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Kremy Lecroux was always hungry.
When he was around Gideon, he always felt starved. With grace and dignity, he could lie and dance around the flame of his best friend, soaking in each and every moment without actually touching the fire. Gideon didn't want to waste the time he had left, and Kremy certainly wouldn't, either.
Though he knew as the more reasoned of the two, the guardian of Gideon's freedom, it was best to not allow himself such impulses. Not all of the time. Only a taste here and there - a kiss to his manacles, pondering the weight and bruises they left on Gideon's wrists and how Kremy could help soothe them. A stolen glance at his shoulders and muscles as Gideon waved his hands around, in that exuberant way he spoke. Long evenings spent watching Gideon tinker and salvage even the rustiest piece of trash when Kremy should have been scheming. Indulging in plans, ideas, and jokes which poked just deeply enough to sate his hunger. But he never properly fed, never gorged himself on the heat and smoke his friend emitted. He was always, always hungry.
The only thing grounding him was the dice between his fingers, their clattering against the wood like a melody robbed of its rhythm. It distracted him from his craving for ash and cigarettes. Just fire and numbers held in his grasp, delicately tilted here and there so he could fully know them, the potential and possibilities. As long as he had his flame and his tactics, the world would lay open within his palms, for all he knew. He would remain in control of everything, himself included.
He listened carefully, despite the humble protection of The Inn at The End of The Road. Comfort and warmth were the most effective of facades, and he knew this first hand, as someone who had worn that facade and fell victim to it. Sometimes it felt like the drug of warm mornings and fantasies swallowed him whole.
He blinked rapidly as the boards of the stairs creaked. He recognized the weight of each step, how Gideon's balance was shifted from one foot to the other in heavy, well practiced strides compensating for the extra weight of his manacles. Kremy glanced at the stairwell as Gideon came into view, frowning and walking far too quickly to have just emerged from slumber.
"Can't sleep?" Kremy asked.
"Yeah." Gideon said gruffly. The rough edge of his deep voice was a savory meal for his senses, satisfying and filling.
Kremy looked away, inhaling slowly. He could feel his mind slip out of his own fingers, an urge to look at Gideon again washing over him. The nightshirt Gideon was wearing was loose, leaving his pectoral muscles tantalizingly close to freedom. Kremy closed his eyes tightly, tense, and rifled through his pockets for a cigarette. He kept his hands as steady as he possibly could.
"Y'know, I could go for a smoke, too." Gideon chuckled briefly. Kremy could hear the smirk in his voice. Wood creaked again as Gideon approached, and Kremy compelled himself to take a deep breath. To relax in the drowsy comfort of the inn, but nothing else. He couldn't let those kinds of thoughts in.
Gideon sidled up next to Kremy, pulling Kremy's bag closer to him and poking at various pockets until he found a cigar. He snapped his fingers, a brilliant flame sparking to life, then jumping to the end of Gideon's cigar as he held it to the light.
"I hope Twigsy don't mind the smell." Gideon muttered.
Kremy shrugged. "Ah, I'm sure she wouldn't. Besides, the smoke fades fairly quickly." He settled back into the routine. He had the steps memorized and choreographed down to the letter.
Gideon nodded. Though Kremy imagined for a moment how easily a hand would fit under Gideon's shirt, he was able to drag his attention to reality, distracted instead by the physical sensation of the cigarette between his fingers. He could probably place it in the holder designed for it, though he lacked the sharp will or concentration to look for it. If any ashes got on his suit, he could just prestigitate them away.
He was contemplating the cigarette, either way. It was late, and though it would ease his nerves, it would probably also affect his ability to sleep, whenever he found the want to. And he needed to keep his nerves sharp, given the strangeness of the land they were in. Dulling his senses would make him vulnerable to slip ups, and slip ups made him vulnerable to some lie collapsing and taking his friends down with it.
"Want me to light that for you?"
Kremy's gaze darted to Gideon's face, softening from exhaustion. He could probably use some edge being taken off, given what they had been through lately, but—
Kremy smiled and shook his head. "I don't know." He confessed quietly. "Just thinkin'. It's kinda late and all, and I'd rather not delay you getting your beauty rest. Keep your fire for tomorrow."
"You sure?" Gideon asked.
Kremy nodded, though he hesitated. His glance from Gideon to straight ahead was slow and delayed, his instincts dragged down by the energy it took to keep himself looking refined. His mind was a swamp, with grinning shadows too quick to be caught and his better compulsions being pulled under by mud. The start of his downfall always began with a loss of conscious control over every gesture he made. Anymore haziness and the mask would drop and shatter.
Gideon wasn't buying it, though he mercifully didn't make a move to push under the surface. "Here. Let me help."
Kremy didn't resist. Out of habit, he placed the cigarette between his teeth and gently bit down. His mind insisted on how bad of an idea this was, though other parts of him clung to the potential of release, a dazzling distraction. These other facets outvoted his mind quite easily. Wise decisions were boring, anyways.
He expected Gideon to snap his fingers again and conjure a new flame. Instead, Gideon held his cigar between his own fingers and turned towards Kremy. He pushed the blazing end of the cigar to Kremy's cigarette, rough but precise like a mechanic. Kremy inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke tinged by both enter his lungs and permeate throughout his body. As his cigarette caught and kept a steady light, Gideon pulled away.
"There you go, buddy." Gideon roughly pat Kremy's shoulder a few times. "Not the quickest way, but it'll keep you satisfied." He chuckled, leaning back and grinning proudly at the loophole he discovered.
