Rose ran. Flat out, heart pounding, skittering against rib and sternum, calves burning, thighs taut, stomach clenched, she ran. She could hear the crash of her feet on tarmac loud and strident in her head, but her pursuer made no sound. She could feel him behind her through, like the sting of iodine. The corner of the pack of straights she'd stuffed into her bra dug into her side and her arm as she slung down the road, an arrow vibrating and twisting from the bow, fletchings keening in the air. But if she was fast – and goddamn, she was fast – then he was inexorable. Attempting to outrun him was tantamount to attempting to outrun the tick of a clock. Still, she pushed her legs, running on willpower opposed to muscle. Tendons taut and mind tauter. She pounded down on the road, as the trees arched over head, shading out the bright sun. She could smell him now, like cut grass, apples and smokehouses, silent and deadly at her heels.

She was not going to be caught from behind. Inglorious end to a fine chase, she decided, and prepared to spin and dodge around him. If she could. Her breath sang in her windpipe, like some rare instrument. Apples and smokehouses and something earthy and sharp?

She spun, lithe and balanced on the ball of her foot, and ducked to the right.

'Fuck,' she breathed, and leapt back, blocked by a tall figure. 'It's no fun when you read my mind.'

He glowered, silent, at her pout. She slid further back, light on her toes, her whole body like an elaborate feint. Her fingers were still curled round her cigarette. She saw his gaze darken further as his gaze slid to her hand and smirked, lifting the cigarette to her lips and attempting a puff. She ducked and spun as he dived at her, narrowly missing. Her whole being crowed with delight.

'Fuck,' she repeated, frowning at the cig. 'It went out. Got a light?' Her grin broadened, cheeks appled with mirth and eyes flickering with cheek.

He growled, low in his throat, and struck. She parried with her forearm, just, but he'd already kicked her legs out from under her. She landed heavy on the road as he plucked the fag out of her hand. He stared at it with distaste and shredded it quickly with clever fingers, flicking it to the wind. Rose gritted her teeth at the impact, but pushed up gracelessly to stand in a fighter's stance, fists raised and knees unlocked.

He turned to meet her, eyes still dark with anger. 'Filthy habit, Rose. I thought you knew better. How can you expect to fight with lung cancer?'

'Comrade, don't you mean: how can you expect to make sweet Russian love with tongue cancer?' she parodied, mangling his lilting accent. She stayed light on her toes, fists still covering her face.

'Why do you insist on such self-destructive behaviour, Rose?' His voice was gentle. His poise was vicious.

She lunged forward, landing a roundhouse in his ribs before he winded her. 'Just a natural reaction to authority, I guess.'

'The problem with reacting to authority is that authority has all the power.' He feinted, shoulders shifting, and she missed his bone-crushing kick by a hair's breadth. 'Particularly when you've been smoking. And emphysema's slowing you down.' He articulated his points with kata – jab, jab, hook – that bruised her forearms when she parried. She danced back, light on her toes, shrinking from his attack.

'Sometimes, Dmitri, I think you need to relax.' He saw her legs bunch too late, as she landed another roundhouse. 'Just chill the fuck out.' She was under his guard before he knew it, clinching his arms between them. He was powerless to attack, his arms pressed between their bodies. 'And if you try to throw me, I will knee you in the balls. I assure you.'

They stood like that, some absurd human pretzel in the middle of a deserted road, breathing heavily. She could feel the knotting of his biceps under her arms as he fought the urge to throw her off, and the fast skid of his heart. That was curious to her – he seemed physically impassive, impossible to provoke a response from. She shifted slightly against him, and heard his breath hitch. She grinned against his chest, deep in his smell.

'Seriously, Comrade, relax.' She loosed him, stepping out of arm's reach fluidly. 'Have you seriously never smoked?'

'Of course not,' he replied with withering scorn.

'Jesus. It's like talking to a judgemental preteen. You have drunk, am I correct? I was under the impression all the Russians did was vodka by the glassful and gulags.'

He grinned at that, surprising her. Speaking slowly, as if to a child, he said, 'In Russia, it is very cold. The winters freeze your body and spirit. Sometimes the firewood runs out and up in the Ural Mountains that is a death sentence. Vodka burns out the frostbite and cleanses the soul. So what can you do? Would you have me freeze to death?'

She laughed, 'So you're telling me that drunkenness is acceptable in situations of near-death. By your logic, if I was dying, a cigarette would be permissible? That's fucked up, Comrade. Absolutely nonsensical.'

He shrugged. 'When you've survived a Russian winter, then you come and complain to me.'

'I have a better solution,' Rose slid her straights out of her bra, smirking at the horror on Dmitri's face, 'if you smoke a cigarette with me, here and now, I will quit forever.'

'Or I could keep chasing you and destroying them,' Dmitri lunged at the packet. Rose neatly sidestepped.

'You and I both know you won't be able to beat me for much longer.' Dmitri looked up at her appraisingly for a second, then down at the pack in her hand like some stalking cat. She landed another kick at his side, to clarify her point.

He straightened up, ruefully rubbing his ribs. 'Maybe with lung cancer I stand more of a chance… Alright, alright, devotchka, I agree. Let us smoke tobacco, bond over shared carcinogens, and then you're running laps and never smoking again.'

