Chapter Text
Smoking is an often a pleasurable, even euphoric experience. Usually associated with comfort, it alleviates the consumer like if the weight upon their shoulders suddenly fizzled into a haze. Sure, it leaves behind a tang of dizziness, and the molasses like sweetness off the cornsilk plaque that rests ‘pon her teeth, but by the next drag it fades away, so it didn’t really matter.
What, was she addicted …? — Goddesses no! — she could quit anytime, and yeah, it’s really a cliché phrase, even she’s heard it a million times on her new plasma TV (Thank you, prize money!). But really, have you taken a drag while your cast bobs downstream and you’re sat on that plastic chairs of yours and you’re reveling in the subtle beauty of the afternoon? Yeah, didn’t think so huh! You can’t judge until you’ve taken a drag yourself, you’ll understand.
Holding the smoldering cigarette in between her index and her middle digits — the ignited end facing outwards. She slides her thumb on the roll, caressing the wrinkled paper and the tangerine filter film. It was aged, properly so, guess buying second hand cigarette packs in the backstreets of Tokyo had its own charms, it really sold the vintage look. The brand wasn’t that bad compared to its antique appearance, the quality of the tobacco was quite to her favor, contrastingly sweet, notes more composed of honey and molasses than the oak and dirt she was expecting. She puts the filter to her petite lips and inhales. Dragging the breath through her throat, the sultry fog filling each crevice in her esophagus, permeating down her lungs. She pries the cigarette away from her mouth and holds it out in the most natural poise she can, resting quaintly to her right. She exhales. The thick plume of smoke releases through her lips, leaving a lingering sweet taste on the tip of her tongue, beautifully gratifying.
Her eyelids half-lidded, she lets out a small sigh, her posture turns for the worst, no longer the attentive grace she uses for fishing, now her sitting stance has her limbs outstretched, her spine leaving a sizeable gap between the back of the flimsy plastic chair. If King was here, she’d probably be compared to a sloth. Though, what a beautiful day it was, the matte purple afternoon sky against the sunset orange in the west. Columns of fluffed cumuli scatter amongst the landscape, drifting to horizons far beyond her own reach. It was a sight to be savored. And so it was, with each drawn out drag of her cigarette, one after another. Plumes of smog rise with each exhale, a swelling heat on her chest slowly fading in and out, the drifting blueish haze surrounds the atmosphere with its subtle embrace. After tapping it against the plastic armrest, she raises the cigarette tip parallel against her eye, upright essentially, she notes the roasting end, examining the drifting orange cinders contrast to the afternoon sky, to the reeds on the opposite bank, to the transparent surface of the creek; how the drifting winds carried the small sparks of a flickering flame.
Her observant ears perk up to each small sound, the rolling stream, the conspicuous creak every time she shifts in her plastic chair, the smoldering burley tobacco crackling like the remnants of an extinguished campfire — the soft breeze of the swaying the bushels of tallgrass, hiding the incessant chirping of the handful of crickets that call it their home. Though occasionally, ripples break through the serenity of the water’s surface, the concomitating chirping of a chorus of birds, or the rumbling screech of a speeding car. She enjoyed the tranquility of this little nook she's found; it’s a solid walk away from the campus but, it was well worth it, the atmosphere was loose, it had a stream with an abundance of fish, the monotonous turning of tires resounding from the thousands of businessmen and women coming back from overtime. It was a well-deserved break from everything, the nagging of her trainer, King’s pompous laugh, Flower's blinding aura — the horrors basically.
The flavors she savored on her tongue, sure to laymen it could be syrupy or malt or whatever. It was an oasis. It was relief, caressing her sinuses. It washes off her palate and grants her a liberating sense of freedom, from the everyone’s gaze, from everyone’s thoughts. Though that freedom never lasted that long. Leaving behind traces of guilt in her lungs, it was off putting like the regret of not helping that one elderly woman down the staircase. It was easy to forget once you move on to the next moment, although that moment was often another drag or continuing that meaningless conversation with a friend. It was that catching up conversation with a long-lost friend, it filled up that hole in your chest you didn’t know you had, then forgetting to give them your contact information. It was her own self destruction, but who really gave a shit anyways, she sure didn’t, nor did she think anyone else in her life would particularly care. It would just all boil down to it ruining her potential, like always, potential this, potential that, potential. She was sick of it.
The setting sun falls onto the city, easing into every crevice washing all the depressing filth away. Looking up into the sky, a soft caress of the early night’s wind flicks her hair from the lit cinders of her cig. Distant battleships of grey collide with one another, solitary in the watercolor sky.
To the west, rain pours down each gutter, streaming into the sewers, ran over by the soles of each passerby. By the salaryman, by the schoolgirl. It made no difference.
Golden lights seep out of the Tokyo Skytree, tourists and lovestruck alike peer below, admiring the sight of bustling nightlife.
To the north, a mist harbors in a small town in Hokkaido, the snow builds up to the waist. A group of kids are having a snowball fight in a now re-purposed carpark. Though, a couple preferred to make snow angels together instead. Their bond will be irreplaceable.
Slowly breathing out, the result isn’t smoke, but warmth in the air freezing into a plaintive vapor. It dissipates
To the south, lies an urban coastline, mildew lining metal sheet roofs. Cinder blocks left over from unfinished construction. An abandoned theme park and its defunct bells and whistles. An old shrine overlooks the horizon.
She runs her fingers through her messy locks of hair, a texture most bristly from the neighboring atmosphere. The haze slowly dissipates.
To the east, the Kasai Kaihen, rushing waves washing aboard seafoam and treasures alike. The beachline shops end their business day. A message in a bottle washes up on the shore
She feels the small grains of dirt in between her toes, grating against her skin. Preferring the engulfing powdery sand beneath her feet instead.
She lets go of a shaky breath, even she didn’t know she was holding. The Tracen uniform sticks to her chest, with either shoulder growing heavy. She lets go of the already extinguished cigarette butt; it lands on the aged wooden platform. The fishing line she established long ago reels outwards, catching a fish on its hook. A pale butterfly flutters its wings and carefully lands on the acme of her ear, without her noticing it.
King awkwardly taps on her foot on the linoleum ground, waiting for her at the Ritto dorm entrance.
Flower is already in her dorm, waiting for her roommate to finish showering.
The cold finds its way under her skin.
She shivers, and the city shivers with her.