Archive of Our Own ^beta

Smoking can kill you. Chip’s learned that from many people, many adults aboard that pirate ship that told him “No, smoking is bad” as a kid, many thoughts in his own head that tell him “No, smoking is bad”.

Price smoked. Chip remembers vividly, him lighting up a cigarette, licking his lips, and then sticking it through. Chip remembers sitting on a concrete curb somewhere, shivering as the wind blew. Smoke floated into Chip’s face, somewhat bitter. Chip and Reuben hadn’t spoken that time, and Reuben hadn’t offered him a cigarette, and Chip hadn’t asked for one. They had just sat in silence, Price with a lit cigarette between his lips, Chip hunched over and thinking of nothing.

Chip wishes he had asked for that cigarette now. Maybe it would’ve made shit better, or maybe it would deter him from thinking of all this shit now. Maybe it would’ve gotten him hooked, maybe Price would’ve shared more. Maybe Chip’s life would have turned out differently if he had a pack of cigarettes back then. Or now.

Chip takes a deep breath in, and heaves a deep breath out. It’s not enough; he’s been thinking about this way too much. No one on the ship has cigarettes, it’s not like he could swipe one, even just to try. And if he did try, he’d probably just want more. He hears it feels nice.

No, no, no, no, no, Chip doesn’t succumb to peer pressure. He’s not doing this because others are. Or at least, he doesn’t think so. It’s probably not peer pressure.

But, for now, Chip prays that no one offers him a cigarette. Or else he might say yes.

It’s been a few years since that moment with Price. Maybe it was the only good one he had. Chip doesn’t remember much.

He used to think Price was so cool. Cool jacket with cool spikes, cool hair, cool tattoos, cool cigarettes. Chip’s only seen them out of their package once, in that one moment.

Price taps the pack against his hand idly with a cigarette between his lips. Chip eyes it with curiosity.

It wasn’t that big of a deal, Chip’s seen people smoke before.

Price blows a ring of smoke. Chip watches it dissipate into the wind.

Now, thinking about it, maybe they did talk a bit. Chip certainly didn’t talk back.

“Keeps me from wanting to die,” Price mutters when Chip eyes the cigarette.

Chip mutters it back from memory. “Keeps me from wanting to die…”

He looks over the railing of the ship, into the sea. Is this how Price felt?

Price taking another inhale. Chip thinking that he’d never smoke. Surely not.

Smoking is bad for you. Smoking kills you.

…But maybe Chip wants that.

“No, no…” Chip makes a disgusted face and turns away from the water.

“‘M already half dead, so why not?” Price takes another drag between talking at Chip. “You know?”

Chip didn’t know then. Oh, but Chip certainly knows now. If only he’d known just what the world would have in store for him. And if only he’d snatched a cigarette from that box.

“I’ve done the worst of the worst to my body… Can’t be much different, can it?” This is the quietest Price has ever been when not on a scavenge or a mission.

Chip remembers responding with a simple “Mmm…” and then turning away.

“I’ve done the worst of the worst to my body,” Chip repeats from memory. He glances only briefly at his scarred arm. “Can’t get much worse than this, huh?”

It’s a yearning now. Chip knows exactly which side of his mouth he’d smoke it on; the right, opposite of Price. Chip licks his lips.

“You know, Chip…” Reuben sighs. “You don’t want this.”

Chip doesn’t respond.

Yes, he does. He clearly does want it now, if he’s been thinking about it for days. Maybe just one… just to prove that he doesn’t like it, and he’ll move on and never do it again.

“You’ll get addicted. Stay outta that shit.”

“Yeah, whatever, Price ,” Chip spits to himself.

The wind blew harder when Price had said that, blowing more smoke into Chip’s face. He can almost taste it again now, the burning on his tongue and nose. Perhaps it would make some certain burning thoughts stop, too.

Chip really should be listening to reason. Smoking kills people. Smoking hurts people. It smells bad. It pushes people away. But for some reason, some strange reason, Chip yearns for smoke on his tongue and in his lungs.

“Bad, bad,” Chip hisses to himself.

Smoking kills. Smoking kills. Chip glances down at his arm. He glances down at the water rushing by the ship. He licks his lips. Smoking kills.

But maybe that wouldn’t be all that bad.

Chip’s numb to these kind of thoughts by now. It’s fine. He bets a cigarette would stop them.

And then Chip remembers: Drey has cigarettes.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and imagines how much better that breath would be with a cigarette between his lips.

“... Just one.”