If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-10-24 17:48:00 |
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Current music: | heroin - velvet underground / up in smoke - cheech and chong |
Who: Marijuana, Heroin, invited guests and assorted dates.
What: A Drug God wedding.
Where: Bedrock Gardens, New Hampshire.
When: 4:20 PM, October 24th.
Warnings: Language, drug and alcohol use, possible minor sexuality.
The air was crisp, cold enough to require a lightweight jacket but not so cold that breath was visible on the air just yet. Bedrock Gardens was a sea of gold, orange and red leaves, colourful flowers and bright green grass and the square wooden arch, lined with poppies, red and yellow tulips and marijuana plants, was set just off center to low, rough flight of stone steps that could just be discerned among the vegetation. The wood chairs were set up on the expanse of grass below the steps and there was one aisle cutting down the middle and two cutting down in front of the first row of seats. Fifty feet away from the ends of each of those horizontal aisles, large gray tents had been set up for the two grooms, Marijuana fretting over his tie as Dave watched in one of them and Heroin likely doing the same in his own with Morphine looking on. Eventually, though, Marijuana gave up and held a joint between his lips, staring over Dave's shoulder as the pale mortal lovingly knotted his boss' tie properly before smoothing down his boss' dress shirt and murmuring words of encouragement to the somewhat panicked god.
The mirror remained covered with the deep green throw, even as Heroin undid and redid his tie, the buttons of his shirt, played with and without the white hat he still hadn’t decided on. If anyone in the wedding party found it odd—to have a covered mirror in the dressing tent—and, certainly, a few of them did, Heroin wasn’t paying attention. There weren’t going to be reminds, weren’t going to be bittersweet moments, weren’t going to be shadows or darkness, not today. And for that, it was worth Morphine’s amusement as he showed her subtle variations on look after look, without ever changing from the white suit he’d bought. It’d been impulsive, Heroin wasn’t sure if he regretted that as his Sister-Self adjusted the fedora’s angle, stepped back and watched him toss it in the direction of a chair. And if Morphine were growing impatient with her brother, well, Heroin couldn’t have blamed her and couldn’t tell—wouldn’t notice anything short of canon fire as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and studied the effect: hidden by the jacket, sleeves rolled down again and the jacket unbuttoned. Better. Or not? Perhaps buttoned was more formal, more fitting for the occasion, and yet…
It was a very long day.
At exactly 4:20, soft music began to play and Marijuana looked up from rolling another joint, his face a jumble of terror, confusion and happiness as, not visible to him, the three flower girls - Salvia, Hippie, and Bryn - began to move down the middle aisle, each dressed in their own fashions, and each sprinkling poppy petals and marijuana buds on the ground. They were followed by the ringbearer - Tommy dressed in white dress shirt and brown dress pants - and then the pairings of the wedding party followed; Blues and Classic Rock, Maria and Matt, Kris and Wes and Laudanum and Cam.
Finally, as the last pairing reached the bottom of the set of stairs and separated out to the sidelines of the corresponding horizontal aisle, the music picked up and it was time for Heroin and Marijuana to exit their tents and walk down in front of their guests to join at the middle and walk up the stairs together. Marijuana, however, stopped at the opening of his tent, looking out over the crowd and just barely able to see Heroin exiting his own tent with Morphine. Dave, dressed in a suit that didn't hide the fact that he was horribly skinny, only tugged at his boss' sleeve, breaking Marijuana out of his reverie - he was about to get married - and, swallowing hard, he began the walk down the aisle. When he neared the center, when Heroin came into focus, all the fear and anxiety was washed away in a haze of loving bliss.
Heroin stood for a moment at the top of his aisle, looked across at Mari and Dave and couldn’t remember how to coordinate limbs that all seemed much too long, too heavy, too constraining. Then Morphine touched him, nothing more than a whisper of her fingers and Heroin remembered everything and it was all perfectly, sublimely, beautifully far away. He offered her a beatific smile as their hands linked, fingers twined around each other and he thought it felt like a promise of forever—they would never be separated—but they needed no such promises, never had; there was only the feel of her delicate bones like steel in his hot-cold-light grasp as they walked. Without practice or intention, their steps fell perfectly together, only she would know the way he squeezed her hand a little tighter, that his breath was not quite on rhythm with hers, that his steps were one one-thousandth of a decibel too loud. But Morphine kept her own secrets; she had room for his.
