If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-12-30 23:51:00 |
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Current music: | used to - daughtry |
Entry tags: | heroin, marijuana |
You used to lean on me like the only other choice was falling down.
Who: Marijuana and Heroin; mostly completed scene.
What: Attempting to navigate through a marital rough patch.
Where: Empire State Building, open-air promenade. Ending at the Highway.
When: Late Wednesday evening.
Warnings: Language, minor drug use.
Marijuana: Marijuana leaned up against the railing of the open-air promenade and contemplated the city below. Sirens pierced the air occasionally but were whipped away by the bone-chilling wind. Still, Marijuana could see cherry-red, flashing lights zipping down the streets below and for a moment, the height made his head swim, spin, his chest tighten. He grimaced, turned, slid down to sit with his back against the wall, railing, that kept mortals and immortals alike from going over the edge. Slowly, he extended his power around him; any mortal that came within a few feet of him would breathe in power-smoke and suddenly find something overly interesting on the other side of the promenade. Of course, the smoke would open for Heroin, Marijuana thought to himself, and it was there that his thoughts froze. Heroin. His beautiful husband-brother-lover-corazon, unhappy in their relationship - Marijuana could tell - and obviously hurt by Marijuana's request for some time to think things through. The fingers that fumbled for the joint, the fingertip that lit the joint, the lungs that inhaled, it all happened without Marijuana being fully conscious of his actions.
What could be done to sort out their problems? Marijuana didn't know what his own issues were, even after three days of 'soul'-searching. There were little, nagging little worries; the constant changes, the sacrifices, Marijuana's unrational jealousy, but none of that was worth ending the relationship over. There was just too much picking at them from the outside and Marijuana's buffer from all that - poor, dead, decaying Dave, why, why - was gone. Still, Marijuana, chest tight with anxiety that only eased when he remembered the good that had happened on the top of this tower, breathed in from his joint, shifted nervously, and waited for his husband to arrive so they could attempt to talk through their problems.
Heroin: Slouched in the corner of an elevator as the world fell away, Heroin couldn’t close his eyes without remembering the last time he’d ridden up the Empire State Building. Marijuana had been pressed to Heroin’s side; they’d kept mortals away as he’d worked on distracting his brother-lover from the height. No, wrong, not distracting – their anniversary, after Masque, and Heroin had been lost in the feel of Marijuana, his taste and his smell and how good it felt just to touch him as the metal and steel welcomed Heroin’s synthetic nature. And the doors had opened onto the height and it had been heaven. The doors opened and he could only stare; it was cold. He stumbled into the open air and gripped the edge of the railing in white knuckles as he forced himself to just breathe. And oh, it hurt; something in his chest squeezed unmercifully tight at being alone on the deck – he could feel Marijuana, so near, but the distance slammed into Heroin’s lungs and he shut his eyes against the memory of the proposal.
Would it have been better to say no? Did it start there? The beginning of the end in the happiest moment? Heroin smiled and it was the shine of a knife; it would certainly be fitting, if it were true. He shoved himself from the railing and his hands slid deep into the pockets of his jacket. His head was bowed to the wind, but he’d pulled his hair back before coming and only a few shorter pieces fell by his face as he walked to where Marijuana waited. The smoke parted and Heroin wanted to stop, to throw himself at Marijuana’s feet, hold and beg and plead and cry until he swore he’d stay. Heroin took a deep breath and forced himself to look at his husb—at Marijuana. “We could have met on the ground, you didn’t have to do this,” Heroin’s voice was tired and gentle.
Marijuana: "I wanted to." The words were simple as Marijuana rose to his feet, eyes fixed on Heroin. His heart felt like it had simultaneously taken root in his stomach and risen up into his throat, smoke skittered fretfully under his cold skin, the insides of his arms ached for the prick of the needle but Marijuana simply turned to rest his elbows on the railing, staring out at the city for a moment and forcing the compulsive need to return to lower ground down into his gut. It was, in a rather nervewracking way, peaceful at the top of the building. The world was spread out below them, not forcing its way between them. Marijuana allowed the corners of his lips to quirk up at the symbolism, but the expression dropped away as he drew his eyes away from the lights down below and back to Heroin. "It's nice up here. I remember when we first promised to spend the rest of our existences together."
