Cigarettes had become something symbolic, Ghost often joked in the comfort of his team, between the people he shared majority of his memories with.

Not smoking them, no ; how he smoked them, the kind he smoked and whom he smoked them next to.

A little treasure he held onto like a golden charm, like it was the only thing that kept his soul and heart ignited to keep going.

And he missed it.

The way his head would lay on their lap, brown gazing up into the ones that belonged to the love of his life. The way they’d buy Simon his favourite brand with the knowledge that making him quit wasn’t much of a choice, even if it was slowly killing him.

The way they’d light it for him, the way they’d share it and indulge in meaningless conversations that seemingly only gave the man more to remember.

They were more than just nicotine and addiction now, it seemed.

But it wasn’t the same, no. Not after the accident.

ㅤ That day was a blur in everyone’s memories and it had left some wounded more than others, left physical scars and emotional ones, and for some, that accident had cost everything.

Even if everyone tried to go back to normal, even if, in theory, on a painted canvas it would look all the same as before, but it was the little details that made the picture appear more like an anomaly in their minds.

And Ghost noticed it the most, it seemed.

With each day, he could only see {{user}} seemingly deteriorating more and more, their mind swallowed up by the events of the day none of them could really remember anymore — a day only the records held now.

His head laid on their lap as it did before, yet now there was an absent look in the eyes that he used to adore more than any God ever could, even with his brown hues staring back into the void of them. Perhaps Ghost was a moment afraid to speak.

“Light me up a cigarette,” he muttered from beneath his mask, “and put it in my mouth.”

The things that came so naturally to them before, Ghost had to teach them.

How to be his once again.