Chapter Text
The last sugary remnants of Eve’s chocolate lollipop melt on the side of Shin’s tongue. He laps at the roof of his mouth, chasing the taste down to the back of his throat. Immediately, Shin feels an itch so deep it’s visceral. He exhales through his nose, the air turbulent with restlessness.
The candy abates his cravings for what, thirty minutes tops?
Shin’s eyes dart upwards, leaving the chewed-up end of the lollipop stick in favor of Saint, who is pacing the expanse of Shin’s room. Shin watches carefully as Saint bounces from one wall to another, his loping strides giving him only a few seconds of ambulation before he needs to turn on his heel and walk in the other direction.
The corner of Shin’s eye twitches in annoyance. “Will you stop that?”
Saint perks up at the sound of Shin’s voice, his concentration broken. His puppy eyes are wide with surprise. “Huh?” he says dumbly.
“I’m gonna punch you forreals,” Shin grumbles. “Why are you on edge?” Saint doesn’t get to be on edge, Shin thinks. Shin’s the one having nicotine withdrawal here.
Saint starts pacing again. “You know, that lecture the school nurse gave us about the dangers of smoking and all that -”
Shin barely hears Saint. He turns to his backpack and wades a hand into the expanse of class materials haphazardly strewn within it. Shin is hitting a wall. He needs a cigarette, and he needs it now.
“You should really stop smoking,” Saint blabbers on, turning and stalking away again. “It’s bad, Shin, the black lungs, the gunk, the lung cancer -”
“Mm,” Shin mumbles. He digs deeper into his bag’s bottom, pleading quietly for the touch of a familiar cylindrical shape against his fingers.
Saint is shaking his head adamantly. He paces even quicker, ranting under his breath. “You can’t have lung cancer. We just literally reconciled. I don’t know anything about chemotherapy? How am I gonna take care of you? I’m not a nurse! I don’t have the grades for nursing -” He turns and finally sees what Shin has been up to.
Saint’s jaw hangs open. “Are you kidding me?”
“Shut up, Saint,” Shin whines, grunting with disdain when he finally abandons the bag empty-handed. He jumps off the bed, scanning his room carefully. He swears he has a stash somewhere for emergency purposes, high up where Ching Ching can’t accidentally reach. He catches sight of his bookshelf. “Fuck yes.”
“You promised Chadjen!” Saint protests, tailing Shin so close his chest accidentally bumps against Shin’s back. Saint could only grit his teeth in indignance when Shin starts scaling the wooden shelf. “Shin!”
Shin whips his head back, eyes ablaze with mock betrayal. He adjusts his grip on the second shelf, toes jammed against book spines. “You’re gonna tell on me?”
Saint groans in exasperation, arms spread wide as if to catch Shin when he inevitably falls. “You’re acting crazy right now! Come down!”
“No.”
Shin, as he inches up the third shelf, silently agrees; he probably is acting crazy right now. Could he have used a ladder? Yes. Could he have asked Saint to pat around the top with his crane-like arms instead? Yes, again. Hindsight is funny.
Technically, Shin has been good the past few days. Chadjen’s departure shone a renewed ray of earnestness on his path to smoking cessation. He has always wanted to quit. He never envisioned himself sucking on cigarette butts for the rest of his life. He hates the way Ching Ching would crinkle her nose at the telltale smell that permeated his skin no matter how many times he tries to scrub it off. But it was a coping mechanism, and he still had a lot to cope with back then.
Shin casts another quick look behind him. The root cause of said coping mechanism stands at the ready, brow crumpled in concentration as he follows Shin’s every small move.
Saint has fallen back into Shin’s life in perfect stride, as if he’s never lost place to begin with. That space, impeccably shaped to match Saint’s silhouette, bereft of time’s silvery webs: Shin wonders for how long he’s been keeping it clean. He wonders if he’s always kept it nice and tidy, ready to be occupied in a moment's notice, believing Saint would inevitably come back to him.
“Shin,” Saint pleads so earnestly it makes Shin’s heart ache, “Please don’t do it.”
Shin’s grip on the shelf tightens, his nail digging into the cheap wood. It’s just one cigarette, Shin wants to say. Cold turkey doesn’t work for me. I’m gonna have the shakes all night. But Saint beseeches him with eyes glazed with exponential hope that Shin could do it, that he could quell his inner cataclysms just by sheer self-control. That’s too much belief, Shin thinks. He doesn’t think he deserves so much of it.
Shin sighs. “Catch me, then.”
Saint nods and comes closer. Shin gingerly adjusts his position and when ready, makes the small hop from the shelf into Saint’s arms. The shelf sways slightly but doesn’t topple; Saint sighs in relief, one that brushes the shell of Shin’s ear. Saint cloaks his awaiting arms around Shin’s back, palms splayed open against the fabric of Shin’s sleep shirt. Shin doesn’t bother to hitch his legs around Saint’s waist like he usually does; instead, he lets his legs dangle tiredly as he is carried carefully back to his bed.
Anatomically and physiologically, Shin knows that a Saint hug is no antidote to his nicotine cravings. The neural pathways simply don’t function that way, and for damn sure his nicotine receptors don’t accept Saint-atine as a replacement. But Saint may be beyond science because Shin thaws under his sure touch, the pads of his fingers diffusing quiet past Shin’s musculature and down to his very bones. He is gently laid onto his bed as if he might shatter with the slightest pressure. Placidly, he blinks up at Saint, who presses something on his forehead.
Saint smoothens the nicotine patch down. “There. That way, it reaches your brain faster.”
Shin snorts, sleepy. “Don’t think it works that way.” He is then blanketed by the fabric of his thin duvet.
Saint slips under the duvet himself. He curves towards Shin, meeting him like the ‘close’ to Shin’s ‘open’ parentheses. Saint fills the space in between with murmured words. “I’ll help you. I know it’s hard, but I’m right here.”
Shin nods, eyes fluttering close. “‘Kay.”
Shin, with Saint occasionally grasping his fluttering fingertips and stilling the shivers that rattle him whole, keeps the cigs away one more day. And if he wakes up with Saint draped behind him like a warm cloak staving off the December cold, fingers tangled with his like disorganized rope, Shin, throat tight with a tension he cannot name, doesn’t say anything about it.