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George doesn’t smoke.
He stands on the balcony of his humble apartment. The sun has just disappeared below the horizon, and the city is all lit up at this point. A siren wails a few streets away, and he can smell the sweet, toxic scent of petrol from the cars down below—even from up here, on the 50th floor.
The brunet sighs as he parts his lips just slightly, putting a cigarette into his mouth. He reaches into his pocket for a lighter, his face full of something akin to shame as he lights the end of the cigarette on fire. After a second or two, he inhales and holds a bit of smoke in his mouth for a moment.
He feels light. The weight in his chest, the burden on his heart, feels like it’s been lifted, though only for a short while. And the taste of the smoke floating on his tongue is oddly nostalgic--it’s how Dream used to taste, back when they were in high school and talking on George’s front porch. They’d watch the sunset together. Dream would pull out a cigarette, offer one to George--and George would decline, because he doesn’t smoke, of course.
George would watch closely, memorising the blond’s movements as Dream placed the smoke in his mouth and lit it. He’d breathe in a couple of times. Dream would lean his back against the wooden bench they’d sit on and rest his head against the wall of George’s house for a bit, shoulders relaxing, intertwining his hands with the brunet with his eyes half-lidded and his chest heaving up and down slowly. George would quietly rest his head on the other boy’s shoulder.
Dream would stay with George until the sun dips fully under the horizon. He’d take one final puff of smoke and put the cigarette out on the ashtray, press his lips to the knuckles of George’s pale, slender fingers, and they’d kiss each other on the lips one more time before saying goodbye. And Dream would taste of smoke--of smoke, and sunshine, and love.
He’d taste like everything George ever wanted. And to be completely honest, he still is.
George opens his mouth and exhales. Trails of ashy grey vapor fall past his lips and cloud his vision. It takes a moment for the smoke to dissipate.
George doesn’t smoke, but when he does, it’s to reminisce. Call it reliving, perhaps? Maybe if he closes his eyes and tilts his head to the side, he can pretend Dream is here with him. Holding his hand, humming a tune.
He raises the cigarette to his mouth one more time, and repeats the same calculated action.
It only lasts for a short while. It’s not enough. Every time he does it George can’t help but yearn for more, to comb slender fingers through locks of strawberry blond hair, to trace constellations out of freckles on the other man’s cheeks. To hold him close enough to hear his heartbeat. He longs to exchange verses of love with him late at night, staring at the ceiling as they fall asleep together.
It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, regardless of how much George swears it is. The distance is killing him.
He lets it. George wonders how much longer he can go on until his heart inevitably shatters. It’s not like he wants it to.
He doubts Dream wants that, either.
George places the cigarette in the ashtray before heading back inside. He tells himself that he loves Dream, but not enough to let him break his heart.
.
.
.
(That’s a lie and he knows it. But it's not something he’ll ever admit to out loud.)