Marijuana inhaled deeply on his joint before pinching it out with his fingers, the burn of the heater drawing him back into himself, out of contemplation, into focus and out of numbness. "And I think, if we still want that, we should talk. Try to work on things. Listen. Communicate." Marijuana turned his back on the height again as his stomach churned at the thought of the questin he was about to ask. "If you want. Do you still-" He swallowed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat - the coat that Heroin had bought for him, actually - and rocking his weight back and forth between the balls of his feet and his toes. "Do you want to-" He forced himself to stop moving restlessly. "I'd like to try, Heroin."
Heroin: Heroin watched. Three days apart and even with his heart caught mid-beat and suspended in his chest, he couldn’t take his eyes away from Marijuana. The world was ending, after all. This moment, all the moments that went before, would have to endure as Heroin turned them over and ripped them up and clutched at them again in the shadow of the Needle. The line of Marijuana’s back was obscured by the jacket – familiar jacket – and Heroin had to choke down the sudden anger at being cheated of a last look. And on its heels was the overwhelming urge to laugh; he knew it was hysteric and swallowed hard. Numbness was next and Heroin welcomed his aspect, fell into the coldness and let it surround him as it had. But he couldn’t help but flinch as Marijuana brought up the proposal--bastard, Heroin looked past his brother’s shoulder and tried to let the cold take even that pain.
All the lights of the city burned, replacing the natural stars and he smiled a synthetic smile. Flowers and roots were so far away, buried beneath the weight of metal and concrete, foundations, and the whispers and the song were finally silent. He could live like this, walk away and be chemical again. Feed the heartbreak into reactions and compounds, let them break it away and forget how the word try broke something precious. “You brought me back here,” his voice was distance, stretching further and further, “reminded me of our best moment. One of our best moments. To tell me you want to try,” and then it broke, too far, severed. Heroin dropped his head, wished his hair were loose and scratched viciously at the inside of one arm. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs didn’t work and the air was so heavy, he gulped it down and felt like he was drowning. The words were on his tongue, short and sharp and curt; he dug his nail through fabric and skin until blood seeped into his sleeve. “I love you,” yes, broken, stretched too far, “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Marijuana: Marijuana blinked, taken aback by the unfamiliar tone in Heroin's voice. If it had been possible for him to take a step away from Heroin, he would have done so, but already his back was against disgusting steel and there was nowhere for him to go but down, down into the dark, the distance between them and hard asphalt street that felt too much like the distance between them. He didn't understand; didn't know why Heroin was speaking to him like this, didn't know what he had done wrong and the confusion, the utter devastation showed on his face. "What-" His voice broke for a moment and he had to take a deep breath in order to continue. "I asked you here in the hopes that you'd be as comfortable as you could be, up in the height you love so much. I asked you here, yes, because I wanted you to remember how happy you were when I asked you to marry me, in hopes of-" Marijuana rubbed at his eyes, wanting to pretend that the tears that were gathering already were due to the wind and not because it felt like Heroin had just driven a needle through his heart, sharp and thin and without any of the saving graces of the needles that constantly pierced Marijuana's arms.
"In the hope that you would- know that I'm dedicated to making you feel that happy again. That even though the world weighs down on us, that, really, this is how I feel when I'm with you." He waved a useless hand down toward the lights below. "Like it's all so far away and you're my only focus, even when it threatens to drag me down into it. Drag us down." Marijuana's voice began to shake. "That you're the light of my existence and, though we have problems, I don't want to- I want to work on them. I want to hear what you have to say, I want to know what it is that I can do to make you smile, to make you-" Marijuana ducked his head. "I'm sorry. Maybe I chose the wrong location, maybe I said things all wrong, but I just- I want to talk. To fix things." His voice broke again, his shoulders slumped, his fingers curled in, dull fingernails digging into palms. "I'm sorry."