Kremy blinked rapidly. He then scoffed and nodded. He stared at the floor, hesitating to exhale for a moment. He was never a huge fan of cigars, with the flavor of tobacco being too intense for his liking. But something about the exchange gave the smoke a kick that excited him. That kick, however, was drained forcefully out of him as he let out a sigh. A gray river of smoke trickled from his lips, fading before his eyes, sneering. An inhale or two later and that spice, that something , was gone.
He was made aware of how bland his own mouth tasted. And that whisper of smoke, that teasing flicker of tobacco, was probably the closest he would ever get to tasting Gideon himself. Truly feeding, truly savoring what he had to offer. To losing control and feeling good about it.
Kremy chuckled in spite of the bitterness rising in him. "Thank you kindly, Gid."
"Anytime."
Although it was quiet for the most part, Gideon would go on to ramble about his day and whatever was on his mind. It was so terribly difficult to focus on anything he was saying, Kremy's very soul grasping onto embers and whatever smoke escaped Gideon's lips. A subtle haze came over the room. Kremy watched his hands wave, and gesture, and grasp at nothing. Kremy eventually pulled out an ashtray as Gideon's cigar began to dwindle.
And soon, that flame was extinguished. Gideon jammed the smoldering cigar into the ashtray until it was a corpse of what it once was, bid Kremy goodnight, and walked upstairs. Kremy listened to his footsteps, admiring the cigar's dying breath. He snapped his fingers and the haze that had covered the edges of the room, pierced by firelight, disappeared. The smell of smoke was gone. It was as if nothing had happened, as if Gideon had never been there.
He stared down mournfully at the black stub in the tray. A part of him considered giving cigars another try, to familiarize himself with the smoke that made its home in Gideon's mouth. But he pushed that thought aside. The taste would have been overpowering, and it wouldn't ever match what he experienced tonight. And he was always in favor of convenience - smoking cigars took too long for his liking, not like the quick and done craving that cigarettes fulfilled for him.
Kremy blinked slowly. Despite the room being empty, he felt the presence of smoke everywhere. It was weighing down his lungs, pressing at the corners of his jaws and squeezing between each and every jagged tooth. It was all in his imagination, he knew that. But he couldn't shake it off. He couldn't stop thinking about how close Gideon had gotten.
Kremy removed the cigarette from his lips, then held his head in his hands. He exhaled shakily, and smoke curled up and brushed past his eyes. It stung. The ghost of the fire Gideon provided curled inside his chest. It smothered him, choked him.
He was in a sea of thoughts, in a sea of smoke. Each tendril caressed his face and inserted twisted images of Gideon into his mind, indulgences that were so extreme that their mere existence brought Kremy shame. They were occasional occurrences, pangs of hunger that could be waited out and forgotten. But the smoke, the heat of it, brought those horrific desires to the surface.
Kremy shut his eyes tightly. That typical craving for smoke - for Gideon - was far, Far worse tonight.
Kremy took another drag of his cigarette. Only a quarter remained, a stump of ash wilting at the cigarette's end until it fell unceremoniously onto Kremy's pant leg. He panickedly snapped his fingers to prevent his suit from getting burned. He was so terribly distracted.
He inhaled deeply. Then he did so again, and again until nothing of the cigarette remained, but it couldn't take the edge off like it usually did. Its smoke failed to disguise how much Kremy imagined Gideon's fingers in the place where that stump of ash used to be, warm but more considerate of his attire. Kremy grit his teeth. Stop It, he tried to tell himself.
The ashtray was full. He had smoked too quickly, had breathed it all in too quickly, and found himself coughing. It cleared itself up after a minute, his throat scratchy.
He imagined Gideon's hands caressing his chin, his neck. Stop it.
He imagined Gideon's voice, muttering with that low tone in his ear. Let me help you. I know you need it, Krem.
Kremy shook his head. "I don't." His voice was hoarse and dry like miserable cold charcoal. It was only a second after when he realized how foolish and insane he sounded if anyone had heard him pleading with himself.
He remembered the dice which lay abandoned on the table in front of him. He reached through the clouds of his mind and clutched them desperately, his claws scratching the material slightly. He imagined Gideon holding his hand, supporting those claws, unafraid.
He rolled the dice. Two and five. He rolled again. Six and three. Again: one and one.
Kremy, please. It's alright.
Gideon's voice again. An empty copy his subconsciousness puppeted around.
He considered smoking for longer. The inn was warm, but not warm enough. Nothing was ever warm enough.
Minutes passed. Kremy had long lost count of how many times that damn set of die clattered against the table. His fingers trembled. A dreamy haze surrounded him as he fought a losing battle against exhaustion.
His chest ached and his throat hurt. His head hurt. His lungs were both empty and filled until nearly bursting. His insides and his mind were infected by smoke, drowned by smoke. He couldn't think anymore.
He was alone, and so he was relieved. He didn't have to fight off indulgent distractions anymore because he was too tired to even conjure them. And he was too tired to care about how dangerously unaware of his surroundings he was.
Of course, he was cursed to need sleep, and he was less willing to make the others question his state of mind, so his respite here was temporary. As always.
For the sake of their mission, for the sake of his friends, and for the sake of Gideon, he stopped rolling his dice. He left his pack of cigarettes untouched.
His chest hurt from his earlier coughing fit, and as he drifted off, he imagined he was being cradled by smoke. It drifted from the hearth of the inn, drifted from inside of him. He was always surrounded by it, noxious scraps that he had learned to feed on in order to get by.
It helped soften the edges of his wicked imagination, and it helped him wait out the wave of intrusive thoughts. He was always able to wait, to forget what they entailed. He was always willing, for Gideon's sake.
It didn't matter how many times he had to do it, or how many times he already had. He had all the time in the world.