An Ocean of Cigarettes

Notes

Helloooo, so, this is really sad. Like, it has no happy ending, just pure angst.
It's based on the, well, the scandal that has Xuxi on hiatus. AND there was some post about it on weibo saying that Xuxi hasn't even shaved, and that he's smoking a lot sooo yeah, this was born.

Hope you enjoy.

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The cigarette against his mouth tastes rotten, acrid like poison. Putrid like the words sitting on his unused phone.

He takes a deep inhale. Fills his lungs with smoke, releases it into the frigid morning air and taps his finger against the paper, ridding it from the ashes.

The apartment's floor looks cleaner from this point of view, standing on the balcony. It was an illusion to the mess that it actually was once you stepped foot inside.

Much like his mind. Though he doubts he looks much better on the outside.

Xuxi sighs, running a hand through his unshaved face.

The day was dark, just like it had been for the past few weeks. Clouds covered the spot where the sun should've been, and he could feel the first droplets soaking their way through his unkempt hair and dirty clothes.

Ironic - he thinks.

Ironic how - once upon a time - he was called a 'sun'.

Ironic how he is also covered in clouds now. Or maybe they were ashes and not clouds. Perhaps they were the remnants of the cigarette in his hand.

He walks back inside, throwing the poison from the balcony's rail. Xuxi picks a shirt from the floor, shorts from the table, some socks from the kitchen, and deems himself ready to go out.

If he were to go out.

Probably not.

Better safe than sorry, he guesses.

There is a knock on the door. A steady, heavy knock that startles Xuxi out of his thoughts.

"Hey, Xuxi?" he probably knows the voice bouncing against his walls.

Is probably familiar with the face behind the baritone.

Probably. But the voice is distorted, covered in ashes like his own mind. Perhaps the voice also knows the cigarettes. That would be nice. Knowing he's not the only one covered in grey and filled with a putrid smell.

He walks to his room.

Keeps his feet moving until they reach the bathroom door. The image on the mirror greets him with a grim expression, so Xuxi tries to smile, simply to appease the picture in front of him, and, if he was lucky enough, make it disappear.

That, of course, doesn't happen. Because the image on the mirror was like a bad movie with bad internet. Distorted and persistent on not going away. He's clicked, prodded and pressed everywhere just so he could exit, but the internet was bad, and the movie was worse, so it kept playing like that. Distorted and wrong.

He gave up eventually. Gave up on trying to rid himself of the grey image that welcomed him every time his reflection was produced.

Xuxi had gotten rid of every mirror in the house but this one. His face wasn't something he could see any more, much less admire. His body wasn't fit or pretty anymore either. It was now a costume of bone and skin that replaced it.

He had some scars here and there. Born out of badly healed cigarette burns, because sometimes, and he swears it's just some times, the costume he wears gets uncomfortable, stifling, doesn't let him breathe. Xuxi has to make an opening then. When his body seems to be choking on every breath, and his mind feels like breaking in every turn.