Scaramouche was always smoking, impossible to grasp, easy to inhale, and sometimes, painfully suffocating. Aether had known that from the beginning. And yet, he'd fallen for him, headfirst, heart wide open. They had been married for two years now, living together in a small but warm home tucked away from the chaos of the outside world.

Scaramouche smoked. Aether hated it.

He hated the bitter scent that lingered on his lover’s clothes. He hated the way it clung to the curtains, the cushions, even the space between them when they kissed. He hated how Scaramouche’s fingers were always stained.

But most of all, Aether hated that Scaramouche couldn’t stop.

“I told you to quit” Aether would say, his voice quiet but sharp. “You promised you’d try.”

“I am trying” Scaramouche would answer, brushing him off with a crooked grin and a cigarette already between his fingers. “Just… not tonight.”

They argued about it more often than not. The fights were never loud, but they left cracks in the silence that followed. Aether would sleep on the edge of the bed, his back turned, and Scaramouche would stare at the ceiling, a guilty weight sitting in his chest heavier than the smoke he breathed in.

That night was no different, except, it was.

The window creaked open in the dark, just after midnight. The breeze was cold, brushing against Aether’s bare skin under the covers. He stirred slightly, half-awake, when the familiar scent slipped through the air.

Smoke.

He sat up slowly, bleary eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moonlight spilled into the room, casting silver lines across the floor. Scaramouche stood by the open window, one hand holding a cigarette, the other gripping the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re smoking again” Aether said, voice dry with disappointment.

Scaramouche didn’t turn around. The end of the cigarette glowed orange as he took another long drag, then exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the night.

“Get back to bed” he said flatly.

Aether didn’t move. “You said you’d stop.”

“I said I’d try.” His tone was tight. “This is me trying.”

“You’re failing again" Aether whispered, eyes stinging, not from the smoke, but from the ache behind his ribs.

Scaramouche finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes weren’t angry. They were tired. Empty. Like someone who wanted to be better but didn't know how.

“I know" he said.

Silence.

The cigarette burned between his fingers. He flicked it out the window before Aether could say anything more. Then he stood there, both hands on the frame now, breathing deeply like the night air could cleanse his lungs of every bad habit.

“I hate that you hate me for this” he murmured, almost too quietly for Aether to hear. “But I hate myself more.”

That hit Aether in the chest harder than any secondhand smoke ever could.

Without a word, he got out of bed and walked up behind him. He wrapped his arms around Scaramouche’s waist from behind, resting his cheek between his shoulder blades.

“I don’t hate you” Aether said, voice soft. “I hate what it does to you. I hate that it takes you away from me.”

Scaramouche’s breath caught. He covered Aether’s hands with his own, squeezing gently.

“I want to quit” he whispered. “For you. For us.”

Aether nodded against him. “Then let’s start again. Tomorrow.”

A long pause.

“Tomorrow.." Scaramouche echoed.

Outside, the wind carried the last trail of smoke into the sky. Inside, two broken people stood at a window, quietly promising each other a better night.