DSMP SHORT STORIES

❤️ That sour kind of Smoke ❤️

The night time was beautiful.
   Even if pollution clouds dotted the sky, and dark claps of thunder may be heard from far away. Even though gentle rain trickled down the pavements and the buildings: causing them to become a muddier shade then there normal colour, it was still beautiful.

The roof top was perfect to watch nights like this, half of the square area was covered in a conopy and the other was left to defend itself from the harsh world. Two bench tables sat on the inside of the shelter, the other two outside had been broken and soaked thoroughly a long time ago.
  On the head of both of the stained, oak tables,  under the canopy, small electronic lanterns sat next to ash trays.
  George leant his left side against one of the tables, occasionally dabbing his newly lit cigarette into the tray. Letting the harmful ash coat another cigarette he had taken not even an hour ago.
  He looked behind himself at the rectangular door, half debating whether or not to leave the roof before the air becomes any colder.

  Head tilted back to the skyline, the boy blew the grey smoke from his mouth. It didn't really matter to much to him, smoking that is, he knew he was bound to die one day: so why not make it a little more fun?

The weather outside lit up softly, the light outlining all the tall buildings that randomly scattered the distance as well as some housing areas. The sharp light was about twenty-seven seconds before the growl known as thunder hit his ears.
 
"Twenty seven yards?" George tried to recall the saying about how to figure out if the strike was close or not.
  Was he ment to 'count each second after the light until you hear the thunder and that's how you'll know how may yards it is away' or something else?
He sighed softly, taking another blunt from his cigarette.

"Twenty seven, is that how long you counted for?" A voice spoke from behind, slowly shutting the metal door behind him. 
  The brunet looked behind, moving the cigarette down away from his mouth as he smiled at his friend.  He nodded at his dirty blonde friend.

"You look like shit," He smirked as the taller pushed George forwards and sat behind him. "Damn, you smell like shit too"

"Why thank you," George tilted his head back, to see his friend without turning fully. "Want one?" He plopped the cigarette into his mouth and wiggled it slightly.

"Nah, never had one, don't want waste it" He scoffed, doing the classical gay hand thing to shrug him off. George just puzzled at his words.

"Clay, how long have I known you?" George began to turn himself in his seat to face his friend, yet interrupted him before he can speak. "And you haven't tried a blunt?"

Clay just shook his head.

"Alright. Know what?" clay just shook his head again, slower this time. "Your trying this."
George began to edge closer to clay, practically sitting directly in-between his legs now.  He brought the cigarette to his own mouth and puffed: yet kept the smoke in his mouth.

"What do I need to do?" Clay asked, watching as the small brunet place the cigarette into the ash tray and move closer to him. He simply pulled softly on clays bottom lip, getting the hint, the younger opened his mouth and lent down to George.

      It was like a tease.
  Lips almost touching, but not: brushing in the smallest places and causing gentle, addicting, tingles through their mouths.
 
Small hands pulled onto the white button shirt collar, where as larger ones rested on the others shoulder and table.
 
  Grey smoke slipped from one mouth to another, only spilling out through their noses and small cracks of their almost conjoined lips.

George pulled away, watching as Clay began to adjust to the toxic air he puffed into his mouth.
  How the smaller could be able to handle multiple cigarettes a day puzzled him.