Ritsuka glances over at me disapprovingly. I can't see him, but I can picture his expression. Sure enough, a minute later he coughs.
I know I shouldn't smoke around him, but he hasn't expressly forbidden it. I think - I hope - he just accepts it as part of who I am. Occasionally he makes his point that he'd prefer it if I quit, but I am deliberately oblivious to his little hints. It is the one thing I allow myself, and I don't want to give it up. Of course, if he were to forbid me to smoke, I would stop. I would have no choice.
Kio has his lollipops, Ritsuka his junk food, even Seimei had his computer games. I think I'm allowed one bad thing.
Ritsuka forbade me once to smoke in his bedroom. I would have liked to tell him that he didn't need to forbid things like that. All he had to do was ask me not to.
I finish my cigarette, and pitch the butt in the general direction of the rubbish bin after carefully stubbing it out on a corner of the public picnic table. Ritsuka is sitting cross legged on the table top, I on the bench. He shuffles away from the little dark grey patch of ash.
"Soubi, why do you do that?"
I know what he is talking about. "Do what?"
"Smoke. It's bad for you."
I know I can't really explain in a way he'll understand. It's just something I do. One little naughtiness I allow myself.
I can refuse to succumb to pain, I can hold myself back from pinning Ritsuka down and kissing him senseless, I can fend Kio off when I'd much prefer to go back to our old ways, I can make myself paint until my fingers and hands ache to meet a deadline, I can force myself to do or not do anything that the situation requires. But I will have this. My Seven Stars.
"I like it," I say.
"I don't," says Ritsuka, his childish voice petulant. I can see a tantrum coming.
"Forbid it, then," I say, smiling. I know he won't. "I have to stop if you tell me to."
"You seem to pick and choose which orders you'll obey and which you won't," says Ritsuka. "There's not much point me forbidding it." For some reason he seems to have changed his mind about the tantrum.
"As you like," I say. He huffs and huddles further down into his duffle coat. It is cold; I don't blame him. His breath plumes as if he had taken up my little habit. I smile at the image he makes, and reach up to scratch behind his ears. He half heartedly bats my hand away, but does not protest when I return it.
