Chapter Text
Yellowed, chipped teeth gnaw lazily against a mahogany in colour mouthpiece, idly pressing into the material as pale, ashy fingers cradle the base of the pipe carefully, tilting the smoking tool upwards towards the purplish blue night sky, the white glistening of the stars faint against the grey clouds and the artificial light bleeding out into the surroundings, flowing out of the downstairs windows, kicking light pollution up a couple of notches.
Pressing his lips firmly together around the opening of the mouthpiece, inhaling softly, breathing in the nicotine vapour that pours into the walls of his mouth, James allows his eyelids to fall half shut.
There's something so quiet, so peaceful about the way the only life sparking up an sort of existence right now, right here, is only him and himself, pipe in hand and suit jacket hanging over his right shoulder as he takes some time to be alone.
Even the thin whispers of the breeze that seep in between the strands of his hair are hushed, as if they too know not to disturb him.
Gently, James lowers his pipe away from his mouth, pursing his lips effortlessly, his eyes dazed almost, pupils dilated and ever more expanding to adjust to the inky black shrowd of darkness that spills like a glossy mesh blanket over the chilled evening sky, frosted blue smoke rolling and falling over the edges and corners of his mouth before dancing away from him into the night time air.
The soldier glances down at his hand, bypassing the pinkish peach scars that decorate his fingertips in order to take in the appearance of his pipe.
This pipe wasn't always his.
Not to begin with, at least.
Had it been used before him?
No, of course not.
How degrading would it be to receive a used smoking pipe?
No, it had not been used.
But it still wasn't his in the first place.
Whittled down and layered coat by coat by four carefully buttered up varnish brushes, this pipe was made by his father.
James narrows his eyes as he stares at the pipe a little bit longer.
If there were ever four words to be used in order to describe his father, those particular four words would be prim and proper, tall and proud.
A fighter within his own right, a soldier himself during the first world war, his father made damn sure to drag him up in the correct way.
See, while James never got the hang of many conventional skills such as fishing, or even landmarking, he sure was good with more practical skills, such as hunting and identification.
While James could not, and still cannot, figure out how to make an on the spot sundial, he can identify an edible mushroom and he can use up all of the parts of a deer without wasting any damn thing.
He supposes he does have his father to thank for that.
Fingers tighten around the bowl of the pipe, the tips of his digits turning pale with the force, blood leaving the limbs.
Yes.
He should thank his father for everything really.
For making him into the man he is today.
For every trip out into the woods before the ass crack of dawn, with a rifle set up within five minutes, with pajama pants ruined by the soaked soil of the underfloor of the natural environment.
For every time he was told to, "Quit your squawking before I really give you something to cry for. Now hold your breath if you must, damnit!" when he simply couldn't choke back his tears any longer.
For each and every time he was grasped by the back of his collar and shook for even breaking eye contact during a 'well deserved' scolding.
A stifled tremble wracks through his wrist as he practically squeezes the scoop of the pipe.
James can hear a dull, throbbing enter his head, can feel his heart thumping against the insides of the walls of his skull.
James really should thank his father.
Without him, he might actually have told Havers how he truly felt.
Maybe he would have been killed were he stood, brutalised by the men he used to call his companions, his co-workers, his team.
Without him, he might have been dead perhaps a year sooner, but what on Earth would have been done in a singular year?
Gods, maybe he—what if he could have been happy, in that year?
What if he could have, might have, held Anthony's hand?
What if he could have—
Would Havers have dry, calloused lips?
Would he taste of coffee, oats, and chocolate, or would he taste like a hearty breakfast?
"Fuck!" He snaps, leaning up, drawing himself up taller as he pulls back his arm and he tosses the pipe, feeling his chest tighten uncomfortably, his fingers opening in order to let the item fall away from him.
James feels like poison is swimming through his veins at this point, and when James feels his pants pocket shift in the following six seconds, he knows the pipe has returned to him already.
Raising his hands, pressing both of his palms against his face, James feels shivers wrack through his shoulders, causing him to twitch and he begins to pace along the side of the balcony, inhaling unevenly, brokenly, erratically.
