Work Text:
Part 1: Of Burning Cigarettes and Smoke
Author's POV
It was only a little past sunset that she had seen him. His back was hunched against the brick wall in an alleyway like someone who didn't belong anywhere. Dr. Est Supha, the one who stitched her cut and told her not to crash in the rink again, now fumbling with a cigarette like a teenager on his first drag. The ever-so-intimidating air around him was nowhere to be found. So he was a human after all.
She stopped mid-step, torn between talking to the person who helped her or walking away and leaving the young doctor alone. He hadn't noticed her yet. The smoke drifted up in a shaky line, more rose than tobacco. He coughed.
“Dr. Est?”
His head jerked towards her, startled. Then he softened, recognizing the familiar face. He gave a sheepish half smile.
He turned his head into the alleyway, letting out a puff. “You shouldn't be here.” His voice was hoarse, perhaps from the coughing fit he had earlier. He didn't budge from his position, only looking at the girl who was his patient just a few hours ago from a distance. And weirdly so, the girl understood not to come close.
He flicked ash away with a hand that trembled just slightly. It was a pretentious act done almost robotically.
“You shouldn't be here either.” She fidgeted with her fingers, having them empty while the older had something in his.. was making her restless. “And you shouldn't be doing that. You should stick to being a doctor.”
Est almost flinched from her last sentence.
You should stick to being a doctor.
He grinned, but the smile still didn't quite reach his eyes.
“There's always a first time to everything.”
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve never smoked in your life.”
“Maybe, I haven't,” Est admitted, glancing at the cigarette in his hand like it was someone else’s. “But this one… It's different.”
Her gaze dropped to the packet he held. It wasn't store-bought in a plastic-like box. It looked handmade, thick, almost velvet paper painted deep wine red, with darker painting of roses etched along the edges. No warning labels. No brands. Just another tender and dangerous cigarette pack.
“That's not mainstream,” she murmured.
He chuckled softly. “No, it's my old friend’s. He ran a company handed down from his father. Legal stuff— if that's what you're worrying about,” Est ran his unoccupied hand through his soft brown locks. It had gotten long again. He made a mental note to trim them soon.
The girl merely nodded, but she wasn't quite satisfied yet. “How is that any different?”
Est contemplated, as if his mind was fighting voices the girl couldn't hear. It was a rare view for a doctor she admired for being certain and deciding in everything he does, taking his sweet time to carve out the perfect answer.
“He always made his own blends on the side. Experimental or obsessive. That's how I called him. And this one,” Est lifted the cigarette slightly, “is a gift.”
Now, it was the girl’s turn to take her sweet time thinking of a good reply. Why would your friend give you something you can't consume? Why choose cigarettes out of all things in the world?
Est stared at the glowing end. The scent reached her again. Sweet, floral, like smoke wrapped in memory.
He took another puff. This time, he didn't cough.
“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “Not trying it would have meant denying his presence altogether. I.. I can't do that. This is the only thing he ever left me.”
The silence stretched. Only the distant city noise dared to interrupt the two. The girl felt it. The weight of his words settled in her mind, and though she was no stranger to uncomfortable quiet, she let her curiosity win her that evening. But little did she know, she shouldn't have. A cut that had just started to heal was bleeding more the second passed by.
“He died?” she asked softly, hesitantly.
Est nodded once. “Cancer.”
“From his own cigarettes?”
“No,” Est said. “From the air he grew up in. His family.. the whole business was all he ever knew. Smoke was everywhere and he barely even smoked himself. He just loves making them. He loves mixing things. Lavender, cinnamon, rain-dried tobacco leaves.”
“And.. roses.” Est darted his eyes. They were starting to sting.
“You didn't like it?”
“I hated it.” Est's voice was brittle, and he also hated how rushed the words rolled out. “I told him every time. Said he was romanticizing death sticks that kill people. But he always said he wasn't trying to kill. He just wanted to transform..Make something harsh into something beautiful. I found that ridiculous.”
