Smoking - Prologue
Title:: Smoking
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: Sometimes, smoke signals, slow burning fires, aren't all they seem.
Prologue
Ville took a deep drag on the butt of his cigarette. The smoke burnt his tongue and the roof of his mouth and the lining of his lungs, but he let it curl out from between his lips lazily, relishing the soft burn, the taste, the buzz as it hit his bloodstream. He took another drag before stubbing the exhausted butt out in an ashtray that was threatening to overflow. Smoke hung around his head in a swirling cloud, indistinguishable from the rest of the air in the bar. He popped open the carton of cigarettes that was laying next to his left hand with one finger, extracted another cigarette and lit it with a lighter in the other hand. Another deep drag, and the smoke flowed from his lips again, poured from his nose, and he watched it curl up to the dingy ceiling where a fan lazily mixed it in with the rest of the thick, hot, smoky air.
He’d been chain smoking for a while now. He’d been chain smoking for exactly 2 packets and 3 fags. That was the only way he’d managed to keep track of time. That, and how many twirls of smoke went up to the ceiling, though he’d soon lost count of that after the ceiling fan had made him dizzy.
Ville liked the curls of smoke. He liked the way they looked, liked the way he could change them by just one slight alteration of his mouth shape. He imagined forming a kind of smoke song with the different shapes, a kind of smoke-shape opera. This one the frolicking girl, this the menacing villain, this the pure-hearted hero - a particularly weak swirl might make the dying mother of the tragedy (for of course it was a tragedy), an intricate swirl was one of the minor characters whose roll, it was soon revealed, was not so minor at all.
“Sir, can I get you anything else?” The voice broke him from his silent, erratic musings, and he looked down from the smoke that was curling its way to the ceiling, slowly, as if it was of the greatest mental effort.
“Eh? Oh, sure, double vodka, please. No ice.” The nervous waiter nodded, wiping his hands nervously on his pants as he scurried back in the direction of the bar. No ice. No ice. Ville kept saying the two words over in his head. He liked the way they sounded. He had always had a thing for words. They were simple, straightforward. But they had hidden depths. It was one of the greatest kept secrets by poets, songwriters - writers in general. Ville’d clued into the secret at a young age. He liked words. They sort of reminded him of himself.
Hidden depths. Yeah. Multiple levels. Secrets. Words had secrets. He had secrets. He had levels - layers, like parfait, or onions - he had hidden depths. It was just that most people hadn’t realized them yet.
Maybe that’s why he was sitting in the corner booth of a dingy bar, waiting for a double vodka with no ice from a skittish, clammy youth on his first day as a waiter. No ice. He still liked how that sounded.
Sighing, he took the cigarette from between his lips and slid it into one of the slots in the ashtray. Ignoring the enticingly lethargic curls of smoke that came from the glowing end of the fag, he dug around in his pockets until he found his wallet. Best not to keep the poor nervous kid waiting for his money when he got back. Maybe he should give him a big tip. Cheer him up a bit. Stop all that obnoxious shaking.
“Here you go, Sir.” Just as he’d pulled his wallet out, the boy turned up, almost spilling the vodka all over the table when he set it down. Half smiling, Ville pressed a 20-dollar bill in his hand.
“Keep the change. Buy yourself a drink. You look like you need it.”
The boy didn’t say anything as he scurried away in the direction Ville’s hand was waving him, and Ville sighed thankfully, glad he hadn’t argued. See? He could be nice. He could be kind and considerate and treat strangers right.
People just never realized it. They never bothered to look deep - didn’t see all those hidden depths so carefully shielded by the heavy drinking, the flippant words, the cruel things he did. Self-defense, that’s what it all was. Self-bloody-defense, and it was their own fault if they didn’t realize it. He had depths, dammit, he had depths and they were…
… he stopped himself before he got too into it. Picked up his cigarette, took another all satisfying drag. Another self defense mechanism. He’d learned at an early age never to get too worked up by things that were essentially meaningless. So what if he was sitting in a dingy bar, all alone with a double vodka that was too warm to drink properly, staring at the smoke swirls and the ceiling fan on his birthday? It was their fault for not looking hard enough; he didn’t need them. He didn’t need anything but what he had - a cigarette in one hand, a vodka in the other, and a nervous waiter taking way too much care of him. He was fine and everything was fine, perfectly fine.
He stubbed the cigarette out angrily. Who was he kidding? He was so bad at lying he couldn’t even do it to himself.
Downing the vodka in one gulp, he slammed the tumbler back on the table and grabbed his coat from the bench next to him. On his way out, he slapped another 20 in the waiter’s confused hand, thanked him for the excellent company, and kicked the door shut behind him.
Ville stood in the freezing rain of New York City, and cursed loudly at the taxis, which were all full. Finally, when one pulled up next to his shivering body, it caused a puddle to explode and soak him to the bone from the waist down. Sighing, Ville simply got in the cab and gave the name of his hotel to the driver who he was completely sure didn’t speak a word of English. No matter. He wasn’t in any rush; it wasn’t like he had anything to get back for.
