If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-07-18 14:15:00 |
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Current music: | El Amor Que Calla (translated) - Gabriela Mistral |
Entry tags: | heroin, marijuana |
Who: Marijuana and Heroin.
Where: Empire State Building, open-air promenade.
When: Monday, July 20th, late evening.
Warnings: Language, drug use, Marijuana on one knee.
Dinner at Masque, was, of course, exquisite and Marijuana, dressed in clothes sent over by Mischa - although he had added a studded belt and the tie had come undone halfway through the first course - had looked at the various dishes with a rather dubious look before trying them all and loving each one. Still, even with the multitude of odd-looking, yet delicious food, Marijuana'd had a hard time being relaxed all through the meal. But he had chatted with his lover, exchanged numerous compliments, rambled on excitedly about Cannabis Withdrawal Syndrome and assured Heroin quite a few times that he was feeling much better after that awful drug bust and by the time he was paying the bill, Marijuana had almost forgotten the real purpose of the evening. Almost. Walking out, his fingers were holding to Heroin's tightly as their 'driver' for the night, a certain bulky red-head dressed in a suit with a slightly disgruntled look on his face, opened the back door of the limo Marijuana had rented for the night. Marijuana gestured for Heroin to get in first before sliding in next to him and resting his head against his lover's shoulder, smiling softly and nervously as his hand slipped down into his pocket to caress the velvet ring box briefly. Quickly, though, he remembered that there was wine in the small fridge and he was pulling away from Heroin briefly to pour them both a glass and Marijuana tried desperately not to drink his down in one big gulp in order to calm his nerves. No, he only sipped at it as he leaned up to press the button for the intercom.
"Empire State Building, please." Marijuana said in a voice that made it obvious that he was trying to hold back laughter at the fact that Wes was all dressed up and driving them around in a limo. The bodyguard, who was used to making sacrifices in order to be with Marijuana at all times and keep him safe, responded with a rather gruff, sarcastic, "Of course, sir," before the limo pulled out from the parking lot, Marijuana gripping at his wine glass tightly and smiling up at Heroin innocently, his free hand sliding to squeeze his lover's knee gently in an affectionate gesture that also served to calm his nerves slightly. The drive seemed far too long and far too short at the same time and by the time they were standing in line and waiting for the elevator to take them up, Marijuana was shifting anxiously with a nervous look that was only half about the fact that they were about to speed up eighty-six fucking floors. Once inside, thankfully alone with his lover, he leaned against Heroin, tucking his head in the crook between shoulder and neck. The elevator began to move and Marijuana slid a shaky hand into a pocket - the one that didn't contain a ring - and drew out a tinfoil-wrapped brownie, breaking off a small piece or two and chewing nervously, accelerating the effects of his own product within himself as they rose higher and higher away from the earth, the soil, and everything good. Well, not everything. Heroin's body against his own, the beat of his heart, just the scent that Marijuana couldn't describe but was intrinsically Heroin comforting him somewhat.
Finally, the elevator shuddered to a halt and Marijuana had to look up at Heroin pleadingly, needing some form of reassurance before he was coaxed out of the elevator and into the glass observatory. They were high and not in the good way. Too fucking high and Marijuana had to take a deep breath, the anxiety of proposing far from his mind as he gripped Heroin's hand and suggested in a shaky voice that they head out to the open-air promenade. At least there, he could feel the wind against his face and in his hair and know that the earth was down there, under this monstrosity of steel and concrete, this phallic building that seemed to pierce the sky itself. Marijuana didn't like it. But they were soon outside, looking over the city that Marijuana liked to think that he ruled. At the very least, he liked to think that he ruled the underground part of New York City. They walked, Marijuana closer to the building than to the rail and eventually, after he calmed down enough to get nervous about the proposal again, he stopped, making sure there weren't any mortals around, before reaching out to hold both of Heroin's hands and look into beautiful hazel eyes, the eyes that featured in his nightly dreams of his lover. "Heroin?" He asked softly, looking down at their joined hands briefly, gulping, and then looking back up at his lover. "Could we- could I talk to you about something, please?" The box in his pocket felt so heavy but looking at Heroin made it light again and Marijuana knew he could do this, wanted so badly to do this, he just had to make sure the words came out right.