It's strange, the way the smoke never clings to him. The boy smokes like a poorly cleaned chimney, but the scent of spice and tobacco and heat only lazily caresses his features, drifts through his fingers and hair and then dissipates, leaving no trace except the tang of cloves on his lips. I'd imagine.

He's got one of those things in his hand now, more as an accessory than anything else. I'm always surprised by even that one concession to trend; he's never seemed the type. But compared to what he could be doing, I suppose, it's relatively harmless. The ember dips dangerously close to the upholstery as he laughs - it's all I can do to resist rescuing it from his fingers. I know I won't be able to give it back without first pressing my lips to the end, pulling a long breath into my lungs. Amazing how addiction never really gives up on you.

Now he's caught me looking at him; the first few times he did that I turned away, ears flaming. Since then I've figured out that he's been used to people staring since childhood, doesn't mind it anymore. All he wants is permission to look back. Still, it feels odd to realize that when his eyes meet mine it's not a challenge but an invitation, especially since his seem more capable of conversation than any others I've met. I'm always surprised that I can't literally see what he's thinking in them. After a few blue seconds, the quirk at the edge of his lips tells me that I can grin and look away - I always end up breaking first.

***

The night air feels good on my cheeks, flushed from conversation and alcohol. Inside is warm, loud, enticing, but not encouraging to thought or willpower - both things that, at this moment, I feel the need to concentrate on. Balconies are quiet places, thinking places. At least when you're alone, which, apparently, I no longer am.

He's trying hard to be conspicuous, but it's difficult when his very aura seems to announce his presence to the world. He's still smoking one of those damned cigarettes, and I cough loudly into my hand, at the same time internally pleading with him not to take it away.

"Passive-aggressive, much?" He's giving me that look now, telling me that he knows exactly what I'm doing, and he's not going to let me off that easily.

"Have no idea what you're talking about. And please, put that out, some of us are allergic to smoke."

He snorts. "You're allergic to smoke like Orli's allergic to ugly shirts. But, if that's really what you want..." And he flicks the butt, still burning, into the darkness. My fingers tighten involuntarily on the railing, which I'm sure amuses him greatly, but at least I didn't try to catch the fucking thing. In a feeble attempt to cover up I flex my hand fully, examining my nails. Absentmindedly I raise one to my mouth, making an attempt to smoothe the ragged edge with my teeth - it usually backfires, however, and has led to the eventual wearing down of each nail until they practically can't be bitten further. It's not the most attractive habit, I know, and as soon as I realize that's what I'm doing I stop, feeling almost guilty.

"Oral fixation, huh?" He grins with his eyes.

"Honestly, Lij, you and your dirty jokes..." They really did get to be too much at times; sometimes I wish he was the same person who'd left for New Zealand all those months ago. But then I remember that with the jokes, the swearing, the tattoo also came a sense of assurance, balance, maturity - things rare in someone his age, things some people never seem to find. Things I'm worried I may never find myself. And I know I'd never want him to lose that.

"No, I'm serious. I've got it too, see?" He holds out his hand, and his nails match mine - worse, even, if that's possible. "These are the only things that ever seem to help." He's waving the pack at me, taking another out, tapping it quickly on the railing. It's like dangling vodka before an alcholic dying of thirst. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I've snatched the pack out of his hand, running my thumbs over the familiar embossed surface of the name. Oh god, just one... it would be so easy...

I still carry my lighter out of habit, and the weight feels so right in my hand, feels so ordinary to flick it open, to scratch my thumb across the wheel and watch the flame leap up, reaching for the end of the cigarette. Before it catches it, though, both fire and fuel are gone, one extinguished in a quick puff of breath, the other plucked from my fingers and thrown over the railing like its predecessor.

"You know you don't really want to do that."

"Jesus fuck, Elijah, I could already taste that..." I'm practically sobbing now, but oddly I'm not sure whether it's from frustration or relief. A year and a half is a long time to be 'clean', but old habits are hard to break.

"Look, I'll do it too." The rest of the pack goes over the edge, tumbling into shadow. "Time I gave it up anyway; nasty habit really."

And so we sit, both uneasy, neither sure what to do without our safety net. Before, the smoke had drugged the butterflies that always awoke inside me with the first flash of blue, had made it easier to concentrate on something - anything - besides the way he was never quite still, or how surprisingly gracefully his hands moved. And then he'd left, and I'd given them up, and I'd given him up - at least that's what I liked to believe. But now, with him next to me, warm and spicy and familiar and strange, the need for both was overwhelming.

He notices my hand jittering on my knee and envelops it in his, easing the nervousness out with a quick squeeze. "That was close."

"Yeah." Stunning conversationalist, I know, but at this point I'm not sure I trust myself with more than one syllable at a time.

"You're going to have to help me out with this, you know; I've never done it before." I remember his expressions all too well; even without glancing up I can tell he's in Supportive Friend Mode #2 with a hint of Determination.

"Neither have I. Not really." The words, full of more meaning than I had intended, slip out in a low voice before I can stop them, and I cringe at the sound even before it reaches my ears. Now I can't help it, I have to look at him, gauge his reaction.

Surprisingly, he's neither laughing nor looking away uncomfortably, and the look on his face isn't what I expected either. He looks strange, somehow, like too many emotions - regret, hope, eagerness, hesitation - trying to surface at once. I can't classify this face, but now his eyes are fixed on mine, and I can't remember why I'm trying.

"You're the only one, you know." I always notice the smile in his eyes before it appears on his lips.

"What?" It's a couple of seconds before I even realize he spoke, and I shake my head slightly, trying desperately to clear it, to ignore the part of me that wants to interpret every glance, every breath, every moment in the presence of this man, in the feeling that surrounds him and me and us.

"You're the only one who ever looks back. It makes people uncomfortable or something, I don't know. But you're... different."

And suddenly I notice that he's still holding my hand; that his palm is damp and slightly cold, much like mine. That the look on his face is probably mirrored on mine. And he's closer to me now than he has been in a long time. I nearly stop breathing.

Then his lips are on mine, tentatively. His apprehension is both endearing and frustrating, and I fight to keep myself from overwhelming both of us. I can't help slipping my tongue briefly over his lower lip, tasting clove and his own essence tangled in a sharp contrast. He sighs deep in his throat, and opens his mouth to mine, our tongues meeting in a silent embrace. A shudder runs down my back in a pleasant wave.

When we manage to get to our feet twenty minutes later, the ache of need is gone, replaced by the very feeling that it sought to supercede. One addiction gone, another in its place. And though it may never be completely healthy, or safe, very little in life is. I have his eyes and his hands and his touch to save me; I can't imagine them not being enough.