5SOS imagines and preferences

Vapor

I wanna feel you in my veins...

They told you he was no good for you. That he was the worst kind of poison, the kind that feels good coursing through your veins until you realize too late that it has malicious intentions, that it would tear you apart.

The first day you met Luke you could see what they meant. He had heartbreaker written all over his face, and the half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips made a cough build in the depths of your throat. His blue eyes drew you in from the start, and though you knew the stories, as you looked at him you fiercely wanted to believe they were untrue.

"Mind if I sit here?" He rasped, voice carrying a slight twang. And although you'd just seen him finish off a cigarette, his breath smelled like mint.

"Sure," you replied, scooting over on the train to make room for him.

He sat down beside you, shuffling his long legs so they fit in the space in front of him. Music was blasting out of his earbuds, one placed in his ear and the other hanging loosely by his side.

You looked at him in your peripherals, thinking that he was too absorbed in his music to notice that you were sneaking glances at him. Unfortunately, Luke was much more aware of his surroundings than you thought, and he turned to you after a while, lips cocked up in a half-smirk and eyes looking you up and down.

"See something you like?" He asked.

You gulped, feeling awkward. "S-sorry. Um... where are you headed?"

You were surprised to find that he lived near you.

That was the first of many days that Luke sat next to you on the train. The two of you always sat in a pleasant silence, already knowing millions of things about each other without having to exchange words. Luke could tell who you were by the different books that you read each time on that train, by the smell of your perfume, by the way your eyes sparkled as you looked out at the trees in the distance through the windows. You could tell who Luke was by the way he walked, by the color of his shirt, by the vapors that poured out of his mouth that you wanted to swallow up.

And once, he asked you.

"You wanna try?" He said, holding out the cig.

You wrinkled your nose. "No, Luke. Smoking's bad for you."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He didn't know that you had something better than the cigarettes, something with blue eyes that reminded you of the ocean and legs that stretched for miles.

The two of you fell in love on that train. Neither of you meant to, really. Nevertheless, your love was passionate, strong. It consumed the both of you. Before you knew it, the two of you were moving in together. You thought Luke was the sweetest person you'd ever met. The so-called tough guy brought you roses home every night, wouldn't let go of your hand in public, and loved you with a fierceness and strength you'd never seen before. You loved him more than you'd loved anything else, and when you looked into his blue eyes, full of affection, you knew he felt the same.

You loved it all, but you thought the nights were your favorite, when he'd gather you in his arms and press his chest up against your back, burying his head into the junction of your neck and pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear, whispering a soft "I love you" that meant more than the world to you.

And everyone watched in awe, congratulating you on taming a boy who'd seemed incapable of staying with anyone.

But you hadn't.

It began when he forgot to leave a sticky note on the fridge telling you to have a good day, like he always did. Then it was a halfhearted peck to the cheek when he greeted you after work instead of a passionate kiss. A half-eaten plate of chicken left on the table as he rushed to go out with his friends, leaving you alone in an increasingly empty house. The silly fights about who got the pick the movie you watched, what you ate for dinner. It was the little things that tore you apart.

You could feel him slipping away, and you wanted him to lie to you and tell you that the two of you were fine, that it would get better.

But he didn't, and petty fights soon turned to harsh words and soon you never saw him without a cigarette in his hand, smoking away his worries like they were tangible objects.

You felt like you were drowning. And maybe you were. You'd seen the ocean in his eyes and taken the plunge, only to discover that you'd forgotten how to swim.

Then he didn't come back.

He left his shoes sitting in the foyer, ripped jeans lying on the kitchen floor, pictures hanging on the wall, and earbuds strewn across the coffee table. There were two things he didn't leave, though: his cigarettes and his lighter. You liked to think he was looking out for your health, that he didn't want you to be caught up in the same poison that he was, but what he didn't realize was that it too late. His smoke had been in your lungs for too long.

You called him. Every day. For months. He never picked up once. Maybe he'd deleted your number from your phone, or, even worse, maybe he knew exactly who you were. You told yourself during the day that it was the former, but cried at night because you knew, you knew deep down that it was the latter.

And then one day you saw him again. It was on your way home from your job, of all places, when you saw him leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette.

"Luke?" you called hesitantly, slowly beginning to make your way over to him.

His eyes caught yours and widened, looking panicked before quickly turning resolute, taking in your approaching figure.

"You-you" Your voice stuttered.

He stared at you for a long while, before reaching a hand up to mess with his hair, which you knew he only did when he was stressed.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, so quietly that you almost didn't catch it. "It had to be done."

"You-what?" you said. "Y-you left your, um, a bunch of stuff at our-I mean my place and-"

He kisses you, so passionately that your knees buckle and you would've fallen down if he hadn't been holding you up. But then, when you open your eyes, he's gone, and you know that you won't ever see him again.

And though he left you, though he ripped your heart right down the middle, you couldn't help but forlornly long for the poison in your lungs once more. Maybe it was some stupid clause in human nature that makes us pursue the very things that hurt us the most, or maybe you were a lovesick junkie who'd found your drug in a person. Either way, you admittedly wouldn't change a thing-because in some sort of clichéd way, he'd broken you, but you wouldn't wish to be broken by anyone else. And every night, when the world was asleep and the moon shone brightly in the sky, you thought you could almost taste the sweet vapors of his smoke once again, hopelessly yearning for something that was no longer and would nevermore be yours.