If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-07-04 14:58:00 |
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Current music: | wild child - the doors |
Who: Marijuana and Peyote.
What: 'Father'/'son' reconciliation.
Where: Central Park.
When: July fifth, evening.
Warnings: Drug use, language.
By the evening of the fourth, the hangover had abated somewhat. The fireworks didn't help but Cam did his best and they had managed to set off enough of them in a short amount of time to have a good show that was finished quick enough that the cops couldn't pinpoint exactly which roof top the flares of colour had originated from. Besides, everyone was setting off fireworks and Marijuana had watched from the back of the roof, arm around Heroin's waist, head against his shoulder as he tried to forget the pain of the previous day. After a long sleep and a day of balancing Heroin and the needs of his mortals, Marijuana eventually remembered that he had set up a 'meeting' with Peyote. It wasn't necessarily a meeting, although that's what he was calling it, it was more of... well, Marijuana forcing himself not to be a douche and actually make amends now that he was back in the city. Too much had happened since their fight, too many different issues to worry about, different outside forces causing him and Heroin pain that the Rehab debacle was fuzzy in his mind. Peyote had taken her, hurt the family's power levels, invalidated Marijuana's decades of service to the family, yes, but... well, what did that matter now? The family had recovered, the balance - even if Marijuana hated the balance, he had to agree that it was important - had been restored, Marijuana had moved on and was now worried about a myriad of other things...
And damnit, he missed his 'father'.
But he had been hurtful toward Peyote and as he set out from the shop on his skateboard, weaving through pedestrians and traffic rather easily, he berated himself inwardly for being rude, hurtful, a spoiled little brat who was whining over the fact that his daddy had taken away one of his favourite toys. Because, while Marijuana had been hurt by the implication that all the work he had done for his family had only caused Peyote to think ill of him for furthering addiction, it all really boiled down to the fact that Marijuana was childish at his core and Rehab had been a darling little pet to play with and abuse, just like his mortals. Reaching the park, he shoved all those thoughts from his mind as he meandered down the pathways and eventually, he stopped in a tiny clearing just off the path, evidence of the stoners that used it frequently as a hang-out littering the ground around him; roaches, cigarette butts and candy wrappers and Marijuana sank down to sit on a log. Lighting a joint with his fingertip, he looked down at his hands, first twisting the diamond ring on his left ring finger anxiously before looking pensively down at the eagle ring that graced his right middle finger, spinning it around the flesh briefly, worriedly, as he toked and kept his mind and senses peeled for Peyote's presence.