Heroin: It was the look on Marijuana’s face, even before the tears and the sound of his voice that made Heroin look away in shame. He hugged himself tighter, dug his fingers deeper into his arms but all he felt was the echo of Marijuana’s pain. The ghost of the proposal hung between them; Heroin almost heard the words all over again, underneath these new words, the joy buried under layers of sorrow. He stepped forward, just the one step because Marijuana was already backed against the wall and Heroin couldn’t reach out, couldn’t touch and have it hurt his brother—his everything else, as badly as words had. “Please, don’t—don’t apologize. I—“ He bowed his head, tried to breath and shook his head. “I’m the one who—I don’t how to do this. All I can imagine is you leaving; all I remember is… this. Our first dance on my rooftop and our first dance when we married and your proposal and our first time in the park and---and it’s ending and I can’t—“ Heroin turned his back on Marijuana, the open sky, the height and pressed his face into his hands; they came away wet. He brushed at the tears, gulped in air as he tried to breathe, tried to make it stop.
Without thinking, he ran his hands through his hair, the tie fell, and he tugged and twisted at strands as his shoulders shook. “I,” he couldn’t look at Marijuana for this, Heroin shut his eyes and remember the brother, remembered the cabin—the first time—with power rising and trying to ground him, help him. “Are you sure it’s the world? Maybe—I just—it feels like you’d be better, happier if things were… as they were. Before. Without me. And I don’t want—I don’t want to lose you, but I just—I love you and—and if that’s what you need then—I’ll go.” He felt himself crying again, felt his lungs and his heart both closing up as he kept his voice clear, soft, just like an older brother. “You made so many sacrifices for the eight months we’ve had and they were the best I’ve ever had, but I—it shouldn’t be a chain, you shouldn’t be trapped by those choices and they’d—they’d come back. If I left—I could go back to Seattle and be on my own.” And the loneliness loomed so frighteningly close, Heroin had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep silent. Marijuana had given up so much for the relationship; Heroin could do penance if it had to end. He would.
Marijuana: Marijuana stilled as Heroin stepped forward, sure for an instant that Heroin was going to demand the wedding ring back, rip the locket from his throat and leave Marijuana up in this revolting, man-made monstrosity without the feeling of his brother to keep him calm. "I'm not going to leave. We aren't ending." He said weakly, quietly as the sound of Heroin gulping down air made something horrible twist in his heart; he was responsible for his older brother's pain. And even though his brother's back was to him, Marijuana took a tentative step forward, handing jerking as if he wanted to touch Heroin but didn't dare just yet. He took a moment, listened to Heroin, swallowed harshly, and when he spoke, there was only a slight tremble in his voice, the rest of it was simply a loving calm. "I've never been more sure; it's the world. It's everything else pressing in on me and I lost-" Marijuana choked back a sob, bowing his head. "It's not you. I'm just... constantly tired, all I want to do is sleep, I'm irritable and it makes me pick fights but it's not because of you. You're the one thing keeping me- stable, Heroin, you have to know that, know what you do for me."
He took a tiny, tentative step forward. "Heroin, please. I made those sacrifices willingly, freely, and with an open and loving heart." And they wouldn't all come back. With that thought, Marijuana realized just how far he was from the Highway basement and had to shove down the rising panic. "I knew what I was giving up. And I knew what I was gaining. You're not a chain and you never have been; if anything, you've made me freer. I've grown, grown into a better person, man, god. I don't need you to leave. I don't want you to leave, I wouldn't be happier if you did, I-" Tears were falling now, unashamedly, and Marijuana lifted his head again as he reached out slowly to rest a hand on Heroin's shoulder. "Please." He whispered, taking solace at the feeling of merely being able to touch Heroin even as he wondered if it was the last time he'd ever have the joy. "Just- please. Let me show you how happy you make me. Let me spend the rest of my existence showing you."
Heroin: Heroin didn’t have to look; he could hear. The hesitant steps and where they stopped—Marijuana was so close that it stalled Heroin’s heart, made it ache for the inches that still separated them. Even the sound of Mari swallowing echoed in Heroin’s ears, he bowed his head lower and sucked in a sharp breath. Sorrow, they were both choking on it and he squeezed his lips together to keep from saying anything; he couldn’t interrupt Marijuana. But it hurt; Heroin shivered as his little brother cried, listened for the hitches in Marijuana’s breath and could almost--almost imagine that he heard the tears. Heroin flinched underneath Marijuana’s hand and then stilled, felt like a spooked horse as he leaned back into the touch. And then the only sound was Heroin’s wet breathing, he couldn’t answer—not for a moment that felt endless. Just like at their proposal. He laughed, even though it choked him before turning towards Mari’s hand. Heroin gently reached up, his hand shook, but he brushed the tears on his brother’s face.