'You're shit. But ok. You've a deal.'

'Eloquent,' Dmitri's eyes crinkled for a second, before he reached out a hand. Rose slid a cigarette out and placed it in his hand. He hooked it in the corner of his mouth and reached out, palm flat again. Sighing, Rose extracted her final cigarette and the lighter, and passed over the packet. Dmitri pocketed it.

'Such a waste. They were too young to die unsmoked.' Dmitri smiled quietly at Rose's melodrama, and looked up patiently. Rose fumbled the lighter, distracted by the cig dangling from Dmitri's lips. She shook her head at the pornography of it, death framed by sensual mouth. The lighter ground quietly, obstinately not lighting for a few clicks. She puffed in, as though sucking in the flame through the cigarette, and the tip caught and burnt, sending up a delicate whisp of smoke. Dmitri watched, amused, as Rose took a long drag and sighed.

He coughed, and Rose focused again. 'Right,' she said, and chucked the lighter behind her, off into the trees. 'Let's get you lit.'

'How, precisely, do you plan to do that without a lighter?'

'Like this,' she stepped up, uncomfortably close and stood up on her tiptoes, inclining her head. She slipped a hand around his neck and brusquely pulled his face towards hers. 'Now,' she said, and trailed off. Her other hand brushed his lips, centring his cigarette, and lingered at his chin. She guided their faces closer, brushing the ends of the cigarettes together.

'Inhale,' she instructed around a mouthful of cigarette. He was transfixed by the slight tilt of her neck as she aligned the cigarettes, the perfect curve of it. The glow of her cigarette and its ashy contact with his mesmerised him. He shook himself out of it and breathed in, ears pricking at the soft crackle as the paper and tobacco caught flame.

Rose stepped back, admiring the sight. Dmitri took the cigarette from his mouth carefully, and coughed quickly at the unfamiliar weight of the smoke in his lungs.

She laughed, 'You're doing it perfectly. A natural. And now we walk.'

He strode beside her down the road, taking cautious drags when she did. He noticed she kept sneaking glances at him and raised his eyebrows questioningly at her.

'Just trying to remember this. Need a good mental image,' she grinned, 'to add to the spank bank.'

He coughed at that.

'Seriously, Comrade, you should smoke more often. It's hard to look away.' At that she curled her lips around her cig and inhaled deeply. Her eyes fluttered close slightly, and he could see the fluid power in her steps, reminding him of her gait running and the way her hair had twisted with each stride. He had to look away.

Rose finished her cigarette and ground the butt under her heel. 'When you get to the end, near the filter, it starts to taste sweet,' she told Dmitri, voice slightly husky, 'and you gotta remember that taste, because it's one of the best feelings in the world, and it doesn't last longer than a drag or two. If this is your only cigarette ever,' she smiled, 'you've got to pay attention to those two last drags. Trust me, Comrade.'

He looked at his cigarette thoughtfully, and watched it. He trusted Rose.

'We're almost back now,' she observed, grinning 'back to the gates where you saw me smoking and decided that chasing me like a homicidal lunatic for close on a mile was the appropriate response.'

'As your mentor, I have a responsibility to impress upon you the seriousness of your actions. It was also probably close on three miles, if I remember correctly. In about eleven minutes.'

'So we probably shouldn't let the administration see you smoking,' she chuckled, 'or they'll think I'm a bad influence.'

'Imagine that,' Dmitri agreed, the irony gentle in his voice.

'Let's stay out here until you – uh, until you finish. Can you taste that hint of sweetness yet?'

'Yes, I think – yes, now.' Dmitri closed his eyes, holding his breath for a second or so. 'It is a remarkable taste.'

'Can we just try something quickly,' Rose asked nervously, leaning forward. Dmitri nodded. 'Take your last drag, and then hold it for a second.'

Dmitri obliged, eyes fluttering almost as Rose's had done at the strange taste of the end of the tobacco. He chucked the butt away behind him.

'Now breathe out slowly.'

He opened his eyes at the feeling of small hands placed on his biceps. Rose stood on tiptoe, tilted her neck, opened her mouth slightly, and waited, lips achingly close to his. Dmitri exhaled the last breath of his swansong cigarette, as Rose inhaled his smoke, eyes closed. She stood there for a moment, hands on his arms, face to face, eyes closed, and then dipped down to exhale past him.

'Shit,' she whispered, barely speaking, 'it tastes even better like that.'

She licked her lips, hesitantly, as though unsure of what to do now. Her hands felt empty. Dmitri couldn't help himself – he bent down and kissed her. The vulnerability of her lips shocked him into adoration. Such a strong person had no business being so honestly, frankly, sensually soft. Rose threaded her hands carefully into his hair, pulling him closer, and hesitantly sucked at his lip. There was a soft moan about her body, but at the touch of her tongue they were branded with heat. No caution now. The press and pull of teeth and tongue, hands and bodies, overwhelmed with the taste of the last of a cigarette, encapsulated everything in a moment of taut twist and torsion.

Dmitri pulled back, gazing at her searchingly. Rose laughed, open and free all of a sudden, 'I take it back, Comrade. Fucking hell, Dmitri, it tastes best like that.'