his breath, coughing. Clearing his throat, he asked again, "They're in bed, sir, and it's after 9. If you're skipping pleasantries, so am I. What's got you pissed?"

Yang took in another inhale.

Matthew watched the singed paper crawl farther and farther towards the man's fingers before Mr. Yang let out his breath.

"Is 'everything' an appropriate answer? I've never been in these kinds of situations before."

He turned away, taking in his own inhale of his cigarette. "It's a summer of firsts for you, huh?" Matt turned back to him when he didn't answer. "What's your first here, smoking with the help?"

Mr. Yang's eyes narrowed again and brought the cigarette back to his lips. Behind his hand, Matthew spied the corners of his mouth twitching into an uncertain smirk. "No," he finally whispered. "I suppose a better answer to that would be 'corporate monotony'. Or even – " Yang paused, taking in a slow breath. " – 'no personal time'."

Matthew let his hand fall to his side, cigarette pointed away from him to avoid the same mishap with his khaki pants. "Lilly misses you...when you can't come to dinner." Not Elliot. Never Elliot.

"She's gotten into the nasty habit of reminding me when you've finished eating," he replied. "Always asking, 'Why weren't you at dinner? You said you would, though.'" Yang paused, pursing his lips together. "Elliot hasn't said anything?" He asked the question so casually, with such a flatness, that Matthew's stomach bubbled in anger.

He pursed his lips, sighing. "No. Whatever shit you have between you two, seems like it's the norm."

"Language, Mr. Robinson."

"Unless you'd like to share with the class what the fuck happened, no."

Mr. Yang took a long, slow drag of the cigar. A dark look crossed his face as he glanced away.

Matthew wanted to ask, spout whatever hypothesis he had in mind of what happened. He so desperately wanted to know the story, but knew he could only push so far before it would jeopardize his position. Instead, clearing his throat, Matthew asked, "Sir, if you don't like your job, why don't you quit?"

"I could ask you the same thing," the man replied, his glare never moving off Matthew.

He met his employer's sunken brown eyes and, after a moment, offered a weak smile. Turning his gaze to the swaying trees across the drive, he sighed. "I guess that makes us both stuck."