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No one ever means to get addicted. Well, not usually, anyways. Zayn didn’t.

Niall definitely didn’t.

But there was something about that first time he was talked into doing it by Zayn, into smoking, by whispers of ‘c’mon, just this once, just try it, with me, I’ll be right here, just once with me, Ni’.

There was something about the way his lungs burned slightly as he held his breath, something about the rush of toxic air as it left his lips, that he liked. There was something about the novelty, and the fact that this went totally against his image, that Niall couldn’t get enough of.

Because maybe it wasn’t really him. But maybe he didn’t quite know who he was yet. Why should he? He was only eighteen. He was allowed to try new things, be a little daring. So what if other people didn’t like it? He didn’t care.

He didn’t mean to get addicted.

And in the end, it wasn’t just the cigarettes that had him hooked.



Zayn looked beautiful when he smoked.