Steve, having successfully quit smoking several years ago when he was dating Nancy, agrees to help Eddie quit, too. He assumes Eddie's super into some girl and trying to impress her. He tries not to let his hurt feelings over his unrequited crush show too much, and is just happy Eddie is doing something good for his health.
Eddie is in fact trying to quit smoking because the guy he's actually super into successfully quit smoking several years ago and he's trying to impress him
Stiles smokes cigarettes. It’s a nasty habit. His mom used to tell him if she ever caught him smoking she’d whoop him into next week. Of course she said all that on the back porch with an ashtray beside her, a Virginia slim in hand.
Now the scent of the burning tobacco reminds him of his mom. And the nicotine soothes his jitters and helps him focus. And it stops the gnawing of his insides. He hides it from his dad, of course. He hid it from Scott too, until he got bitten and became a werewolf. There was no hiding that kind of smell.
Scott asked, of course. Stiles answered truthfully, and while Scott didn’t like it—citing studies his mom showed him and reminding stiles that he was still woefully mortal—but he accepted that he would not be the one to get Stiles to quit.
Stiles thought Derek would be, though. Until Stiles finds him smoking a cigarette right outside his bedroom window after the pool incident.
I thought smoking was bad for you. he quipped.
Yeah, bad for you. Not me. Derek replied. He still held it out to Stiles who clambered on the roof next to the other. He inhaled, then coughed, it was a menthol. Gross. He took another drag before passing it back.
They say in silence for a while. Stiles thought about telling Derek that sacred memory of his mom. Thought about asking him about the pool and the kanima and Scott’s status in the pack and whatnot. But he refrained (barely). Derek was allowing him to get close. Closer than usual. Allowed him to see a vulnerability that not many were privy to.
When the cig was smoked down to the bitter filter, Derek sighed.
Thanks. He said gruffly, shrinking into his leather jacket. Stiles just stared. He thought about Derek’s lips wrapped around the cigarette. Thought about the slight dampness from their mouths. It was an indirect kiss. His gaze flicked around Derek’s face and he nodded dumbly. He couldn’t find the words to ask the other to stay.
syn: you've always loved the piano, but the piano never loved you. perhaps, you should hate it too, just as it hates you, and just as you hate the smell of cigarettes.
wc: 1701
warnings: yandere content, 6.6 aq spoilers (only pantalone's real name and eye colour reveals), implied-ish depression, cigarettes, the yan is kinda subtle tbh, ooc pantalone, gn reader (pls lmk if theres any gendered terms used!)
notes: yes this was inspired by dottore playing the piano / written in ~3 hours so forgive me if some things arent as cohesive / title and the piece played later is taken from tchaikovsky's october, autumn song
m.list
You remember it just like yesterday, the first time you met the Regrator.
A cool autumn day, an empty theatre, a beautiful piano, and the acrid smell of cigarettes.
Since you were a child, it was always your dream to pursue a professional career in music as a pianist. The keys seemed to call your name, your fingers twitching uncomfortably as if they yearned for the smooth surface of the keys. But fate, as it often does, did not agree with you.
Despite how much you practiced, how much you competed, how much you tried, the world spat in your face over and over again. You were forced to watch, eyes wide and mind all too conscious as your peers and even those who gas started far later than you did breezed past you and achieved the dream you so desperately wanted for yourself.
Years piled upon years, and you were still at the same place you started. Staring at the grand and majestic piano in the center of an empty theatre, the silence a cruel reminder of a dream unrealised.
Then, in the midst of your wallowing, a voice breaks the silence like the shattering of glass.
"Your performance last night was magnificent." The man smiled, a black coat sat on his shoulders. His glasses reflected the dim light of the theatre, so polished that you could even see a glimmer of the piano's glossy wood.
Last night… he was there, then, to see you lose once more. To watch as another person takes a leap closer to your dream, while you can only watch from behind, chained to your place.
"It was hardly anything worth praising, but thank you for your compliment." A bitter smile sits on your lips, having long grown used to these fruitless endeavours. Ah… perhaps you should let this childish hope go and become an adult.
"I would disagree. The way your fingers glided across the keys was a delight for the eyes, and your technique was just the perfect balance of technical yet soulful." The man walks closer to the stage, and with him brings the scent of cigarettes. Subconsciously, your nose scrunches at the bitter scent.
His words bring about a sense of emptiness, words you can't even believe yourself. His sincerity wasn't of any interest to you, a life of performance and polite speech having made you numb to both negative and positive criticism. In the end, this was all you would amount to in your music career.
"Is that so? Then you have a good eye, sir." Your hand glides across the glossy keys of the piano once more, before pulling the lid close. At the place of your final loss, you would say goodbye to the instrument and its world forever. "It's a shame then, that my first admirer will also be my last."
"Oh? Do you plan on abandoning this path?"
"Perhaps a better word would be finding a path that I can walk." You walk down the steps slowly, each tap of your shoe against the wooden floor echoing throughout. From the corner of your eyes, you can see that he follows each of your movements despite his eyes being closed.
