The boy drew in the smoke. His brother would kill him if he caught him smoking. But he didn't care.
There was a world full of natural disasters and starving children and diseases and people in love with people who could care less.
Iceland's last worry was what Norway would do to him.
As he breathed in the nicotine, smoke burning his lungs but he could care less, his mind wandered towards Hong Kong. That damn bastard.
He was hopelessly in love with him
And maybe that's why he started smoking. Because with smoking he could press it to his lips and breathe in a familiar scent and know exactly what he was getting into. Smoking was safe.
Safer than falling in love anyways.