Stoned
Haine didn't like cigarettes. They smelled nasty, they tasted nasty, and the made his partner pretty much ineffective. The yellowy-cream colored smoke clung to everything, made it permanently tainted. There was nothing Haine despised more than stumbling home full of bullet holes, only to open his door and be greeted by a cloud of foul smelling, useless nicotine smoke. When all he wanted to do was push his readheaded partner up against a wall and shove his tongue down the other's throat, that infernal smoke caused him to gag and retreat to the bathroom.
Weed, however, that was a different story. That was oh so nice.
For one thing, it didn't smell nearly as bad. The smell got up inside him and made him scrunch his nose, but it didn't bring on the nausea that nicotine smoke did. For another thing, it was also rather useful as a pain killer. Just because he couldn't die didn't mean he couldn't feel pain. Oh, and there was that part where being stoned felt fucking amazing.
The first time Haine got high he sat on the floor for two hours and braided Badou's hair. The sex was also some of the best they had ever had. Haine felt like his brain had little wings, or maybe jet propellers the whole time. With his legs splayed around Badou's hips, his deathly pale arms around the other's boney shoulders, and the half finished, crumpled joint stuck between his fingers, Haine felt like he was fucking flying. The smoke filling the tinny bedroom burned his throat, burned his eyes, burned his skin. Every nerve in his body was on fire, and it felt so good. Every time he ground up against the other, a beautiful tingling sensation would shoot up from where their bodies met, to his finger tips and scalp. Every time his partner slid back into him he would convulse and moan in pleasure. It was like the whole world was Badou's bare skin pressed against his and the few city lights he could see through the open window. Time had now meaning; every second lasted forever, and each hour passed in less that a moment. Nothing mattered except for the red hair and the burning.
When Haine woke up the next morning the it was to the neighbor knocking on his door to ask that they 'please be more quiet, in the future'. Badou had lay in the bed, laughing and unbraiding his hair till Haine had growled and pulled his out guns to get the redhead to shut up.
Haine hated cigaretts. They were horrid objects, made of disgusting chemicals. But he had no objections when his partner pulled out the small green clumps and a lighter.