"Fuck, fuck," he mutters, his voice cracking weakly, shutting his eyes and squinting, gasping out pathetically.
He doesn't get to thank his father.
He doesn't get to curse him out.
He doesn't get to regret his life decisions.
He doesn't get to forget the choices he made.
He doesn't—
"Trying to get your daily steps up, are we, mate?" A chiding, not quite kind but not quite all that rude tone of voice calls out to him, cutting through the pants of the wind, causing him to jerk uncomfortably, startling. He begins to lower his hands away from his face slowly.
Peering over his still lifted hands, fingers twitching, James takes in the presence of the taller man who stands leaning against the door frame of the balcony door, arms crossed over his chest.
Swallowing hesitantly, his eyes glossing over as he notices the lazy raised eyebrow on the politician's face, feeling a biting heat flooding over the tips of his ears, causing a sense of hyperawareness to crash over him like a wave of nausea.
"Oh. Julian. How—how long have you been there?"
The younger man shrugs offhandedly, tilting his head to rest against the plastic material of the doorframe.
"Does it matter?"
As his arms finally become flush with his sides, James forces the tension to leave his upper body, rolling his shoulders as he glances back out towards the courtyard, shuffling towards the railing and placing his arms over the metal so he can slump into a more idle position.
"No. No, I suppose it doesn't really, does it?"
James feels Julian's presence approach closer more than he hears the clicking of the dress shoes hitting against the balcony floor.
The politician stretches his arms over his head, stretching up towards to the misty night sky until a dull, flat crack sounds out, in which he promptly lowers his arms.
"So, you still smoking?"
James kisses his teeth bitterly as he absentmindedly fishes into his pocket, tugging out that damned pipe of his.
"Yes. That won't stop, Julian. I'm just lucky I can't get more dependant on it. I may not be able quit, but I cannot get any worse."
Julian folds his arms before he places them on the railing, bending one of his knees so he can comfortably lean down.
"Always looking at the positives, eh?"
James snickers, glaring seemingly at nothing as he lifts the pipe towards his lips, wrapping them around the mouthpiece before taking a hit.
Julian's gaze falls upon the older man, watching as the soldier leans his head up and back, sucking in the smoke deeply before he pulls the mouthpiece away from himself before he gulps back a breath of plain, cold oxygen.
He pauses.
He waits.
His eyes fall closed, his eyelashes fluttering.
Then his lips part, and greyish violet smoke falls over his scabbed skin.
"Christ," he mumbles, sleepily opening his eyes, blinking lazily before he drops his head as if the weight of the world has finally crashed up on top of him.
Skewering his head to the side, his face softening from almost mocking to something nearly warm, Julian breaks the newfound quiet blanket that had fallen upon the two men.
"D'you wanna talk about it, mate?"
Sharpening his eyelids, looking at Julian through the corner of his eye, James feels his moustache twitch.
"Is there any another option?"
Julian takes his bottom lip in between his two sets of teeth and he sucks on it, letting out a high pitched whistling sound before he shrugs lightly.
"I could distract you."
A snort escapes the back of the soldier's throat.
"You're vile."
A smile tugs at the edges of Julian's mouth at the amused tone of voice James carries as he insults the politician, and Julian enjoys the subtle roll of the eyes he notices from the older man.
"Say, James?"
"Hm?"
Julian allows his gaze to fall onto James' pipe, his smile steeling, becoming firmer, not quite cheeky in nature, but not too innocent either. It more so falls on the line of playful more than anything else.
"Have you heard of shotgunning?"
The soldier quirks an eyebrow, turning to face the taller man.
Studying the younger man curiously, James hums almost inaudibly to himself.
"Hm, by the expression on your facial features, and that shit-eating grin of yours, I am going to have to confidently say that no, I have not heard of it. What are you planning, you little imp of a man?"
And Julian can hardly stifle the chortle he lets out at James' half-hearted attempt at a jab, at a jest even.
"It's nothing too bad, too saucy, I promise. I know how modest you can be, Mother Mary," the politician comments, yet again encouraging the soldier to snort and shake his head as if to dismiss the younger man.
