Menthol...
I didn't take Schuldig long to conclude that he fucking hated menthol. Especially menthol flavored cigarettes.
The redhead took a long drag, feeling the much hated menthol flavored smoke fill up his lungs. It almost felt as if he was smoking a fucking breath mint. And who the fuck smoked menthol cigarettes anyway? Old hags and giggling schoolgirls? O yeah, Schuldig's absolutely favorite people in the world...
Another long drag, and the slight nicotine buzz made his eyesight cloud up for a fragment of a second. How long had it been since he last smoked? A month, two weeks, yesterday?
Probably yesterday, but somehow it felt as if he never smoked anymore.
Smoking used to be something he just did. He went outside - he had a cigarette. He had a cup of coffee - he had a cigarette. He got up in the morning - he had a cigarette. He went on a five-minute break from a guard job - he had a cigarette.
Fucking menthol-tasting piece of shit. Fucking worthless so-called tobacco shop, being out of his normal cigarettes. Fucking useless cunt of a store clerk, giving him these fucking...
Pathetic. It was a pack of cigarettes for Christ's sake, not exactly a matter of life or death.
One more drag, and Schuldig almost coughed from the slightly sweet, utterly disgusting menthol smoke. It had been a while, hadn't it? He hadn't really smoked since...
Heaving a quiet sigh, Schuldig flicked the half-smoked cigarette towards the wall. Absently rubbing his thumb across his forefinger, he watched with a certain disinterested fascination how the cigarette bounced off the wall and hit the pavement. It kept burning, the glowing red embers slowly eating away at the white paper.
Since Farfarello stopped being 'that fucking maniac', and started being...
His lover? Boyfriend?
Fuckbuddy, Schuldig quickly decided, leaving the somehow slightly unpleasant subject.
The embers had almost reached the filter by now, he observed with a sudden interest.
He considered lighting another cigarette, but didn't do so. Instead he shrugged a little and leaned against the brick wall. Cold. He quickly took a step away and wrapped his arms around himself. Maybe he should have taken his coat after all.
The wind suddenly decided to make its presence known again, and Schuldig wrapped his arms even tighter around his shoulders, as the still burning cigarette was sent rolling across the sidewalk before stopping in a small hollow in the asphalt.
Schuldig took a deep breath, wondering once more how the exhaust fumes of a city could ever manage to so closely resemble fresh air. And it seemed as if it might rain. How nice.
The world always seemed a lot clearer right before the rain. The contrasts appeared to be so much stronger. The black of the asphalt, the orange red of a brick wall, the green of a small patch of grass struggling to find space to grow in between the cobblestones, in the gutter.
All these colors hidden under an old layer of dust, exhaust fumes, dirt. And all the while giving the impression that once the rain fell - as soon as those magical clear liquid drops would materialize out of thin air - it would all be washed clean. Those vibrant colors would once again shine through as they must have done before, when they, and the world, were new. Hope.
The embers had reached the filter now, and Schuldig watched as they reluctantly died down until the resented little formerly white, now tarnished gray, object turned from something almost living into just another piece of street trash.
The rain would come, and people would hurry away from it, too concerned with not getting their hair and clothes wet to ever remember its potential of washing the world clean. The rain would come, and leave, and when the sun reappeared and dried the streets... it would all be the same. Years of dust could never be washed away by just one rainfall. Maybe drowning the world in a Flood was the right thing to do after all.
Schuldig's eyes lazily searched the sidewalk, going over the trash, the dust, absently trying to see which turned out cigarette had been his. He almost felt a tinge of satisfaction when he found it. The only white filter among several brown ones. Not that it mattered.
He had smoked his cigarette and the craving wasn't there anymore, but he still felt reluctant to go back in. Maybe he needed a break from reality, and the cars and the minds' voices inside the cars - rushing by at a speed that left him with nothing but a quick blur of dusty color, a few words without context - almost let him step outside himself for a moment, almost allowed him to let his guard down, become a part of the city surrounding him.
Almost.
He wasn't listening for any specific thought patterns around him, so when a pair of arms - bare, chilled by the cool wind - encircled his waist, he closed his eyes, pretending for a little while that those arms could belong to anyone, a stranger, someone who didn't know him, someone who would let him forget, start over.
But the raspy whisper so close to his ear didn't surprise him, only made him swallow inaudible as warm breath washed over his cheek and he momentarily recalled what that voice used to do to him.
"Missed me?"
No, not used to. Still did.
The redhead quickly rearranged his features, briefly reprimanding himself, wondering why the fuck he would ever get sentimental. He shifted a little, turning his face around to slowly capture Farfarello's lower lip between his own. He avertedly let go, placing his hands over the Irishman's cold arms.
"Not one bit."
Schuldig smirked, looking for some trace of surprise, mock indignation, in Farfarello's features and mind. Finding none. He tugged a little at the pale arms, gently entangling himself from the embrace.
One last brushing of lips against lips, and then Schuldig started for the door, turning around, waiting for Farfarello to follow.
"Let's get inside."
Maybe he should stop smoking altogether.
Part 12 | Fanfiction