Asuma's view on smoking.
This is my air: the white nicotine-laced smoke, its touch upon my lips and my father's gruff voice telling me not to smoke. The stuff rushes through me, my last attempt at defiance. It is Thursday again and I'm not quite sure I like it, like this. I am at a bar chugging sake as if my life depended on it. And it is raining.
Breathe in, breathe out. I remind myself as the smoke haze fills the room letting translucent ghosts be seen. My father is sitting in the corner table, reading his Konoha Daily. I can almost hear him cursing now. Mama is right by him, mending his jounin vest, a smile on her face as always. Mama stands up now, a smile still there and asks father if he wants some tea. He nods and I blow another puff just to annoy them. It touches his features, making him seem paler. He is disappearing again I reach for something I know that is not there, that never was there.