As long as the aisle had seemed from the door of the tent, it was almost too short. Heroin wasn’t ready for it to be over as soon as it was and he squeezed Morphine’s hand a little tighter. And there was Marijuana, beautiful, more beautiful than any god had a right to be, nearly broke Heroin’s heart just by his presence. The world around them felt too startling real, leaves crunched on the soft grass and the guests; for all that they were immortal, still rustled and fidgeted to Heroin’s sense. But there was nothing that could tears his eyes from his lover as he waited to take Mari’s hand, take the final steps to where their ‘parents’ waited. Still, Heroin rubbed his thumb across his twin’s knuckles; even though he couldn’t look away, couldn’t look anywhere but at Marijuana, it wasn’t as important to look at Morphine. They were twins; they knew, and in the brush of their fingers as they both let go there was ‘not-goodbye’ and ‘always’ and ‘later.’
Marijuana stepped forward, intending to take Heroin's hand and walk up the steps as had been discussed but at the last second, Dave reached out to clamp a hand around his forearm. Marijuana turned his head and frowned lightly, inwardly preparing to kick the shit out of Dave if he ruined this, but Dave simply stared at him for a long moment, his face impassive. Green eyes focused on Dave's and in those few seconds, the only two who knew what emotions were passed back and forth between the mental connection they shared were Marijuana and Dave and they weren't about to share with anyone. After a few short seconds that felt like an eternity to Marijuana, the corners of Dave's lips quirked up and he nodded deeply in acceptance and respect, his hand falling away from Marijuana's forearm. Marijuana just reached out to brush light fingertips over the mortal's cheek and nodded in return before turning away from Dave and stepping forward to meet Heroin with an anxious smile and few muttered words of apology for the short moment of delay.
By the time Marijuana looked at Heroin, took his hand and apologized, his eyes were back to a bright silver instead of the bone-snow-sand-bleached white they’d been in the instant that Dave had reached out. It wasn’t, precisely, a surprise. Heroin knew his users, knew Dave and knew Marijuana. The back of Morphine’s hand brushing against Heroin’s had reminded him of that, the bump of their shoulders restoring the memory of understanding, of empathy that addicts had created in their god, the flash of red hair and pale skin in the corner of his eye the final layer, the remembrance of appropriate propriety, of Victorian ideals and self-restraint. So, within the moment that Marijuana turned, anything and everything in Heroin was as it should be, as it always was. After all, Morphine had her secrets and she had his, always.
Fingers laced tight with Heroin's, heart thumping so hard in his chest that he was sure everyone could hear it, lungs screaming out for him to light a joint and breathe peace in deep down into his body, Marijuana kept his eyes on Heroin as they made their way up the short flight of steps, Morphine and Dave falling in behind them and Tommy following, clutching two ring boxes in his hand and glancing over his shoulder to try to pick his father's - mother's, at the moment - face out of the crowd. Giving a shaky smile to Opium and Peyote, the two who were going to perform the ceremony, Marijuana's fingers tightened around Heroin's even more as Heroin's mother and Marijuana's father figure began to speak. The ceremony was a haze to Marijuana; he said what he was supposed to when he was supposed to, feeling his power start to unfurl and fill the air around him, just brushing up the edges of Heroin's, which was building slowly around the Opiate, and when Peyote asked if anyone could think of a reason why the union shouldn't go forward, Marijuana held his breath in the moment of silence that followed. No one spoke up and when Peyote continued, Marijuana felt the slightest bit of tension bleed away from him. When it came time for their vows, one of the last steps of the process, Marijuana looked startled for a moment before searching the pockets of his dress pants. "Inside right pocket of your jacket." Dave murmured quietly from over Marijuana's shoulder, the god looking sheepish and dragging out a rather crumpled piece of paper from the aforementioned pocket, his eyes glowing a dark green traced with orange as he felt his - and Heroin's - power intensify around them.
