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Sunday’s never been the smoking type. But now, staring out of the windows of Kakavasha’s penthouse, he understands why some people are.
“…Do you still smoke?” The question hangs in the air, which makes him sure that the answer is yes. Nicotine has always been a difficult topic, one Kakavasha seemed eager to dance around at every opportunity, because he knew how much Sunday hated that habit of his.
Kakavasha sighs, and that pries Sunday’s attention away from the window, and back towards him. He’s still sitting on their bed, but now he’s scratching the back of his neck and staring at the ground next to Sunday instead of at him. “Every now and then, I suppose. It’s a difficult habit to break.”
For a moment Sunday isn’t sure what to say. A year ago he would immediately launch into a soft lecture, where he talks firmly but without much bite, because his primary focus had always been Kakavasha’s health. But now, after everything, he’s nowhere near as sure of himself as he used to be.
They became an item two years ago. But the past year was his first year with ‘Kakavasha’ and not ‘Aventurine’, which brought with it many unexpected challenges.
Sunday thought he knew what he was getting into, thought he knew what to expect from the other man. But he’s only now realising how much he doesn’t know, how much of a persona ‘Aventurine’ was.
He’s had to learn a lot. Like how quiet Kakavasha is, how insecure he is compared to what he portrays on the surface, how difficult it is to get him to answer anything about himself.
Getting him to open up is impossible. Kakavasha jolts awake with a scream every other day from night terrors, but Sunday doesn’t know what they’re about, nor does he know how to help him. He throws himself into danger, into elaborate gambles where he’s sure he won’t make it back to Sunday, and then dares to act sheepish when he realises that the Halovian has an issue with him doing it.
His smoking is similar. No matter how many times he promises Sunday that he’ll quit, somehow he always falls back into old habits. Destructive habits. Sunday’s grown hollow the more their arguments remained pointless.
“Do you have a spare cigarette?”
That gets Kakavasha’s eyes back on him — his head snaps up, his face suddenly pale and his eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you didn’t like smoking, Sunday,”
“I thought so too,” he starts, before realising midway that he doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? How can he say it in a way that won’t make Kakavasha hate himself even more? “I suppose I want to expand my horizons. Just a transient craving.”
Kakavasha swallows, but after a beat of silence, he gets up and begins to rummage through his work bag. He pulls out the box, but doesn’t move to give it to him, staring at it as if it had somehow done him some wrong.
“It’s not a good habit to start.” Kakavasha mutters. Sunday simply hums knowingly, and that finally earns him the box as Kakavasha hesitantly walks towards him, and passes it over along with a lighter.
He picks one out before placing the box on the nearby nightstand. “I know, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to care.” The cigarette feels strange perched between his lips, and the motion of attempting to hold it in place and light it is even stranger. He’s not sure his hands belong to himself right now.
The Avgin lingers around him, staring as if he still had something to say. Sunday waits for him to start, silently relishing the way his head finally grows light as he takes his first inhale and exhale.
Several years ago, he smoked for the first few times at a couple stray business meetings. He had been roped into it by his guests, and he thoroughly regretted it when he began to cough his lungs out each time. He grew better at it by the end, but by that point, he had grown past his fear of looking juvenile if he rejected a cigarette. Declining the offer became easy.
Now, though, everything feels different. His world feels like it’s tilted.
Despite it all, Kakavasha says nothing. His fists ball up and his face scrunches, but he says nothing. Once Sunday looks away, the only indication that Kakavasha is there at all is the sound of one of the nearby windows being pried open, their bedroom door being clicked shut, and the eventual shuffling of blankets as he goes back into bed.
“…The smoke isn’t good for the cats. Don’t let them back in here for a while.”
Sunday thinks about it. It makes sense now, why Kakavasha never smokes at home. He thought it was because he was afraid of Sunday finding out, but he always knew anyway — the smell of it lingered on him for the whole day whenever he did.
“Secondhand smoke isn’t good for you either, you know?” It’s strange, having Kakavasha be the subject of secondhand smoke for once. Sunday was always the one complaining about it.
All he gets in response is a hum, and a quiet “I know,” before the sound of shuffling resumes as Kakavasha tries to get comfortable. Being in bed alone has become rather difficult for both of them, ever since they started doing everything at home together.
“How am I going to explain the smell to the Express Crew?” Sunday suddenly thinks, though there's no particular urgency.
They’d likely assume it was Kakavasha anyway. This is the first time it was Sunday’s fault, after all.
Not for the first time in his life, but for the first time in a long time, he wishes there were some easy fix to it all. Something that could fix Kakavasha at the flip of a switch. Something that could help them live a normal life.
A shame, something that blissful could only exist in a dream.