Jacob's pov
I still remember the first time I ever met him.
Walking into his bedroom with an excited smile, opening his door to reveal a glossy eyed yet beautiful boy. With his viridian eyes and rosy cheeks, cute button nose, and messy hair, I immediately knew I was a goner.
I thought, 'welp, Jacob, kid. you are doomed.'
Me though, with my fresh bruise from Jody and awfully dirty and moth-eaten clothes, I must have looked terrible. At first, I was actually worried that he was scared of me. His eyes widened and he stood there in shock as if he had just seen a ghost. I had given him a gentle smile to see if it would help his timidness, but the boy was so shaken. He had darted into Shaun's arms and apologised over and over for something that must have happened when I wasn't around. I just stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Troye had then pulled away and bowed down to his father, a great show of obedience. I could never be nosy and ask why it is he obeys his father's every decision, it would be looked at as rude. Because we both know Shaun is a wonderful father that taught his son respect at a young age and didn't let him lose that respect when he hit puberty. It's weird to think Troye ever did hit a stage in life when his voice started cracking and deepening, when his limbs grew unevenly, making him insecure. When he looked in the mirror and began doubting his appearance, that, that is what almost makes me jealous. I wish I could've been there to be for him. But I also wish I had someone there for me when I was going through that. He had his parents, I had no one. When my mother went off the rails and my father split, resulting in Angelina following in our mother's footsteps, I had completely and utterly no one. The only thing I had was my father's old stale pack of smokes.
The first pack lasted me a month, believe it or not. I had one or two every other day, finding a steady pace in self-destruction. And honestly, I hated it. I hated the sparky feeling of the smoke hitting my beginner's lungs. I hated puffing out the smoke, just learning how to inhale and exhale a cigarette correctly. But I continued doing it because I liked the thought of one day loving it, craving it. Completely idiotic, now that I think back on it. But the day, two months later, came that I had my first cig that I enjoyed. I was sitting on my front porch steps at some ridiculous time of night, staring up at the starry sky. Nothing about it was special, aside from the fact that that was the day my mother overdosed. That day I had another inhale of reality, so I exhaled the smoke. All I felt was... bliss.
Once Jody beat the everliving shit out of me and I was diagnosed with some silly pulmonary edema, I did come to the realisation that I'd have to quit. And I did cut down a lot, trust me. I was so scared of Troye finding out that I was smoking that I didn't have a smoke for almost two weeks.
When I did finally cave in and sneak away from his tight grip while he was asleep, I practically ran to the store and bought myself a pack of fags. A mixture of guilt, relief, and anger twisted in with the smoke as I breathed it in. Guilt for doing this to Troye, doing this to myself. Relief for finally getting a release from my shaky fingers and inviting lips always begging for more nicotine, relief from my pesky mind. The thought of smoking almost always lurks in the back of my mind, just like Troye's phobia of bugs crawling in his ears does. He knows how hard I'm trying, he does. When he told me about his 'stupid fear of insects' I told him my stupid fear of cigarettes. I used to be afraid I would get addicted, now I'm afraid I'll forget about them and find a new release. Part of me doesn't want to find something new. Something new could result to drugs... I would be no better than my mother and sister. I would be repulsed with myself. I'm sure I wouldn't be able to look myself in the eye for months, maybe even years. If I even lasted that long on drugs. Narcotics are sneaky, man. When you think you've started getting a nice routine, the perfect portion, nothing could go wrong, you slip. Something always happens. That something did happen with my mother. She took a little less than usual and her body went into shock, spiralling down into cardiac arrest and she died within minutes. She died suffering.
And then there was the anger...
How could I do this?
I am such a fake. This is awful. Who leaves their boyfriend at two am to go smoke away their lungs? A terrible one, that's who.
I dropped my cig on the ground and stepped on it, shaking my head at my stupidity and running off back to the flat.
When I got back and quietly slipped back into Troye's room, I stopped in my tracks to see Troye at the foot of the bed... with a few select packs of my fags in his lap.
"I should've thrown them away," Troye whispers, not bothering to look up at my guilty face. I deserve it.
"Tro-"
He puts a hand in the air, silencing me.
"Why?" He asks.
"Why can't you like me as much as you like cigarettes? Am I not good enough?"
My heart drops and tears flood to my eyes.
"N-no, it's not like that. I promise, you're perfect. You're too good for me, you're better than cigarettes." I blab, covering my mouth with a shaky hand to keep myself from crying out.
"Maybe I should see what all the hype is about..." He mutters and opens a pack, taking one out and holding it in his fingers.
I step forward, shaking my head no again and again.
"No, Troye, please." I beg, wanting to get closer and just snatch them out of his hands. I'd rather burn every single one of these in front of him than ever see him hurt his pretty lungs like that.
Troye turns his head to the side and glances up at me, turning his eyes back to the smokes before I can lock eyes with him.
"Where's your new pack?" Troye asks, holding out a hand.
I quickly pull the pack out of my pocket and set it in his hand, not wanting to be near them right now.
"Please don't do anything stupid, Troye." I murmur, watching as he rolls the single cigarette around in his palm.
"Part of me wants you to see me waste away my lungs, coughing up smoke, so you can see how much it hurts. So you can feel how I feel... but that's not enough. I'm setting every last cigarette right here on my desk, I'm counting every last one. There gonna be right here for you to look at every day, if you take one, don't expect me to kiss you that day. Alright?"
"... Alright."
It took five days for me to take a cigarette, which was longer than the both of us were expecting.
There were fifty seven on the desk.
As the numbers decreased, so did my kisses.
Soon enough Troye had me walking around like some pathetic puppy, singing Cocoa Butter Kisses by Chance the Rapper, wishing I could press my lips to his pretty ones.
It was when I craved his kiss more than a cigarette that I bought my first nicotine patch. I slapped it on my wrist and ran home.
Bursting through the door where Troye was painting gorgeous yellow flowers, I stomp over to the desk. I pull the rubbish bin to the edge of the desk and slide the smokes off of the desk and into the can.
"You sure you want to do that?" He questions, looking up at me with soft eyes.
I nod, kicking the can away. I manoeuvre my way around his desk and onto his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck.
"I miss my cocoa butter kisses."
And so he nodded, melting into my touch and treating me to his savoury touch and warmth. Right now I don't want nor need a cigarette, all I need is this boy attached to my lips.
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a/n: all i need is you, youuuu
just clearing it up in case anyone assumed, i promise i am most definitely not romanticising smoking. that's a big ole no no for me, i'm the only one in my family who doesn't smoke those death sticks. i settle for the giggle bush and nothing less.
i will see you cuties in the next chapter, have a nice day, xx