"Sorry, I-" Marijuana remembered that most of the important new gods and several important ancients were watching and straightened up, trying to balance the need to gush with the need to retain his dignity. But with the sight of Heroin smiling at him encouragingly, Marijuana threw dignity out the window and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind Heroin's ear as he began to speak; only glancing down at his piece of paper when he really needed to. "Heroin, it took me so long to write this because I worried it would all sound silly and unworthy of you. That poem I quoted to you six months ago, 'El Amor Que Calla'; its right. There are no words in all the languages of men that could promise you everything you deserve but you know I'm damned stubborn and I'm going to try my best." He took a moment to gather his thoughts, look down at his paper, then look back up at Heroin, his eyes shining brilliantly with love and affection. "Amante, I promise to devote the rest of my existence to making you feel happy, warm, and safe. I promise to do all the little things to make your days go smoother; like make you coffee in the morning and bring lunch to the studio when you're hard at work. I promise to always do my best to be an open book to you; I know I'm used to keeping everything inside but I swear to keep working on opening myself up more to you so we can work through whatever issues we face. When we fight, and we will, I promise to at least try to not walk away angry. You know how I can get, sometimes I need the time alone, but I promise to spend it calming down enough to come back to your side."
Marijuana shifted slightly as the breeze picked up for a moment, sent Heroin's hair into his face again and Marijuana practically beamed as he reached up to push it back gently. "I promise to only ever want you in my arms, in my bed, in my heart. And while I can't promise to forget my past and everything and everyone in it, I can promise to build a future with you, a future filled with love, bliss and perfection." Marijuana's words began to become rushed and a few words into his next sentence, he switched to Spanish without even realizing it. "Heroin, I promise to always to love you, always to cherish you, always be honoured that you're my lover, always hold you and protect you when the outside world threatens to break in and cause us pain. To always make sure you know how beautiful you are and to always try to be beautiful for you." He frowned slightly, looking down at his piece of paper. That was all he had written down. It had taken him weeks to write it but barely any time to say it and in the moment that followed, he felt awkward and sure that it wasn't enough to let Heroin know how he really felt and he just shoved the paper back into his pocket and decided to wing the rest of it, switching back to English.
"Heroin, I never expected to ever get married. But I never expected to fall so deeply in love, either, not with someone who shows me so much care and affection and love in return. I don't know what I did over an existence of dealing and violence to deserve you, but I'm going to spend the rest of that existence proving to you that I am so hugely grateful that you even exist." He closed his mouth, opened it up as if he had something more to say but then just closed it again. That was enough, hopefully, and he merely gazed at Heroin lovingly, anxious to hear Heroin's own vows.
A smile’s ghost haunted the corners of Heroin’s mouth as he watched Marijuana search for the vows; Heroin had discarded all the papers and notes and first-second-third-thirteenththirtieth drafts that he’d written simply to have something. A prickle along the base of his spine wondered if that had been a good idea. His hair fell around his face again—why hadn’t he worn the hat?—but Mari’s fingers, the familiar-ness of the gesture chases away the doubts and the crowd and everything was Marijuana, the warmth left by his hand and the green in his eyes and the sound of his voice, as much as the words he spoke. And then, of course, there were the words.