She looked at the latter's face a tad bit longer. The furrow between his eyebrows and the glare he blinked away gave out the stress he tried so hard to keep in. A single realisation hit her. “Did you love him?”
Est didn't speak. He watched the tip burn lower, watching the petals of ash fall to the dirty ground. He had always walked down memory lane, but not in this way. Saying it outwardly, to someone else, as if telling a story, of William, of them—he wasn't prepared for this.
But still, he told the girl every bit he could share without crumbling before his own knees.
“We fought after I found out about his cancer. I've always wanted him to pursue something else, something that is still in his element. Crafting, mixing, like perfumery. Scents and whiffs that don't kill. He didn’t want to. I told him I couldn't be with him any longer. We're too different. I left. He didn't stop me.”
He exhaled slowly, the smoke curled around his figure like something alive. It was everything, but was it really the whole truth? Est felt a lump in his throat.
“Then a year later, the mail came. Just this box of roses cigarettes. 10 sticks with my name carved on each of them.”
E S T
The cigarette burned down between his fingers. The three small words of his own name started falling off. He let it be.
“I loved him. No, no.. I love him.” Est whispered, his voice barely reached the one listening. “And now, all I have of him.. is this. It was regret that knocked on my door that night. But everything was too late. A-And I hate him for leaving me the scent that clings to me like he's still around.”
The alley fell silent. The girl, who came to scold, now stood in reverent quiet.
And in the hush, the smoke still smelled like roses.
_______
Part 2: Of Roses, Regret, and William
Est’s POV
The girl who got a cut from busting her forehead on the hockey rink left quite a while ago. She was a menace, asking me personal things that I don't really have answers to. She left with her concern obvious in her wide eyes.
I thought I was the one discharging patients, not the other way around.
I shouldn't be mad at her for being curious. I shouldn't have mentioned the fight. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be like this.
But I am.
I sink to the cold ground like my legs forgot how to stand. The tremors I tried to keep down, now free for the whole world to see. The cigarette dangling from my fingers was mocking me like it knows more about grief than I do. The smoke curls up, ghosting past my lips, trailing down my throat in slow roses and regret.
I miss him.
I miss William.
A remnant of the past flashes before my eyes.
We fell in love back during our university days. He graduated sooner, but he stayed in the city just so he could be close to me. We shared an apartment together. We would cook together, clean together, and even take baths together. He loved to scrub my back and watch me laugh from being ticklish. He said it was only in those moments he could see me so carefree.
William was always present, in multiple ways, I wish I wouldn't forget ever. But ever since that day, when I caught him smoking at the back of our building, everything changed. They were small, but certain.
He knows I hate those death sticks more than anything, so William became careful around me. I was furious. I wanted him to be more open to me. And so, he did.
I was introduced to his childhood days when he watched people come and go, smoking cigarettes like their lives depended on it. To his teenage days when his father took him in along the path of flavors and smoke. William loved it and loved crafting. He asked me if it was okay to continue loving what he loves.. but the younger me, didn't answer.
It was a denial.
I pressed my forehead to my knees. From the beginning, I've denied him.
A sob escapes my lips.
I've learned that there's a difference between giving up and letting go, two weeks after the fight. A tad too late that I fought back the urge to meet William. I wanted to scream at my past self. To stop assuming. To stop hesitating. To run to William before it was too late. To embrace William again.
Giving up means I stop. Stop fighting, stop believing, stop putting in effort, or giving William my all. Letting go means I've done all I can, I've shared my heart, I've battled and loved fiercely, even as William loosened his grip on me, and that I can find strength to move forward without his shadows haunting me.
I told myself he doesn't need me, and I repeated that lie until it stuck. What a foolish thought I chanted over and over again, pushing my own narrative for a dying soul who had nothing else left. Not even a family, not even me.
That moment, when I saw malignant circled red on a file and made William choose, when I tried to strip a man of the only thing that kept him breathing, the only thing he had left, I wondered if William thought I gave up on him or that I was ready to let him go, or even both.
