Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related everything belong to JKR. I'm only playing.

Warnings: Smoking (if that bothers you). Slash (if that bothers you).

Author's Notes: The first drabble here was written a couple of months previously as a birthday present to myself, and the second was added not long ago because otherwise it didn't seem complete. I probably could have made them both longer and better, but I'm lazy, I guess. Please don't forget to review!

o.o.o.o

sirius

The forbidden flavor of his best friend lingered on his lips, the feel of it on his tongue, like the cigarettes he smoked when he was depressed and lonely. They were similar, smoke and sex with his best friend.

They were both things he'd regret but always go back for more of, no matter how many times he told himself he wouldn't. Things that most of the rest of the world disapproved of. Perhaps that was why they were things that appealed to him, and revolted him at the same time.

They got inside him and screwed him up, caused problems that couldn't be seen on the surface but ruined his life anyway. Good while it lasted but harsh and bitter afterwards, twisting his insides when he thought about it, but leaving him craving more... more... more... more... more.

His best friend didn't smoke. His best friend didn't like that he smoked.

His best friend didn't understand.

-o-

james

Long pale fingers wrapped around a thin white roll of paper, pull away from swollen red lips. Crimson slash in the stubbly alabaster face parts, lets out a puff of winding grey, floats around his head. Dark little smile at the corner of a luscious mouth lurks in the shadows of hooded silver eyes. An unspoken command; the image leans in closer, meets him with cigarette still dangling absently between two fingertips.

Wispy groan followed by a rough tongue, smoking warm against the back of his throat. A gentle voice and smooth fingers seeking along his hips. Fumbling hands and panting breath in a dark room. Hot desperate gasp; the sticky lethargy of release soaking into his robes and his bones, leaving him rubbery weak against cold stone. The acrid smell of slow, airy death burning his nostrils as he takes a deep drag of secondhand poison, living through the mouth of his second half.

To him, cigarettes taste like love -- illicit love of a lonely, complicated man, but love.