Summary:

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale— He smells it, then. Thick and acrid, staining the back of his tongue in the taste of second-hand smoke. His eyes open, watering as he hacks a deep-seated cough. He scans the rooftop, wondering what the fuck is on fire when he sees him—cast in shadows, face half illuminated from the glow of the city below them and a cigarette dangling from his plush mouth. Ilya Rozanov. OR: the Christmas Party fic