Speaking was so hard, too hard, the silence stretched and his fingers crept over Marijuana’s cheek—stubbled, rough; Heroin shut his eyes and gasped, trying to memorize how it felt under his fingers—and into his hair, twisting around the dark locks as Heroin pressed their cheeks close. “I’m not keeping you steady now; I’m not- I’m just- another thing pressing down on you.” He sighed and winced as his fingers curled tighter. “I know what I did, but it’s been weeks since- I’ve only made things worse.” His fingers went abruptly limp and slid from Marijuana’s hair. “What do you want, little brother? Not me, not my happiness, not our marriage, just- what do you want? What will make you happy?”
Marijuana: The flinch, the laugh, they confused Marijuana but Heroin was turning and the hope flared up sickly within him. The touch to his cheek only made it simultaneously better and worse; better because, oh, Heroin was touching him again and that was the greatest solace possible and worse because he felt so close to losing that comfort. Marijuana had his hand raised to press it over Heroin's but his brother's hand was sliding into his hair and Marijuana had to content himself with closing his fingers loosely around Heroin's wrist, fingers searching out the beat of Heroin's pulse. "No." He confessed softly. "Not right now, I'm not steady. But because I'm afraid of losing you. Due to my own failings, my inattention, not anything that you've done."
Heroin's hand dropped away and Marijuana let go of his wrist quickly, not wanting to keep any part of Heroin close to him if Heroin didn't want it. "Want?" Marijuana's eyes lost their focus for a moment, mind straining down through the man-made construction, down into the earth below, then skimming just below the surface, skimming, skimming- there. Marijuana's shoulders slumped in relief and he blinked quickly, back in the moment. What he wanted, needed, was decomposing in the Highway basement. "I want the hits to stop coming. I don't want to keep rolling with the punches. I want to sleep for days. I want to be a stoner again. I want to be. Just be, without all the other shit and, yes, I want to be with you." Marijuana remained quiet for a long moment and then, slowly and filled with uncertainty, he reached out again. This time, his hand found its familar place, resting on Heroin's chest, letting the beat of his brother's heart soothe him. "And you? What do you want, need? And how can I meet those needs, fulfill your desires?"
Heroin: It was too easy to forget, with Marijuana’s hand wrapped around Heroin’s wrist, too easy to pretend that things were as they’d been, as they should be and he ached as he lost the touch, but it was better. The pain was a focus. Heroin watched as Marijuana’s eyes softened and a small, sad little smile twisted Heroin’s lips as his brother’s shoulders drooped in relief. He wished that he could pretend- but the comfort had been in wandering; the moment was only ash and rust. His eyes dropped, staring at the space between them as his hair tumbled back around his face. There wasn’t nothing left, nothing that he could do, no words or touch or heroin that would give Marijuana what he wanted. And the last breath in Heroin’s chest died sharply; he shut his eyes to mourn. It was utterly inconceivable that his heart could be beating underneath Marijuana’s palms when it felt dead inside Heroin’s chest. But the perversity of the body, it continued, a little slower than a mortal’s, but the same steady beat it’d held for all his existence--tell-tale traitor.
“There’s nothing for me- nothing I’ve done that’s brought us here and nothing I can do to give you what you want, not most of it, anyway. I can’t stop… any of this. And my presence… it’s only forced you into more changes, taken you farther from being.” Heroin laid his hand lightly over Marijuana’s, if it was going to be the last, then he wanted to remember it. And he always loved Mari’s hands, perfect fingers and calluses, down to dirty fingernails and torn cuticles; they were so perfectly him. Heroin stroked down the tattooed knuckles—tried to forget what was written there—and pressed against the back of Marijuana’s hand, rubbed circles over tendons that Heroin’s stared at while Mari cooked and played and when he’d been touching Heroin, sculpting him with rough caresses. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he forced himself from the touch and the memories and back to the moment, painful, horrible, hissingfreezeingdead moment.
