Chapter Text
Walt's sitting in one of his lounge chairs by his pool and Jesse is also there for some reason or another.
Skyler still has the kids at Hank and Marie’s.
Walt wanted a quiet Saturday afternoon to himself but Jesse shows up at around two, just strolls back into Walt’s damn backyard. But, it’s simply glorious outside: pleasantly hot, clear skies and someone’s grilling beef ribs a few houses down. Walt’s too content with his scotch and cigar to care much about whatever trivial matter Jesse is even there to ask him about.
Jesse, working his jaw kind of funny, cautiously asks, “Like can I have one of those?”
And oh, it takes Walt another sip or two to realize Jesse means a cigar. He’s got a whole box. Why not?
Walt cuts it for him, leans forward with the cigar to light it while Jesse sucks on the thing, lips around the flaky brown paper. He coughs after the first drag.
“You don’t inhale. Don’t tell me you’ve never smoked a cigar.”
Jesse inspects it in his hand, squinting. “Well, like not since I snatched one from my uncle at this Fourth of July cookout when I was like fourteen. Shit’s expensive; usually tastes nasty too.”
Walt’s nodding and wondering if he should trim the hedges on the left side of the yard and he’s trying not to stare at Jesse pulling on the cigar with his lips open and wide. But, the entire roof of his mouth is going numb and feels nearly sanitized and soaked in scotch. The reflective wavering of the sun is hitting his glasses so Jesse’s the only place in his vision not saturated in light.
Jesse leans back in his chair and absently scratches his stomach, even lifting his shirt to target the itch. Walt wonders if he has a new tattoo, maybe another all black one, design spanning past his navel, dripping down his pelvic bone. Walt would admire it for a minute or two before nudging Jesse down by his shoulders until the boy was on his knees, stretching those lips around his cock, sucking eagerly for him. Jesse would be watching his face, eyes blue twin-images of Walt’s swimming pool, desperately waiting for Walt to wade in them, to soak in any “Jesse, that’s it. Open up a little wider. Yes. Good, Jesse,” Walt could offer. And Jesse would be slurping, drawing him in almost too strong like the filter grabbing at the edge of his swim trunks; his tongue working him just right.
Then Jesse, real Jesse, is saying, “Yo, you fall asleep with your eyes open?”
And Jesse's unsuccessfully trying to ash his cigar, flinging it with a jerky wrist and Walt wants to teach the boy so much.