Heroin’s heart stuttered, stopped in a few places as Marijuana promised his love—forever—and… existence. Beyond Morphine, noone was grateful for Heroin’s existence, and for the first time in that long century of life, he forgot his Sister-Self; everything was Marijuana. The smile as he waited for Heroin to begin and, again, it was Morphine that restarted him when the silence grew longer, her twin to caught up in staring at his fiancé-lover-almost husband to remember that he had vows to recite. Heroin swallowed the nerves, ignored the way his heart beat, faster and faster, and focused only on the steadiness at his back and the man he loved in front of him. No equilibrium, but that didn’t matter as Heroin wet his lips, “Gel—Marihuana,” he exhaled and the words sounded like a sigh or a promise or a wish. “I’ve never been good at finding my own words,” a playful smile, “for all my supposed eloquence, it’s been others’ words who I’ve borrowed, the poems I’ve quoted that say so much of what I want. But not today. I’d say you deserve the best, and you do, but also the best that I can give, not someone else’s words borrowed for the occasion, but what’s mine, all of me, and whether or not that’s good enough… it’s what I have to give and it will always be yours.” Deep breath, slow, slow, Heroin’s heart slowed until it barely beat and his respiration quieting and his voice, always so good at betraying him, his voice that carried all of him, turned slightly rasping, slightly breathless; “Geliebte, I swear my heart, my loyalty, myself, to you for all of my existence. I swear to be there in all the moments, good and bad, that the future holds, and I—” breath, breathe, smoke and grass and earth and poppies, the rest of the planned words faded in the wake of remembrance, “I swear that I will treasure the peace and embrace the violence,” Heroin’s eyes silvered and paled, not borrowed words, but the memory of the first vows he’d ever offered Marijuana, “I will dance with the smoke in the spectre-light of my fading moon and drink up the tar with needle-points of dark and shadowed light. I will lay down with the laziness, savor its heartbeat and chase after ambition. I will hold the apathy and rejoice in empathy. I will take from the giver and give to the leech, because everything of mine is yours for the asking, yours for the having because I am yours. I will answer your solitude with my disconnect and your need for company with my clinging arms. I will treasure every layer; I will love the mix and devote my future—our future—to understanding and unraveling every side of you to love you better.”
The original, written vows memorized in the early morning couldn’t compare, couldn’t follow those first vows so Heroin swallowed and, unknowingly, followed in Marijuana’s footsteps. He winged the next part. “My Cannabis Sativa-Indica-Ruderalis, my bliss, Meine Seligkeit,” his heart started a quicker, steadier rhythm, “every day with you is a perfect day. Every morning that I wake up in your arms, I wonder how it is that I got so lucky, that I was so fortunate, and I swear that that will never change. You walk into the room and everything that was difficult or dark just fades away; you’re my solace and my joy. And I promise that I will devote every moment of my existence to being that for you, to being there, to loving you with everything that I am.” Heroin fell silent, torn between the need to end the vows with a kiss and the tradition, the need to wait for Opium and Peyote’s blessing at the end of the ceremony.
Soon after the vows, they were exchanging rings and "I do"s but even that was a blur to Marijuana before Opium pronounced them husbands and told them warmly they it was time for them to kiss to seal the union. The power that had been building throughout the ceremony reared up around them, swirling and mixing, causing Marijuana's skin to darken and his eyes to deepen. Laughing, Marijuana barely noticed as he threw his arms around Heroin's neck, all of the anxiety gone and only happiness remaining, and they kissed deeply, passionately, for several long moments, Marijuana's hands buried deep in Heroin's hair and Heroin's hands clutching at the front of Marijuana's shirt. The combined power only settled as the kiss began to slow, settling back down against their skin and inside the core of their beings, but - and Marijuana hadn't realized it yet - the edges, the outermost part of their powers hadn't parted. Instead, they wound around each other and formed a union, a connection, something new and beautiful and powerful.
Eventually, Peyote had to clear his throat and the two married Drugs flushed and slowly withdrew from each other, although they didn't give up contact completely. Beaming at each other, the walk back down the steps was a haze and the congratulatory hugs and pats on the back from their wedding party barely seemed to register before they were walking down the center aisle to the simple tent at the end that was there to give them time to catch their breath before the reception. Tugging Heroin inside, Marijuana actually giggled as he pulled Heroin in close, kissing him deeply.
"I love you, husband-mine." Marijuana whispered against Heroin's lips and then he was closing his eyes, trying to reign in the happiness that felt like it was threatening to explode out of him at any second.