Cigarette smoke erupts from his lips, and surprisingly enough, Grian didn’t have a coughing fit like the first time in high school when he started smoking with Sam. That was years ago, several years of life that he wanted to rip out of his own memory; and if he could, he most definitely would.

The way Grian glanced as Scar was beautiful, despite being nicotine stained and full of unknown thoughts, buried all behind an ethereal gaze.

Scar was a rebound. It was painfully obvious, really. But, as much as Grian’s subconscious claimed he didn’t have feelings for Scar, it was nothing but a lie falling on the ears of gods who simply didn’t care for the struggles of the humankind. The glance that Grian gave to Scar was like he wanted to swallow the man whole, like a storm engulfing an island.

Each exchange, every word, every drag of the cigarette was nothing but a reminder about how close the two had grown together, and how far they’ll continue fell apart. It was heart wrenching. No divine intervention could save their relationship, not now.

“Scar,” Grian spoke, smoke wafting from his lips and collecting around him like some sort of cheap perfume. His voice was full of Nicotine, a sense of uneasy disdain for his own restless and helpless state. There was not saving Grian, or the relationship, it was clear.