He hums in reply, a thoughtful look crossing his face for a moment before it settles back into a neutral expression.
"Sorry, I didn't manage to get your name." You say, standing by the stairs. You open your mouth to give him yours, but he quickly cuts you off by saying he remembers it from the night before.
"Feofan. You may call me Feofan."
Testing the name on your lips, you cherish it for a second as you prepare to leave it with the tattered dreams of the child you once were. When you part with it a moment later, there's a weight that grows in your chest.
"Thank you for enjoying my performance, Feofan. If one person enjoyed it, then this silly passion of mine wasn't for naught." Even at the end of this road, stepping out of your chains and changing your direction, you still can't seem to smile, not a genuine one.
When you turned your back, he called out to you again, a softness to his voice that sent inexplicable chills down your spine.
"What would you say, if you became my pianist?"
The memory is still fresh, a wound that refuses to close. In hindsight, perhaps that was the true end of your road, caged within the walls of this labyrinthine mansion.
It is a beautiful cage, the mansion reminds you every waking moment of that. It is a proper reflection of its owner, and it hides its captive without struggle. Truthfully however, with every day that passes, you've found less interest in even leaving the room, let alone escaping this maze.
Feofan, or the Regrator, as you've heard some servants refer to him, lives lavishly. He spends countless mora on your wellbeing and your beloved piano, dedicated doctors, servants, and technicians at your beck and call. Even he himself keeps a rather close eye on your health, an obsessive one you would even say. Whenever he arrives back from another one of his business trips, the first thing he checks is your wellbeing.
The second thing he checks is your skill.
A theatre, similar to the one you had sealed your fate in, was built just for you. At least, that's what he tells you. Whether his words are truthful or just sweet talk, you can't be bothered to care. There's nothing you can do with them, after all.
The grand piano, a replica of the one in the theatre, sits quietly on the stage. It reminds you of that day.
It's hard to say if you resent it. It is the reason your life ended up so miserable, yet at the same time, it is the very thing that keeps you alive. The only audience you play for is Feofan, and he is nothing short of the perfect audience, always ready with praise for your piece.
To be honest, these days, the numbness that started in your heart has spread through your body and infected your mind. Your emotions steadily become more and more muted, life a poor imitation of functions you can only describe as mechanical. There's days you don't remember awaking at all.
But if there's anything that sets your emotions ablaze, it's the smell of cigarettes.
You don't know how to explain it, a pounding of your heart and an anxious sweat that drenches your whole body. Your mind is sent into a frenzy stuck between rage and grief, and despite all these years, their symptoms only seem to worsen. But you've learned to keep it together, to force the chaos to exist only within the boundaries of your mind.
Feofan knows this, and it is this exact reason that you truly despise him. But a performer cannot hate their greatest and only admirer.
There's a routine to his return, you see. First, the servants knock on the door. Then, they usher you into a warm bath, washing and scrubbing every part of you until the invisible dust has been erased from your skin. Then, they fit you into stiff and formal clothing, clasping countless diamonds and other similar jewellery around your neck and arms. Lastly, they ease you into new and uncomfortable shoes, and accompany you to the theatre. There, you sit at the piano and wait until Feofan takes a seat in the front row, and only then do you begin your performance.
Today is no different, except that you've managed to gather what little motivation you've had over the span of his trip and written a new piece. Judging by the trees outside of the window, you can guess that it's around the anniversary of your first meeting. In honour of this, you will perform it for him. It will be a pleasant surprise, you're sure.
As you await his arrival, you press each of the keys with a practiced touch. They are well-oiled, surfaces smooth, sound loud and clear. The pedals can all be pressed with little resistance outside of what is expected. Even if there is nothing left in this world, you can still love the piano.
You smell him before you see him. The doors open with an echo, your back straightening in instinct. Your audience has arrived, and now your own performance is about to begin.
"Welcome back, Feofan." You greet him with a practiced smile, face turned to him as you wait for him to take his usual seat. "Have you been well?"
"As well as I could be without you, my darling." His tongue knows no rest, sweet words always at the ready. Still, you entertain him with a practiced giggle. "What will you play for me, on this blessed day of our union?"
"I wrote a piece just for you, in celebration of this day. I hope you like it." Like a dance, the two of you sway to the rhythm of the beat, smooth and coordinated in your responses.
"Is that so?" His purple eyes watch you with interest, a glint in them behind his silver glasses.
"Of course. I have elected to name it Autumn Song, as a reminder of the season our destined encounter fell upon."
As you play, the melancholic sound puts your mind at ease for the first time in what feels like forever. Here and now, there is only you and the piano and the sound of music that you've lived and loved your whole life. Maybe, your passion could find its flickering embers and reignite.
The bitter and overwhelming scent of a cigarette brings this wishful thinking to a halt, staining the beautiful piano with its acrid smell. Here and now, all that you love has been tainted by sorrow and a wordless reminder of that you are no longer yourself.
In the end, you hate the very thing that made you, you.
When a tear hits the key just as you press the final note, a clap resounds through the hall.
"What a magnificent performance."
And you're back to where you wished everything had ended, all those years ago.
