Disclaimer: Jonathan owns everything.
AN: Drugs are bad. Don't do them.
Plumes of white curling upward paint smoky trails through the humid air. Eyes blink shut and flicker open, tiny red veins staining irises the colour of dark umber. The tip of the cigarette crushing under ochre lips makes a dry smacking sound. A low mumble escapes from said lips as he shifts in his stupor; the mechanical drags are second nature by now. Visions of red lips, blue nails, shiny, dark hair swim in front of him, touching the edge of his mind and retreating from his conscious soul, shaking with a light, breathless laugh that seems more visible than anything else.
Breath deepens with the recollection of warm skin, shifting against his own, and supple hands, gentle yet strong, reaching for his. He moans and stretches out his arm through half closed eyelids, fingers searching for contact and touching only wisps of memory wrapped in smoke. Red tip glows and flares in rhythm with waves of thought, crawling on his knees through the remnants of what he had with her as he watches her spectre dance in curls and wisps and plumes.
