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The sun’s rays often hit Stanley’s closed eyes in his sleep, causing him to stir and shift away to avoid its unwelcome announcement for the start of the day. His arm would often travel to the other side of the bed, exploratory, a little hopeful to find warm, soft skin, but already knowing the occupant of that side was long gone, off to address the million things that taunted his mind until he couldn’t bear to sleep a second longer. Stan would always try to ignore the waking world’s call for him, a luxury he could only enjoy when he was at home, but the smell of his beloved’s gift for him was far too tempting.
He would smile to himself, forever amused by his lover’s antics.
Xeno’s obsession with Stanley’s smoking habit started in their early high school years, as he watched Stan progressively smoke more and more cigarettes with each passing day. He’d often stay silent, appearing bored despite the unending thoughts Stan knew raced through his mind, as he watched Stan pick out yet another cigarette from one of the busted up packs he snatched from the many inattentive adults that frequented his father’s dingy living room, lighting it to savor the deliciously fatal smoke that rushed down his windpipe.
When he first started his smoking habit, he’d half expected Xeno to rattle off the dangers of smoking, to persuade him to quit and save himself from the pain of future illness. However, as was often the case with Xeno, he completely side-stepped what Stanley expected him to do, leaving him wondering at his stubborn silence regarding Stan’s growing addiction.
This unfaltering attention that Xeno paid to Stanley’s cigarettes lasted for years, hungry watchful eyes sparking heat in Stanley’s chest as the two of them matured, growing more aware of their bodies, of each other’s bodies. Sometimes, Xeno would watch so intently that Stan hardly dared to breathe. Xeno would hold his own breath, eyes shifting from the cigarette to Stan’s lips, seemingly only allowing himself to exhale when Stan finally pushed the smoke into the space between them.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the cigarette and Xeno soon competed for Stan’s lips, vying for his attention, a neediness he was accustomed to from the killer drug, but one that took him first by surprise when he found it in the other boy at first, though he quickly grew dependent on Xeno’s crave for him, craving him back, the years moved sluggishly on while they remained hopelessly captivated.
“What’s so good about it, anyway?” Xeno asked one day as they lay naked and lazy, the afternoon sun outside warming their shitty one-bedroom apartment until they were both sweating. The fan above only mocked Stanley as he watched it, as it replaced muggy air with muggy air in defiance of its very purpose.
He glanced to his side, amused as he studied his lover’s face, registering jealousy and noting that only Xeno was ridiculous enough to be a grown man jealous of an inanimate object. He only released the smoke he had trapped in his lungs when they began to sting too badly, watching it swim in the humid air above them. His hand held the cigarette close to Xeno’s face in response. “See for yourself.” He said simply, not daring to look away from Xeno’s first encounter with the drug.
Which did not turn out to be so magical, as the other man immediately fell into a coughing fit, dragging a surprised laugh out of Stanley.
“Wait, that didn’t count.” Xeno insisted, sitting up and tucking his legs under him in childish protest, white sheets pooling in his lap as he took Stan’s hand in his own, guiding the cigarette back to his lips. His eyes didn’t leave Stanley’s this time, a bratty glint in them suspended Stanley in awe, his body heating up in want.
By the time Xeno was ready to expel the smoke out of his lungs, Stanley’s lips were on his, eagerly drinking it down.
Some time after Stanley’s enlistment in the army, when he made his return from his first deployment, he found that Xeno and the cigarette had formed an unlikely alliance in his absence, determined to keep him under their spell.
He was glad to be at their mercy.
Every morning, Stanley awoke to a neatly packed and rolled cigarette on his bedside table, a sleek thing that belonged in their much nicer home, a reflection of their increasing wealth, a wealth that mostly came from Xeno’s scientific career. Every morning, that hand-crafted cigarette sent him reeling, and he wasn’t sure if it was thanks to the premium tobacco Xeno filled it with, or the unspoken message that he instilled in it, a message of 'good morning, my love', of 'don’t forget who your favorite drug is', of 'if you want more, you have to eagerly, painfully, await my return home to you'.
Xeno never missed a single morning, unless it was a morning that Stanley was deployed somewhere, away from the safety of Xeno’s touch. Stanley’s morning cigarette was as much a part of Xeno’s day as any other part of his agenda, and Stan took secret pleasure in waking up a little earlier than his beloved expected, playing asleep only to eavesdrop on Xeno’s process as he took out the tray, tobacco, and rolling paper that he kept hidden from him. When Stanley would dare to sneak a glance, he found his husband sitting at the desk in little more than a worn out t-shirt, a sight so private Stanley knew he was its only witness, fingers so delicately completing their task that one would think Xeno was working with glass.
Even on the days where Xeno had a meeting to attend, or a flight to catch, or a lecture to present, Stan would wake to a kiss on the cheek, a cigarette to his side, a departing Xeno that he wished he could persuade to stay, his heart already desperately missing him before he was ever gone.
For thousands of years, hundreds of thousands of mornings would pass through Stanley’s consciousness as he stood frozen in place, dreaming of Xeno’s touch, of the cigarette that only his lover could ever craft, the cigarette that was Xeno and everything Stanley loved about him.
Time seemed to finally find him as a thin sliver of light reached his eyes through the darkness, the stone encasing him cracked and rippled and fell to pieces, revealing sunlight and a brand new world. Looking to his side out of habit, he found a rolled cigarette, one so meticulous he knew only one man could have made it for him, and a match that was sure to meet its end. As he lit the cigarette and brought it to his starving lips, Stanley could almost hear the message it spoke on behalf of its creator:
Welcome back, my beloved.