Hazel (addictedness) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-08-03 21:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | heroin, marijuana |
WHO Heroin and Marijuana
WHEN Sunday, August 2
WHERE The Highway
WARNINGS Sexual content seems likely, probably some drug use. TBA.
WHAT Heroin surprises Marijuana with a photoshoot.
Sunflowers, homage and devotion, associated with adoration and longevity; Heroin brushed his fingertips over the white petals and smiled. He remembered flowers in windows and blooms braided into hair and tucked into labels, all those declarations, public and secret. It’d been decades since lovers had found other ways of whispering secrets but Heroin still loved the old, flower language best. He still used them—though, the way other people used them—in pieces of meaning, single words instead of the letters he’d once written in petal and leaf. But he remembered those too, as he rubbed a sunflower leaf between his fingers. Came to symbolize constancy and loyalty by the way flowers follow the sun across the sky, he set the plant down on Marijuana’s night table and took a step back. Head tilted, he tried to see as a photographer would: the small, white flowers of the lilac bonsai brushing against the white petals of the sunflower; faded light through the window, hitting flowers and bed sheets; Heroin’s night table on the other side, lamp and book of German love poems, the box that Marijuana had given him and a framed photo of Mari with Stoney on his chest. Everything was as perfect as it would be—and that was absolute perfect.
Heroin trailed his fingers over the rim of the flowerpot, Marijuana. That was all he thought of now, when he looked at the sunflowers. They were Somewhere along the line, Mari had become the sun—the light and the flower, the essence that made plants grow and that everything followed… the light that the moon reflected. Heroin blushed and stepped back, quickly brushing the dirt from his palms onto faded and worn jeans. The photo shoot—the prospect of posing for Mari, at least—was enough to send him back to waxing poetic. He sighed, smiled ruefully and dragged his fingers through his hair one more time. It was already a disheveled mess; just the way Mari always said he liked it. The white shirt got straightened, although the sharp tug just made it slip off one shoulder. Heroin fixed that, trying to keep the oversize button-down from falling completely off him. Then the left sleeve started to fall and he had to roll it up, back above the elbow and the right side slipped down his shoulder again, leaving it and the right side of Heroin’s collarbone exposed.
Warmth crept along, a sudden fire flaring underneath the exposed skin: Marijuana coming home. Heroin drew in a quick breath and settled on the bed quickly. His head almost touched the pillow before he sat up, tugged the right shoulder further down—and then pulled it up, sent the left side falling off his shoulder in response. His knees splayed as he leaned back on his hands—and then he crossed his legs and sat up straight. The sound of Mari’s footsteps on the stairs and Heroin grabbed the camera he’d bought Mari for their anniversary. Holding it tightly, Heroin exhaled again and slouched forward. The shirt exposed the left side of his chest, had a clear view down to his stomach and his hair fell against his cheek.