Mello's first attempt at smoking went terribly.
It hadn't been hard to get himself a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A little pocket lighter was more than enough—one of those cheap, fucking plastic ones from the stupid drugstore. Cheap and worthless. He shouldn't have had to stoop to them. Shouldn't have had to stoop to Marlboro and desperation, just for the sake of one last taste.
But that was the thing about being desperate. He just didn't have the will to fight it. And so the blonde ended up leaning out on the small balcony of his shithole apartment, the railing cool under his forearm, the world busy beneath his eyes, and a small circular stick wedged between his teeth.
He assumed he was composed, until he heard the first chhk of the lighter as it spat out its flame, and the sound drove a wedge into old wounds. His icy blue eyes drank in the flame, as hungry for its heat as his ears were for that cocky, level voice, his fingers were for that messy red hair, and his nose and tongue were for that subtle smoky flavor that just . . . permeated everything . . .
Forcing himself to ignore the biting sense of longing, Mello's hands steadily brought the lighter to to tip of the object protruding from his lips. When he had it lit, he squeezed the lighter tightly against the palm of his hand for a moment before throwing it as far as he could. It was probably going to break open on the sidewalk somewhere, or maybe on the head of a bald man who thought he had a purpose in life.
"Fuck you all," he hissed, turning his back to the world. All he wanted to focus on right now was his cigarette - his cigarette, just like that taste and hair and voice had belonged to him and him alone. Nobody had the right to take it away from him, and that would've been the last thing he wanted.
You were a bastard for leaving, he reminded himself.
It wasn't like he wasn't aware of that. Mello refused to let a day go by without at least pondering his fate and making sure he knew just how stupid he was tolet things go this way.
. . . tomorrow I'll walk in and tell the others that I'm done.
Idle promises were his self-penned apologies. They didn't really change anything, but just the words could help. Sometimes. Mello wondered how long it'd been since he first learned not to trust himself.
Finally he wiped all thoughts of idiocy and loneliness from his mind and inhaled deeply. For one split second, it worked. The smoke filled his mouth and the smell drifted to his nose, and for an all-too-short moment he was able to revel in this. Matt, Matt, Matt . . .
Then the smoke filled his lungs, too, and Mello suddenly spat the cancer stick upon the ground, chest forcing a series of fierce coughs out to expel the burning presence. No. This wasn't Matt.
You were a fool to think anything could substitute.
Who had he been fooling, anyway? Smoke had never really belonged any place except on Matt's tongue.