“You're being selfish. Can't you take a break for a while? These,” I gestured around the flavor room where William had locked himself in for the whole day. “.. these will only kill you. It's like you're choosing to leave me so quickly.”
William was wearing the glasses I gifted him for his 20th birthday. It looked new, like he had taken care of it oh so carefully for the past 10 years. He touched the frame almost instinctively. “I'm working on.. my last ones. So you won't flinch away from the smell, remember?”
Back in the alleyway, my sobs turned to cries I tried to muffle with my hand. I don't want to remember. I don't want to play the memory again like a broken record. William was breaking before my eyes. I cannot witness it anymore.
And as if the heavens above are punishing me, I keep reminiscing. I keep remembering.
The me who was in a clean dress shirt, contrasting with William’s simple tee, in the flavor room spoke loudly. A menacing remark. “Oh yeah? The last ones that'll probably never be done if you die soon enough. Do you really choose these death sticks over me?”
William’s finger traced the delicate red petals he had carefully arranged on the table. He didn't answer, didn't spare a glance for me. It was as if he knew he wasn't in the place to argue.
Say something, do something. Both the past and present me hoped for the same thing.
The silence only stretched further. An untold agreement from William.
That was the worst part.
He then lit a cigarette, inhaled. Eyes down.
And I left.
I left.
I thought he'd call, but he didn't. I thought he'd show up at my door with his stupid grin, messy locks tousled from the wind, and jump at me for a bear hug, saying, “I'm sorry, Est. I need you.” But he didn't.
And maybe he knew. Maybe he knew that I wouldn't have stayed if he couldn't promise me he'd stop. Maybe he didn't want to be seen wasting away by someone who could name every failing organ in his body.
Maybe that's why he sent the cigarettes.
This box. Handmade. Deep red roses painted along the sides like he was still trying to make smoke smell like something beautiful. He named it after me. Est.
He kept that promise.
Way before the fight, he once told me under the warmth of our shared blanket. “This one won't make you flinch,” he said while kissing my temple. “This one will smell like the garden where you first let me kiss you.”
I remember it all.
I remember the kiss. God, I remember. The way he pulled back too soon, embarrassed and a blushing mess, and I had to chase his pretty lips again just to show him I wasn't afraid.
The roses behind us bloomed that day. He was excited. He was nervous. His hands, which smelled like tobacco and something sweeter I could never place, held me so gently that day.
I thought we had time. I thought—
My hands are shaking.
I flick the cigarette away, killing the only thing lighting up in the already darkened alleyway. My fingers keep curling around the stub, like they still need to hold something, someone.
William.
My William.
I press them to my chest, desperate to feel anything but this yawning hollow in my ribs. He is everywhere that it hurts. Every sore spot and tender wound etches his name. My heart calls for his name.
But..
William’s gone.
He died without me.
And I was in a hospital bed, overworked then, too weak to stand. Too late to run. Too stupid to realize the ache in my chest had nothing to do with blood pressure but everything to do with my first and last love, who was dying alone with my name on his lips and no one there to hear it.
No one could hear it, and so he carved my name on the sticks I called death, and the sticks he called life.
I wasn't there to see the way he cradled the final blend. I wasn't there to see him finish the cigarettes. The way he sealed the box. The way he folded that stupid little paper, which is too soft at its edges—meant it was touched multiple times with his crooked handwriting.
| The roses grew well. They're beautiful like you.
I laughed. But it was broken. William made it harder for me than it already is. The roses he used to make these cigarettes. To make Est, were the very roses we planted together in the garden. The very roses that witnessed our promises sealed with kisses.
I never got to say goodbye.
And now all I have is this alley, and this smell of roses clinging to a white coat too thin for grief this heavy.
I breathe in, and it still smells like him.
And I wish I'd told him one more time. I don't hate the smell. I just hated the idea of losing him to it.
But now, at each dreaded dusk, I'd burn a thousand cigarettes, if it meant the scent could wrap around me again, like his arms used to.
Like the warmth I ache for.
Like William.
Just once.