lighters :: remi x rixton

He sits alone on his porch steps, blowing smoke at the snow that coats the district. His boots muddy and torn, his jacket ripped and stitched along the edges, he runs a tattoo'd and bone-thin finger through the hair on his head, letting it fall into his face once again.

The mornings after snowstorms were always tough. Snuffed out fires and purple skin, he spent last night wrapped under paper thin blankets, every rbeath he took labored against the frigid air, clouding up in front of him and obscuring his vision, fogging up the scratched up glass of his window. Lips frozen solid, body shivering and numb, he'd reached out one bony finger to the fogged up glass and drawn a smiley face against it.

Happiness in the worst of times. It's the little things, he guesses.

He rises a new man, a cold man in the morning, the sunlight pouring in through his window and framing him in a new light. For a moment, he considers it a sign.

The smiley face is gone when he looks, and he discards the idea. I need a smoke.

And so he sits, his fingers clenched against the cigarette in between them. It glows bright against the white landscape, and every breath of smoke he takes against the morning frost twists and distorts itself, rising up into the sky never to be seen again. He stretches his legs and shakes his head, thoughts of his father's morning rituals flashing through his mind. 

Like father like son. Dirty bastards run in the family. 

The laugh catches in his throat when he sees the old man, hobbling along in the morning snow, his figure trembling and chilled. The cigarette leaves his lips and he exhales an insult, cupping his free hand around his mouth to amplify his words. 

"Not the wisest of decisions to take a walk the morning after a storm, grandpa. Might fall and break something, or worse."