The hotel was big and flashy, with too much gold leaf and so many mirrors that when he walked through the lobby, it was as if a whole army of desperately wet, shivering men had descended upon it. He hated the ridiculous splendor, but he didn’t book his own hotels so he would have to deal with it.
The elevator attendant had the same tattoo as him. It was showing in-between his short hair and the high, stiff collar of his uniform. Ville sighed, tried to hide behind his long, matted hair that hadn’t been washed in way too long. He began to wonder if there was anyway he could get out of the elevator, should the boy decide to stop the elevator mid-floor in an attempt to kidnap/seduce/rape/get an autograph off of him. The scenarios flashed through Ville’s mind like a cheap action movie, all much gorier than they would have been, always ending in him with his dick cut off at the bottom of an elevator shaft, about to be crushed by an escalator speeding down the shaft after the crazed attendant cut it’s support cables with a nail file.
Needless to say, he was more than a little relieved when the elevator dinged and stopped at his floor and he managed to slide wordlessly past the attendant, a gormless young boy who looked as if he might recognize Ville… but only for a split second before shrugging it off, pulling his lever and shutting the door in front of his slightly confused face.
The hotel room was empty. Of course it was empty. Ville threw his coat over the back of the couch that he would never in his life sit on in fear of breaking precious bones in his body, and flopped down on the bed with the too-hard mattress and the too-thin pillows and the too-cold blankets.
His cell phone was flashing on the bedside table. He threw an arm over and picked it up. 3 missed calls. 1 message awaiting. Sighing once again, he called his mailbox and settled back in the pillows, waiting to hear an aggravated message from his manager, his mother, his Great Aunt Niina who had died of colon-cancer the year before.
“You have 1. New message. Message received on…” Ville reached over and pulled another cigarette from the box, put it between his lips, and was about to light it when the message kicked in.
“Ville? Uh. Happy Birthday, old guy.”
The cigarette fell from his lips.
“Look. Call me or something when you get this. I … I feel like shit. We need to talk. The guys are really worried about you. You oughta call them. And then call me. Uh. Yeah. Hang in there, man.” Click. Ville stared at the wall across from him, his eyes wide and his eyebrows raised high. His cigarette was half hanging from his lip, the paper attached to the moistness of it.
“You have No. New Messages.” It was the beeping sound that brought him back to earth. He clicked the phone off and laid it slowly on the bed next to him.
How odd, he thought to himself as he finally lit his cigarette, taking a shaking, heavy breath of the smoke. How very, very odd.
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: Sometimes, smoke signals, slow burning fires, aren't all they seem.
Prologue
Ville took a deep drag on the butt of his cigarette. The smoke burnt his tongue and the roof of his mouth and the lining of his lungs, but he let it curl out from between his lips lazily, relishing the soft burn, the taste, the buzz as it hit his bloodstream. He took another drag before stubbing the exhausted butt out in an ashtray that was threatening to overflow. Smoke hung around his head in a swirling cloud, indistinguishable from the rest of the air in the bar. He popped open the carton of cigarettes that was laying next to his left hand with one finger, extracted another cigarette and lit it with a lighter in the other hand. Another deep drag, and the smoke flowed from his lips again, poured from his nose, and he watched it curl up to the dingy ceiling where a fan lazily mixed it in with the rest of the thick, hot, smoky air.
He’d been chain smoking for a while now. He’d been chain smoking for exactly 2 packets and 3 fags. That was the only way he’d managed to keep track of time. That, and how many twirls of smoke went up to the ceiling, though he’d soon lost count of that after the ceiling fan had made him dizzy.
Ville liked the curls of smoke. He liked the way they looked, liked the way he could change them by just one slight alteration of his mouth shape. He imagined forming a kind of smoke song with the different shapes, a kind of smoke-shape opera. This one the frolicking girl, this the menacing villain, this the pure-hearted hero - a particularly weak swirl might make the dying mother of the tragedy (for of course it was a tragedy), an intricate swirl was one of the minor characters whose roll, it was soon revealed, was not so minor at all.
“Sir, can I get you anything else?” The voice broke him from his silent, erratic musings, and he looked down from the smoke that was curling its way to the ceiling, slowly, as if it was of the greatest mental effort.
“Eh? Oh, sure, double vodka, please. No ice.” The nervous waiter nodded, wiping his hands nervously on his pants as he scurried back in the direction of the bar. No ice. No ice. Ville kept saying the two words over in his head. He liked the way they sounded. He had always had a thing for words. They were simple, straightforward. But they had hidden depths. It was one of the greatest kept secrets by poets, songwriters - writers in general. Ville’d clued into the secret at a young age. He liked words. They sort of reminded him of himself.
Hidden depths. Yeah. Multiple levels. Secrets. Words had secrets. He had secrets. He had levels - layers, like parfait, or onions - he had hidden depths. It was just that most people hadn’t realized them yet.
