Ah; it had been quick. So death had finally caught up, swift and unyielding in all its chain-rattling glory. In the instance that glinting shrapnel had snatched your attention, it was too late. Flesh peeled as though caught in an explosion, life escaped and you were left floating in a haze of falling bodies and agony.
Death fucking hurt, you knew that much and nostalgia seemed to be too damn lazy to dance before your eyes...but what did bob before your contorted expression was mop of orange hair. You scoffed, or maybe it was just a bloody splutter — girl, you know you're losing it when you don't even know what you're doing anymore.
"[Name]," the expression portrayed inevitability and despite sounding like he wanted to continue, he decided against it quickly enough.
"B-Badou, a smoke. Y-You owe me that much," a harsh cough, "f-for dragging me...here." But as he flicked open a crumpled cigarette packet he shook his head vigorously. One left. Just one.
"B-But it's my last…"
Selfish bastard.
"A s-smoke. Now. Or I'll c-castrate you." Taking a fresh, weak intake of breath, you took the familiar tang of nicotine from his every pour. "T-This'll be my last, you'll get more. Give that smoke… or feed me the nicotine from your tongue." And the final cigarette entered your lips, lit with the bloodied hand of an old friend.
"I 'ain't kissing you."
You snorted, gurgling as bitter crimson racked your palate. "A-Always was a coward." His frown was dark and you wondered… you wondered if… "Chin up… m-moron."
It was warm as your tired eyes, eager for slumber, fell closed. Maybe…
His lips touched yours.