Jet Skis On The Moat

Rolling a cigarette took skill of the hand. Blank wasn't sure why he did so. Well, he had ideas. It was Curtain that mainly put him on cigarettes in the first place. Said "Gosh! You know I'm an acholic, we should find a vice for you too!". Curtain loved to be blunt, speaking his mind, always a performance and trying to hit story beats.

Blank couldn't care less, but decided to do so anyways, if not to see Curtain smile. Reality hopping considered, he knew a smoke or two once in a blue moon wouldn't do that much damage. To make sure that happened, he made sure to only roll his own cigarettes. Chain smoking was easy to fall into, from what he had heard. And the texture and time it took to properly roll filled up the empty moments.

A lick, longer and lower that it needed to be. A filter, popped in and tobacco cleaned out. Blank, lighting up and letting the golden hour wash over him.

It was about a half hour before sunset. Still sunny, but it the sun began to droop over towards the horizon, threatening to let Mr. Moon take center stage. Blank reclined on the dock of the lake house. A battered thing it was. Gentle ripples from the water as Curtain, practically naked, float on the surface, arms and legs spread. Curtain prior, begged him to come in with him. Blank didn't care for cold water, especially hours after midday.

So, he made the cigarette out of a sense of playful rebellion.

"You're no fun, y'know!" Curtain bickered, sticking out his tongue and blowing raspberries, flipping the grey artic fox off. 

Blank took a long drag off of his cig, letting it slowly trickle out from his mouth. And with a shrug of the shoulders and wave of the hands, he'd exude the heavy aura of not-giving-a-fuckness he carried with him, always. 

But, he'd relent. A crack of a far too rare grin, pressing and spreading his paws in a V-shape across his maw, Blank puffed some smoke hearts down Curtains way. They flew elegantly across the small breeze, dutifully carried to their recipient. 

Curtain would cup them close, and inhale the second hand smoke, the mixture of Blank's breath and choice tobacco he used. All completely of the fox he loved. And the smile he wore far too often would soften, and become more genuine. 

One gray fox and one buttercream fox, each in their moments.

Seperate and Together.

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Writing Practice. God I need to work on my main story. Might expand on this scene later for maybe the short stories stuff. We'll see, we'll see..