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The dark smudge—blunt, a little shaky—brings out the ice in his eyes, which should be impossible as well as illegal.
It's not about looking hot, though. Not for Neil, not tonight. It's about experimenting with the décor, now that the foundation of Neil Josten is solid.
So Andrew doesn't comment on it. He watches, he smokes.
Neil (finally) makes his way over, lips conveying the feel of a smile without enacting it. “Staring,” he points out.
Andrew flicks ash onto a dried patch of grass, pretending Neil believes his disinterest.
When Neil kisses him, the cigarette drops, forgotten.