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He's started smoking again; it's not as if Jim wants the toxic smoke filling his lungs, nor does he need the calming effects of the nicotine in his system. It's only for the nostalgia that goes along with the smell of the smoke.
Normally he just lights the cigarette and leaves it to burn to the filter in the ashtray. Sometimes he'll stick the thing in between his lips and let it burn there, closing his eyes and imagining something else that holds the taste of nicotine. But it's never the same; it doesn't have the heat that he craves, nor the bite of cigarette smoke mixed with cheap scotch.
Hurling the pack against the wall and slumping over his knees, Jim takes a few breaths, fingers clawing at his dark hair while silent sobs wrack his skinny frame.
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"Never trust the men with soot on their lapels." His mother once told him this while she smeared lipstick over his mouth. She always loved dressing him up, claiming that he was her little doll. Often times it was when she was drinking, and his brothers would watch with wide eyes. Jim can still smell the cherry vodka mixed with the cheap cigarettes as her breath wafted over his face.
He blinks now, lifting a glass of cherry vodka to his eyes and glancing up at his reflection. His mouth is painted dark red, and sooty black eyeshadow dusts over his lids. He grins slowly around a thin cigarette (the kind his mother always bought and smoked when she was on one of her depressive moods), knowing that if his mother was still alive now, she would coo and claim that he was still her little doll.
A rapid knocking at his door pulls Jim out of his thoughts, and he throws back the cherry vodka, sneering slightly at the taste. His youngest brother calls out for him, and Jim can only roll his eyes while he stubs out his cigarette.
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He still smells the same, and Jim is thankful for that. Wide, blood shot eyes greet the Irishman, cigarette hanging precariously from chapped lips. Teeth clench down on the filter, and a sneer lifts Sebastian's mouth. "Took your sweet fucking time." He hisses, grasping Jim's front and tugging him into the poor excuse for a flat.
Jim's glad that his sniper still tastes the same; harsh mouth on top of his, tasting of too many cigarettes and cheap scotch. He groans against the man's mouth, teeth sinking into flesh while a large hand nearly rips off his clothes. The flat stinks of tobacco, but Jim doesn't care. The bed is messy and the hands feel the same and Sebastian's flesh tastes the same.
Jim nearly weeps when he's pinned down, a blissed-out smile warping his lips and it takes all that he is not to repeat over and over 'I missed you'.