Maybe that’s why he was sitting in the corner booth of a dingy bar, waiting for a double vodka with no ice from a skittish, clammy youth on his first day as a waiter. No ice. He still liked how that sounded.
Sighing, he took the cigarette from between his lips and slid it into one of the slots in the ashtray. Ignoring the enticingly lethargic curls of smoke that came from the glowing end of the fag, he dug around in his pockets until he found his wallet. Best not to keep the poor nervous kid waiting for his money when he got back. Maybe he should give him a big tip. Cheer him up a bit. Stop all that obnoxious shaking.
“Here you go, Sir.” Just as he’d pulled his wallet out, the boy turned up, almost spilling the vodka all over the table when he set it down. Half smiling, Ville pressed a 20-dollar bill in his hand.
“Keep the change. Buy yourself a drink. You look like you need it.”
The boy didn’t say anything as he scurried away in the direction Ville’s hand was waving him, and Ville sighed thankfully, glad he hadn’t argued. See? He could be nice. He could be kind and considerate and treat strangers right.
People just never realized it. They never bothered to look deep - didn’t see all those hidden depths so carefully shielded by the heavy drinking, the flippant words, the cruel things he did. Self-defense, that’s what it all was. Self-bloody-defense, and it was their own fault if they didn’t realize it. He had depths, dammit, he had depths and they were…
… he stopped himself before he got too into it. Picked up his cigarette, took another all satisfying drag. Another self defense mechanism. He’d learned at an early age never to get too worked up by things that were essentially meaningless. So what if he was sitting in a dingy bar, all alone with a double vodka that was too warm to drink properly, staring at the smoke swirls and the ceiling fan on his birthday? It was their fault for not looking hard enough; he didn’t need them. He didn’t need anything but what he had - a cigarette in one hand, a vodka in the other, and a nervous waiter taking way too much care of him. He was fine and everything was fine, perfectly fine.
He stubbed the cigarette out angrily. Who was he kidding? He was so bad at lying he couldn’t even do it to himself.
Downing the vodka in one gulp, he slammed the tumbler back on the table and grabbed his coat from the bench next to him. On his way out, he slapped another 20 in the waiter’s confused hand, thanked him for the excellent company, and kicked the door shut behind him.
Ville stood in the freezing rain of New York City, and cursed loudly at the taxis, which were all full. Finally, when one pulled up next to his shivering body, it caused a puddle to explode and soak him to the bone from the waist down. Sighing, Ville simply got in the cab and gave the name of his hotel to the driver who he was completely sure didn’t speak a word of English. No matter. He wasn’t in any rush; it wasn’t like he had anything to get back for.
The hotel was big and flashy, with too much gold leaf and so many mirrors that when he walked through the lobby, it was as if a whole army of desperately wet, shivering men had descended upon it. He hated the ridiculous splendor, but he didn’t book his own hotels so he would have to deal with it.
The elevator attendant had the same tattoo as him. It was showing in-between his short hair and the high, stiff collar of his uniform. Ville sighed, tried to hide behind his long, matted hair that hadn’t been washed in way too long. He began to wonder if there was anyway he could get out of the elevator, should the boy decide to stop the elevator mid-floor in an attempt to kidnap/seduce/rape/get an autograph off of him. The scenarios flashed through Ville’s mind like a cheap action movie, all much gorier than they would have been, always ending in him with his dick cut off at the bottom of an elevator shaft, about to be crushed by an escalator speeding down the shaft after the crazed attendant cut it’s support cables with a nail file.
Needless to say, he was more than a little relieved when the elevator dinged and stopped at his floor and he managed to slide wordlessly past the attendant, a gormless young boy who looked as if he might recognize Ville… but only for a split second before shrugging it off, pulling his lever and shutting the door in front of his slightly confused face.
The hotel room was empty. Of course it was empty. Ville threw his coat over the back of the couch that he would never in his life sit on in fear of breaking precious bones in his body, and flopped down on the bed with the too-hard mattress and the too-thin pillows and the too-cold blankets.
His cell phone was flashing on the bedside table. He threw an arm over and picked it up. 3 missed calls. 1 message awaiting. Sighing once again, he called his mailbox and settled back in the pillows, waiting to hear an aggravated message from his manager, his mother, his Great Aunt Niina who had died of colon-cancer the year before.
“You have 1. New message. Message received on…” Ville reached over and pulled another cigarette from the box, put it between his lips, and was about to light it when the message kicked in.
“Ville? Uh. Happy Birthday, old guy.”
The cigarette fell from his lips.
“Look. Call me or something when you get this. I … I feel like shit. We need to talk. The guys are really worried about you. You oughta call them. And then call me. Uh. Yeah. Hang in there, man.” Click. Ville stared at the wall across from him, his eyes wide and his eyebrows raised high. His cigarette was half hanging from his lip, the paper attached to the moistness of it.
“You have No. New Messages.” It was the beeping sound that brought him back to earth. He clicked the phone off and laid it slowly on the bed next to him.
How odd, he thought to himself as he finally lit his cigarette, taking a shaking, heavy breath of the smoke. How very, very odd.