You are Private- fuck, no, wait, Captain Dick Simmons. You're a savior to the rebel army. You're the leader to a squad of girls, you're a survivor of Blood Gulch, you're the guy who helped take down the Meta and then Project Freelancer. You're important, expected by people who have never met you to be a hero at all times.
And quite frankly, you're really fucking stressed.
None of that matters now, though, while you're leaned up against a leg of an old watchtower and pressed against Grif's side, breathing in the smell of stale cigarette breath mixed with new smoke and staring at the lit cancer stick that managed to make its way between your fingers. You're not sure how it got there- you vaguely remember Grif deciding you needed something to calm you down and bringing a box and a lighter from his room- but you decide to ignore it for the time being. It's dark outside, the only light coming from lights above doors and near vehicles, but you didn't mind. It makes the stars seem brighter. Smoke curls up and forms a haze over your heads, and you follow one of the trails back down to your own cigarette.
"Come on," Grif says, jerking you from your thoughts. "It's just a cigarette. Not like it's the most dangerous thing you're doing right now."
You don't want to admit it, but he has a point. So that's how you find yourself outside at almost midnight, pressed up against Grif and trying your first cigarette. It tastes bad, but it's not as bad as you'd expected. When your breath stutters with a suppressed cough, Grif snickers, but you just push his shoulder and try again. You're not sure whether it's because of the smoking, or just because you're out here half-asleep with Grif, but you're more relaxed than you have been in ages.
Not that you'd ever admit that to him, of course. He doesn't need to know he was right.
You watch a still-glowing cigarette butt go flying off to the side of the watchtower, and suddenly Grif's lips are on yours. You can taste the smoke of dozens of cigarettes Grif swears he never had, and on any other day you'd pull away and make a face in disgust, but you watch the orange glow of your own cigarette fall to the dirt as you all but melt into the kiss. Minutes pass by in a blur, and you don't know when you stopped to lay your head on his shoulder and stare up at the sky, but at some point you realize you're staring up at a foreign sky billions of miles away from your home, and probably even farther from Earth, trying to pick out constellations that looked familiar to you. Maybe that's why none of them look right.
The thought makes you sad for just a moment, but when Grif sighs and settles into you, you decide it doesn't matter. You don't think you'll be at the rebel camp much longer, anyways. In the meantime, you think you'll try to make coming out with Grif to smoke a habit. You can measure the days it takes to get home in packs of cigarettes.