how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

22. smoke & twenty four hours

the last chapter only got eighteen votes/??? did some of you die in like a week ??? (im being really rude im sorry i just dont want to continue this book if nobody is reading)

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As soon as I click open the front door, the harsh stench of smoke hits me. Clouds of it waft out of the small gap in the kitchen door -- and I panic. Dropping my cardigan over the coat hanger, I rush into the room, trying to keep my eyes open through the stinging fogs. I push open the door, seeing Michael sitting on top of the dining table, a cigarette in his hand and almost choking briefly before taking another drag. I fume in anger, but with the lack of oxygen reaching my head, I have to keep myself balanced by holding onto the counter. He either doesn't care, or doesn't hear me approach him, because he doesn't turn around.

"Jesus Christ, Michael, what are you doing?" I snatch the cigarette from his hand, dousing it between my fingers and throwing it in the bin. My fingers feel raw from pressing into the flame, but I can't feel much. The smoke is getting to me. I stumble over my feet, and everything goes light. Even when my eyes are open, I can only see grey. Grey, and grey, and grey. I'm sitting on Michael's lap when I come to. "What the hell are you trying to do?" My eyelids are heavy. I think I'm gonna pass out.

"Smoke, what does it look like?" He coughs, lifting me over his stocky shoulder, opening the garden door and carrying me out of the kitchen. The air feels immediately clearer, now fresh air is entering my lungs. He sets me back in his lap, pulling my hair from my face and looping it into a loose knot at the back of my head. I choke again, and he rubs my back, willing me to rest my head on his chest. I drop it down, more out of exhaustion than wanting to. He continues, "I don't think it was the best plan to keep all the doors shut. I just didn't want Cobain to come in."

"He could've tugged open the door, you frickin' idiot." I cough again. "What were you thinking? And how did you manage to get that much smoke?" Once I have the strength to sit up properly, I put an arm around his neck, letting me look at him better. His lips are already tinted darker than usual, and I sigh, pushing my face into his neck. "Are you trying to kill yourself, or something? How many did you smoke, already?"

"A pack."

"A -- a pack?" I curl my hands into loose fists. I'm still too tired to react properly. My voice is weak. "Why would you do that?"

"It was an experiment."

"That's a stupid experiment. You could've killed Cobain."

"I don't give a damn about Cobain. He's somewhere around here, anyway. Probably walking around the neighbours' houses."

"You let him out?"

"As I said, I don't give a damn about Cobain."

"But he's only small--"

"And so are you." His hand moves to the back of my neck, his callused fingers rubbing against my skin. He nudges my head up with his thumb, raising his eyebrows. He searches for my gaze. I can smell the smoke clinging to his clothes. Gosh, I hope he showers or just puts himself in the washing machine altogether. His burning lips track over mine softly, not really kissing me, but testing the waters. "Are you okay?"

"I think so."

"Are you mad at me?"

The anger starts at me again, and I shove his hands away from my face. I breathe out heavily through my nose.

"Was that your plan?" I demand. "Getting me all groggy from the smoke so you can get my drunk reassurance? Was that it?"

He stares at me quizzically, shaking his head. "No. No, why would I do that?"