If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-06-12 18:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | heroin, marijuana |
Who: Marijuana and Heroin.
Where: Heroin's cabin, the Adirondacks.
When: Start spans Thursday to Saturday, thread takes place Sunday evening.
Warnings: Language, drug use, sexuality. A ring (Not that one... yet).
The drive to the cabin on Thursday evening was rather quiet. Heroin put in Chopin and managed not to get lost as Marijuana lounged in the back seat, nibbling on Heroin's cookies, toking joint after joint and thinking about what Peyote had done. He didn't want to talk, he just stared out the window; contemplating the long years of hard work he'd put into the power of the family, contemplating how hard it had been to take Rehab down and deliver her to Heroin wrapped up in a box for his older brother to inject and turn into an addict and power source. Peyote had thrown it all back into his face in one fell swoop, along with the forty years of hard work he'd put into making his family strong. Marijuana would never admit it, but tears fell slowly as they drove and by the time they got to the cabin, his eyes were red from more than just the constant toking. But he remained quiet, merely holding tight to Heroin's hand as his lover laid out a blanket for them in the dirt. Sleep was needed.
Friday, they talked about it briefly but Marijuana didn't want to go into detail and it didn't seem like Heroin wanted to push very hard; or, at least, knew that Marijuana didn't want to be pushed. Instead, they spent a good portion of the day planting marijuana plants and an abundant sea of poppies all around the cabin, Marijuana smiling as he babbled on about various gardening techniques, about acidity and watering frequency, making sure Heroin wasn't looking when he pricked his finger and gave the Organic the blood sacrifice necessary for his lifegiver to be agreeable. The plants soon bloomed magnificently, faster than they would have normally but Marijuana wasn't fully comforted and when Heroin held him that night, his big brother's shirt ended up dampened with silent tears.
Saturday was spent on the blanket surrounded by Heroin's books, Marijuana listened to his brother read with a ghost of a smile on his face, letting Heroin's soothing tones wash over him, clean away the hurt and the betrayal. When it was his turn to read to his lover from the various books, he chose a small book of German love poetry and read slowly in halting, rusty German, asking his brother every now and then for pronounciation help. By the time he was close to the end of the book, the harsh yet beautiful sounds were coming easier even if he was still speaking rather slowly. Then, his head tilted and lolling against Heroin's shoulder, he murmured in Spanish, words of various poems of love called up through a hazy memory to wrap around the two of them as Marijuana found comfort in his home language.
They slept and on Sunday, Marijuana was feeling almost like his old self again and when he suggested swimming, Heroin's smile was enough to excite him and he took off running, racing his brother down to the lake. Several splash fights, globs of mud in Heroin's hair and repeated dunkings later, they left the lake, making their way back to the cabin, and as the sun began to set, Marijuana dried himself off with a towel, slipped a pair of boxers on and collapsed back on their blanket, staring up at the shifting colours that made up the slowly darkening sky.
He reached for Heroin's hand with a light, sweet smile, wanting his brother beside him as they watched the day fade into night.