A/N: A short drabble about Shikamaru's thoughts after the death of Asuma.
"The Short Life of a Cigarette."
When he cries, he smokes.
Plumes of translucent smoke spiraled upwards in the dimly lit room. The only sounds he could hear was the soft crackling of the cigarette paper burning as he deeply inhaled the cancer and as he watched the smoke drift away, he had to close his eyes.
He didn't even like to smoke.
But he did it because he felt comfort in every drag he took. His lungs expanded and he coughed, his fist close to his mouth as the taste lingered on his tongue. "I'm so sick of this." Shikamaru muttered to himself, head spinning from the rush he was getting. "I'm so sick of smoking." He opened his itching eyes and blinked at the empty room. Often times, before the death of Asuma, they would come here and play a couple games of Shogi. He never let Asuma win, even though he knew the latter was dying to prove something, just once.
But it felt like cheating, he couldn't do it.
Another drag. Another cough.
He had been doing this for hours. He was nearly through two and a half packs now and really, he didn't understand the appeal of it. But he couldn't stop now. He couldn't put out the burning, the only touch of Asuma he had left. It all seemed so unfair to him, at first he had been angry. Angry at the village. Angry at himself. But mostly he was angry at Asuma for being so careless. He had seen him fight on several occasions, he knew better than anyone what Asuma was capable of. He fell too fast, too easily. And it all seemed so pathetic, so cliché. Who dies in the rain, who cries?
Who cares?
It was obvious though, he cared. He cared so much that the crying still didn't cease. His eyelids were raw from his hands rubbing, and rubbing. All he did was cry and smoke.
Maybe he was the pathetic one after all.
"Asuma, what were you thinking?"
It was almost ironic, he could figure a way out of any situation in less than three minutes but this, this he couldn't figure out. He couldn't understand how to stop the pain. Or how to stop the reeling of his thoughts, back and forth with bittersweet memories of a once better time. And he laughed, it was a good thing Asuma hadn't been a drinker. Even if it probably would have made the grieving easier. Shikamaru thought of everything then. Asuma's life. His life. Everything. He had never really wanted to be a shinobi. He wanted a normal life, with normal friends and normal occurrences. Really, he thought, who wants to fight for a lost cause and watch the people they love die? "How masochistic. How stupid." His eyes flickered to the stub of the cigarette that rested between two fingers. Its faint flicker was dying out as the filter drew closer. Carelessly, he tossed it in front of him and watched the orange tip fade into nothing. And as he picked the pack up he roughly dug through it until he grasped another one between his fingers and pulled it out. It fit snugly between his lips and he lit yet another match.
Light. Inhale. Exhale. Cough.
And then resume the crying.
"What am I doing here? This is," his heavy eyelids drifted over the room and he sighed. He had made a mess, he had accomplished nothing. Well, maybe by this point he had developed a small case of lung cancer but big deal. "This is so stupid." He brought his hand down and smashed the lit end of the cigarette into the polished wooden floor and he stood up and stretched. "I'm done."
But still, he felt a little closer, a little saner. The world was cold but he was still moving and at the end of the next day, Asuma would still be gone.
And he still wouldn't like the stale taste of a burning cigarette.