"Your lungs will be the same colour as your hair." You tease.

"Purple?"

"Black." Yet you take the cigarette from him anyway and take a generous drag.

There's what seems to be a tinge of a smirk on his lips before he turns his head away to look up at the glowing moon above. Gusts of wind pass by the roof, though none of them are strong enough to threaten either of you with falling off. The breeze merely tussles your hair and carries the smoke away from your face as you exhale—and promptly blows it into his.

He scrunches his eyes tight with a grimace before glaring at you, his eyes stinging. "Seriously?"