❖ fumes.
A golden hue with undertones of crimson stretched a vertical line across the room. It crawled over the sleek floorboards and up the jade wall, giving a faint glow to the cheap Japanese painting hanging there. The curtains were slightly drawn, the way they had been upon paying for the room. Autumn afternoon had begun to approach. Blankets rustled and trailed a short distance to the floor. There was a low, contented murmur and he crawled down to recline in her lap. He stretched, winced in satisfaction, and slid an arm under her bare thighs. Looped under, his hand rested against the smooth skin and his head nestled against them like a pillow.
Serenity had only been accomplished by an hour or two of religious meditation, unless dead to the world by sleep. Otherwise they didn't have the opportunity to relax like this very often, with the sweet fumes of pipe tobacco lingering, so alluring. It was like how he would imagine yoga. Though yoga was a bunch of pansy bullshit, a practice for old people. His muscles still felt like sandbags, nonetheless; couldn't sit up and he didn't have the desire to. The vapor of smoke that streamed from his parted lips was languid and formless in comparison to the rings Baiken could make. He watched it delicately crash against the ceiling, billows uncurling and dissolving into the thin layer of fog that lingered in the room. Then his half-lidded eyes flicked to the face above him. This was a welcome change from little squabbles. Even Hidan could enjoy a calm silence, despite how much more he enjoyed his blood boiling and running out onto the ground.
He had never been an alcoholic, wary about earning Jashin's wrath if he started averting his attention from human sacrifices and a pious way of living. Being intoxicated by these moments, though, he wouldn't mind if it happened more often. His head turned against her lap, cheek pressed into taut muscles. Today had been another day of traveling. They found a traditional Japanese colony and she explained it to him while they passed some familiar architecture and statues. He understood she had grown up in one before that man killed her family. If it was Jashin's will; spreading the word where ever he went and slaughtering the heretics, then he didn't care where they went.
Except there wouldn't be any killing today, unless a threat happened by. He was disappointed and had brooded a bit, displaying his displeasure until he forgot about it and now here they were. But being a masochist, though perhaps he didn't realize it, he pushed his impulses to the limit; charming a few naive young people, dabbling with the idea of just slicing their throats open then and there. Baiken wouldn't have forgiven him for a while, then they would be fighting and sulking at each other for a week. He decided the sacrifices could wait.
The kiseru clicked between his teeth as his jaw slowly worked against the metal, tasting the sweet tobacco with each gradual rise and fall of his chest. His eyes drifted shut.