Julian takes the captain's more relaxed state as a chance to attack the pipe—and by that, he wraps his fingers around the bowl of the pipe, tugging it out from James' loose fingers.
The soldier doesn't even move to stop him.
He doesn't protest, he doesn't say a word.
Afterall, Julian was a smoker in life as well, and often borrows his pipe, and definitely typically without asking first.
At this point, James is accustomed to the politician's brash behaviour.
Julian wiggles his eyebrows at the shorter man teasingly, tauntingly, relishing in the put on groan of annoyance that leaves the soldier.
"Now, shotgunning has two main terms. The first one will not be being applied to us today, but I shall give you a quick rundown anyhow. Shotgunning, when applied to drinks, is when a beverage is in a can and said can is pierced at the bottom of the length, not on the actual floor. One would put their mouth around the hole and then open the can via the tab, and the release of pressure would force the beverage down faster. Typically the beverage is alcoholic, and it gives pregaming a new level," Julian explains, all the while playing with the pipe, twirling it in his fingers.
James seems mildly bewildered at the very concept of this idea, grimacing as he pictures the potential of drinking something carbonated so fast that it could come through his nose.
As he shudders, Julian only continues to speak.
"Now, the version of shotgunning that I would like to interest you in involves smoking, which is what this handy little thing can potentially aid us with. This type of shotgunning is when one person inhales smoke, swallowing it to the back of their throat just long enough to keep the smoke inside of their mouth, before they blow it into another person's mouth, allowing them to almost directly second-hand smoke."
Now this idea certainly causes James' cheeks to darken just a shade deeper than normal, but that could easily be explained away and dismissed by the chilled flash of wind that causes three strands of his hair to fall from behind his right ear.
"Oh. I, well, I see."
Julian has only seen the soldier reduced to speechlessness only two handfuls worth of time, and this is definitely one of the more amusing times.
The politician leans just that little bit closer to the shorter man, dangling the pipe over the edge of the balcony slightly.
"So..."
James sheepishly peeks at the blonde.
"So, what, Julian?"
The politician grins at the soldier's rushed out, undignified tone of voice, his words wobbling not with fear, but something akin to anticipation almost.
"How would you like me to shotgun you?"
A brittle inhale only serves to amuse Julian just that little bit more before he hears James swallow, before he sees the older man's throat bob with the gulp.
"What do I—what do I have to do?" James ponders, his voice lowered as he takes a half step closer to Julian, inching towards the taller man cautiously, not really out of hesitance, more so to preserve the quietness of the environment surrounding the two.
Julian is the one, unsurprisingly, who breaks into the other man's personal space, and he allows his expression to become more gentle because no matter how hard he tries, he can't bring himself to break the carefully created atmosphere that just beckons sensuality over rash actions.
"Just stay right here for me, and part your lips for me. Wait for me, alright?"
All James can do is nod, unable to mutter a word at the moment.
The soldier watches almost nervously as the politician places the mouthpiece of the pipe into the space between his lips, inhaling lowly, taking in a long, heavy drag from the tool.
James feels his pace quicken as Julian's pupils expand, as his cheeks tint from the decrease of oxygen within his lungs, as his throat hallows during the sucking motion on the mouthpiece.
The echoes of his heart within his head grow swimmingly louder, his mind feeling tiled with porcelain, with a neon yellow wet floor sign essentially screaming, 'caution!' right at him.
When Julian lifts his left hand to cup the edge of James' chin, the soldier stiffens in shock at the warmth of the politician's skin, almost despising how soft the younger man's hand feels against his faint stubble, yet adoring the lack of roughness.
There's something so ironic, so sweet, about someone so outwardly crass with skin ever so tender.
Julian carefully, faintly traces the pad of his thumb over the soldier's bottom lip before he crowds James' against the railing of the balcony, leaning in in order to allow his lips to fall open.
James allows his eyelids to flicker as smoke washes over him in curls, in swirls, and in wisps.
The soldier gasps quietly, the sound sparking a subtle pulse to begin to simmer in the bottom of Julian's abdomen.
