"No. No. I know. Poor Kenji!" Minako's hands wrap around Shinjiro's arm, pulling it towards her face, and she snickers into it. She must have chosen a good story, because she feels her elbows lift slightly. His chest expands and then releases quickly, twitching his arm, causing the movement of herself with it all. Was that a chuckle?
He shifts once more to reach towards his pockets, and the bench creaks. The very same bench at the shrine where she had once passed hours with a dying man. The noise, so loud in the silence of the night, makes her aware of just how late it's gotten. Oh, again?
He's not overweight by any means, or even particularly bulky overall. Yet every movement he makes seems to carry such mass. Slow. Intentional. Like he's already got every moment planned out.
She tilts her head. He does something she's never seen before: Pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps one out. The package is worn and old. The plastic bends and clouds and frays, like the ends of his hair and the lining of his coat. This is not a habit, but an indulgence. She wonders how many people know. Akihiko would throw a fit. She's not too pleased herself, but rationalizes that everyone is allowed some occasional vices of their own choosing.
A scratched silver lighter appears that looks like one of Castor's own plates. A calloused thumb flicks flame to life, and sets the plant fibers ablaze. He becomes lost in his own thoughts as he watches the trailing swirls of smoke. She's a little lost too, but it's his meticulous motions that she's still contemplating. He coughs, deep, in quite a fit, like geese fighting in too small a pond. She squints. She knows what it's like to hide things. Perhaps the smoking is not an indulgence, but an excuse.
The thought that sobers her appears when she realizes that he's suddenly acting as if she's not even there. No, no, no that won't do. See, that's her vice. She won't be ignored. Especially not by him. One of the hands on his arm keeps grip on his sleeve while she swings up a leg to loosely straddle him, most of her weight still held on her knees at either side. The other snatches the cig away.
"Wh-" a single bass note of surprise before the rest of the words catch up, "What do you think you're going to do with that, huh?" She looks him straight on, unblinking, and, holding it more like a takoyaki skewer, puts the cylinder in her mouth. It's likely the only time his lips will touch hers for a taste. Burning. Bitter. Ashen. Slightly synthetic. Rich and bold, but the flavor of decay. Just what she expected. She doesn't inhale, but exhales, breathing cake sugared, green tea soaked life into the embers at the end. They glow orange enough to reflect in her crimson eyes - a smoldering dance in the dark worthy of Sati herself.
A light jab to her ribs says Don't waste it like that. This does the job either way, because it tickles and she stops to squeak and laugh. He attempts to take his property back, but as mentioned - he is slow, and she'd seen it coming. She pops it back in her mouth and jumps off to the side, hands and knees aligning respectively on wooden slats. She taunts him like a dog holding a bone, and were she actually Koromaru, her tail would be wagging.
He reaches and pulls at the stick by the middle, but she tightens around it. She purses her mouth to pull it in, and mashes her lips into the filter. This is the only way they touch his, too, and she's determined to mark him with smudges of her peach lip balm. She releases. He yanks it back. He shows no outward acknowledgement of any difference, but after a second she sees his bottom lip make way ever so slightly to sneak his tongue across the paper.
He takes a drag. He breathes it out. He glowers at her and growls gravel through grated teeth, "You're such trouble."