Elsa never did like cigarette.
At first, she hate the foul smell and how the smoke get into her eyes.
She hate the bitter taste it left on her tongue and the sore throat after the one time she took a puff.
She doesn’t understand how it’s supposed to be calming and how some people can be addicted to it.
She prefer her tea anytime of the day – at least her so-called addiction doesn’t threaten to make her lungs collapse or killing her slowly.
Later on, she hate cigarette with even more fervor because the scent reminded her of a certain cocky bastard, and every puff of cigarette sent her mind to hyper alert as she searched for him.
Soon, she cultivated the reflex to fire a warning shot at anyone who was stupid enough to smoke in the same room with her.
Because she had learned to associate even the barest trace of cigarette with what she lost.
Eventually, the longing won. And she started to smoke.
She grew to like the bitterness because it’s a faint replica of what his kiss used to tasted.
She found comfort on the unmistakeable smell because it feels a lot like having him around.
And the simple act of smoking give her mind something to focus on, something that is not her constant ache for him.
So now, on her last moment, she supposed it made sense that she go out with a Silk Cut on her mouth.
She’s finally going after him, after all.
It’s only normal that he knows how much he had been missed, before she kicked his ass for leaving her behind by sacrificing himself for her.
It wasn’t romantic at all, it was pure stupidity.
But then again, she never did love him because he was smart.
À la mort,
Prompt: Halsey’s Trouble.
“Go on and light a cigarette, set a fire in my head tonight.”