James inhales only a couple of fingernails worth of smoke but even that is enough to knock a sense of dizziness to wrack through his body, his head growing cloudy, fuzzy, as if injected with a liquid form of pure static.
His heartbeat feel like the crackles of a freshly stoked autumn fire as he makes hazy eye contact with the taller man, who is looking right back at him with a certain kind of intensity that almost dares him to press on with his own intentions.
"Can you—can you do that again?"
Julian swallows dryly, taking such a clear note of the filthy curl of James' words.
"I can. Or, I can show you a deviation," he suggests idly, in a murmur, and the soldier all too happily, all too naively, nods.
With this, Julian sips the mouthpiece once more before he pockets the pipe, placing it into the innerpocket of his jacket.
His grip becomes firmer against James' chin and the soldier can hardly form a thought that makes sense just observing the taller man before he tenses up, not quite really expecting for Julian to captures his lips at all, and nevermind in the cautiously, messy press that he does, using his own lips as leverage to keep James' parted.
James cannot have a moment to comprehend that the politician is, in fact, kissing him. This delayed process of information is likely entirely the fault of the bout of thick nicotine filled air that insists on flooding his lungs, dilating his bloodstream, forcing his head to spin.
The soldier squirms as he tries to breathe out, but Julian keeps his mouth pushing against James', taking what oxygen he even still has left, causing the older man to arch onto his chest, fighting for air.
When the politician pulls back from the soldier, James' pants, gasping, spluttering.
He pushes Julian away from him, hunching over and heaving, his cheeks puffed up and red.
A worried expression befalls Julian and he grimaces, guilt itching at his intestines as he observes the grey haired man wrangling for clean air.
"Oh, tosser. Are you—shit."
A tiny bit of saliva flies out of James' mouth and he frowns, peeking up at Julian awkwardly.
"A-apologies. I am so, so—ack, sorry about that," the soldier stammers as he leans himself back up, feeling almost stupid for his overdramatic response.
But even through his self criticism, James can hardly ignore the churn of adrenaline that has now flooded to life, his blood tainted with a form of desire he can't really seem to process just yet.
Julian raises both of his eyebrows, almost laughing, smiling at the absurd apology.
"James, mate, that was my fault. I, um, lost track of myself. Sorry, I wanted to be charming, but I've just choked you out."
The soldier wipes his mouth unceremoniously before he flushes a more attractive colour, even the top of his neck blooming a lovely pink shade.
"Other than the, well, last part, I wouldn't say I particularly minded it," he confesses, attempting to sound nonchalant, but only seeming pretentious.
The politician can't say he actually doesn't mind, because he'd seem fair too soft, but he does take the time to process James' admission.
Julian allows himself to push the soldier that little bit further, ignoring how hot his blood seems to turn within his ears.
"Would you like to try again?"
And James' subtle nod is all it takes for him to dive back in, pushing the older man back against the metal railing of the balcony.
Julian doesn't bother to take out the pipe this time around; both men know there's no point in it now, there's no more need for pretence.
The politician holds the soldier in place with his grasp on the older man's face, leaning in and slotting his mouth against James'.
James lifts his left hand, sneaking his fingers into the taller man's hair, playing with the loose strands at the top of Julian's neck.
Pressing his chest against the soldier's, making his hips flush with the shorter man's, the politician tests his luck, biting sharply at the edges of the soldier's scarred, chapped lips, stressing the flesh.
A sullen, low whimper bleeds into the kiss after these series of nibbles, flooding Julian's stomach with an angry, desperate heat.
Knocked hazy, the politician pries the soldier's lips apart with his tongue, tormenting the older man, egging him on to allow Julian to do his worst.
James wilts against the taller man's body, shivering, not really knowing how to process the feeling of Julian's slick, hot tongue probing around inside of the walls of his mouth.
All he knows is that it's intoxicating, ruining, soul destroying.
And gods, does he want more.
He tightens his grasp on Julian's hair, tugging needily, whimpering into the smushed, messy kiss once more as the politician hums gravelly into the action.
James is sure that he could have been happy if he would have taken his chances in life.
But damn it, this is pretty damn good too.