My Favorite Camren One-Shots

A Hundred and Two

Six.

Six cigarettes in sixty minutes. That's got to be a new record for you, right? That's one every ten minutes.

Jesus fuck, Jauregui, get a grip.

Then you remember why you can't manage to get a grip just as you take another drag, watching the tip of the lit cigarette illuminate in the dark of the common room.

That reason is lying spread-eagled on the couch on the other side of the coffee table. And she's not very happy.

"Lauren, those are literally going to kill you one day," Camila chimes from the couch, eyes trained on the glow emanating from your cigarette, pushing herself up into a sitting position, circling her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. "You know that, right?"

"If they do," you drawl out unnecessarily slowly, exhaling smoke, "would you mind being the one delivering the eulogy? I'd probably jump out of my coffin to knock the mic out of one of my parent's hands if they even tried." Your tone is exasperated and she all but matches that exasperation.

"So am I just supposed to watch fill your lungs with that...," she pauses, unable to find the proper words, "that stuff? Do you want to get cancer?" she breathes out, unable to find the word and losing her turn.

"Nicotine, honey. It's good stuff," you say. "And no, you don't have to just watch. You're free to join me anytime," you joke, chuckling at the face she makes. It's the same one she always pulls when you fight, eyebrows slightly knit, lips pouted, eyes narrowing. You curse the storm of butterflies that she summons in the your stomach, and suddenly, you find your breath caught in your throat. It's not going to be the smoking that's going to make you stop breathing. It's her. You dip your head to escape the captivation of pools of dark brown that you know look impossibly lighter with the moonlight cast upon them. 

You feel the rush of the inhale hit you as you tilt your head towards the ceiling of the common room, eyes tracing shapes left by the smoke you exhale. You lower your head once more and your eyes meet across the table.

"Besides," you begin, the corner of your lips quirking up with the beginnings of a crooked smile, "not like anyone's gonna care if I croak. Who would? All I got really going for me right now is the band and you know that. My parents could give less of a fuck and if they don't care, it's not like my siblings would, either."

"I would," she admits simply.

Your gaze flickers to meet hers before looking away and it feels like someone lit up fireworks in your chest. Silence settles over the room and the only thing that can be heard is the noise of crickets outside that sneak in through the open windows of the common room. You don't question her admittance.

You remember the first time you met. She busted you with the cigarette right between your lips, and a look of utter panic written all over your face at getting caught. You weren't supposed to be smoking in the common room, but she didn't tell, but from then on, she made it her personal mission to make you stop, and this argument about quitting isn't the first. She would always meet you at the common room around this time. You despised how your meetings always began with her trying to persuade you to kick your smoking habit to the curb, but you always stuck around for all the things you'd talk about after.

You prop your legs on the table and rest your right arm on the backrest of the love seat, resting your head on your right hand. You roll the cigarette pensively between the thumb and index finger of your left. You really didn't want to talk about this anymore. You'd rather be talking about anything else. Feeling anything else. You know she wouldn't feel the same way. How could she?