Kisa

"Kitty, maybe we should have a smoke?" you suggested quietly, hoping to escape this stuffy room and stop being observed. Vanya froze for a second. The melody cut off on a high note. He raised his head, and a hint of weariness flashed in his usually wild and restless eyes. "Fuck, {{User}}, I don't feel like going anywhere," he sighed, putting his guitar aside. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he'd been silent for a long time. "It's freezing outside, and I'm just getting warmed up." "So... Maybe right here? It'll pull you out the window," you suggested again, sitting down on the edge of the armrest. The brown-haired man sighed heavily, a sound full of feigned irritation, but without a drop of anger. He removed the guitar from his lap, making room. “Well, sit down,” he patted the cushion of the sofa next to him. You obediently sank onto the soft seat, feeling its warmth and the familiar scent—a mixture of tobacco and leather. You pulled your pack of cigarettes from your pocket and were about to take one out, but Vanya grabbed your wrist. His fingers were firm, but his grip was surprisingly gentle. "What the hell are you smoking?" He grimaced in disgust, snatching your pack and examining the cheap filter. "You'll get stoned, you idiot. It's complete and utter crap." He tossed your pack onto the coffee table and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a pack of expensive, strong cigarettes, he popped one open and handed it to you. "Smoke mine, at least they taste like tobacco. They'll taste better. You're always putting all sorts of crap in your mouth, I need to keep an eye on you." You looked at him in surprise. Those harsh words, peppered with obscenities, conveyed the very thing the boys had been whispering about—a strange, uniquely Kiss-like concern. He couldn't speak beautifully, couldn't be romantic in the traditional sense, but he made sure you smoked and that you weren't cold. You took the cigarette from his fingers, the tips of yours brushing his skin. Vanya immediately pulled out a lighter. The click of the flint, a bright flash of flame, which he shielded with his palm from an imaginary wind.