“I want to feel safe and settled and loved. I want to stop hurting. I want the ache to go away and to be able to breathe again. I want to feel right inside my skin again and to be able to be with my family in comfort and joy- not fear and pain. I just-“ He inhaled, exhaled in a shuddering sigh. “I need you; I need to be yours. I need- home. You were home and I just-“ He dropped his head onto Mari’s shoulder, eyes shut and mouth tight against another sob.
Marijuana: Heroin's words, they sounded too much like goodbye and Marijuana shut his eyes against the wave of pain that flooded through him. He refused to let that happen. It simply couldn't happen, not after everything he'd given up - freely, willingly, without regret - not after all they had been through and how happy they'd been. "No. No, Heroin, please, understand. You're- you help me be. You're my comfort and my solace. I changed because I wanted to and I'm better for it. I'm less selfish and I don't hurt others anymore. I don't string three or four lovers along, hurting each one of them with my incessant greed and constant- for the first time in my existence, I put the happiness and welfare of someone else above my own, don't you understand how- how much that means? How much you've done for me? And I've tried to do the same for you, I have, I've tried to give you as much as you've given me-" Marijuana's voice broke again, tears, he couldn't stop them from falling. Heroin simply didn't understand. "Your presence has brought me closer to being, and being good, than I've ever come before. I don't understand why you can't see that." His voice took on a dejected, plaintive tone. Heroin wanted to say goodbye, Marijuana was sure of it, and, yet again, he was begging. He hated being made to beg.
But he would, he couldn't stop himself. "I do love you. I'd do anything to protect you from pain. What is it that I've done or haven't done to make you- to make me not home anymore? What do I need to do to make you feel like that again? Because, Heroin, it feels like you're saying goodbye. I can't-" Marijuana swallowed harshly, barely able to see through watery eyes. "I'll do- I'll calm the jealousy and paranoia. I'll figure out a way to make the anxiety attacks ago away, stop worrying about the judgments of others." Marijuana took in a shaky breath. What else could he offer to make Heroin stay? "I- I know things are- I just don't think- Don't leave, Heroin. I mean-" The words caught in Marijuana's throat but he had to say them. "If it'll make you happier to leave than to stay, you- I just want you to be happy." He was shaking again, still, and a hand raised up to immerse tightly in Heroin's hair. "But I want to be the one to make you happy. Heroin- I love you."
Heroin: The air beyond Mari was frigidly cold, the only warmth was in the circle of his arms and for a fleeting moment Heroin wondered how a plant could possibly be so high up, exposed to the cold and the wind and he almost cut Marijuana off—almost demanded they go down, to the ground, to the Park where it was green and warm and he’d be connected, safe again, not crying, not over Heroin, he wasn’t supposed to be crying over Heroin. And that wasn’t what he’d said- or it was, but it wasn’t what he’d meant and Marijuana was hurtingpleadingneeded and Heroin didn’t know- didn’t understand- didn’t understand anything, it was all just out of reach. His mouth dried as he caught Mari’s face in his hands, brushed away tears with careful thumbs while their foreheads touched. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” he whispered. “I love you; I love you more than all the poppies that made me, more than all the chemicals that compose me, more than all my substance in all the world, more than my addicts and my dealers and all of me; I love you more than all of me.”
His lips moved against Marijuana’s, the closest that Heroin had been to a kiss in days- and had it been longer than days? When had they stopped kissing? Maybe that was when it all started; Heroin had forgotten what the little things felt like: his favorite coffee in the morning, leaving cookies for Mari, phone calls just to listen, kissing for the sheer joy of kissing. “And you never have to change anything you don’t want to- I fell in love with you, don’t you remember? When you were in torn jeans and quoted me song lyrics and danced barefoot in the dirt on the roof- I loved you then and I loved you when you dressed up and asked me to marry you and I said ‘yes’ and I loved you when I promised forever at our wedding and I loved you when had our first dance and our honeymoon and in Area 51 and- and- coming back to the Highway and waking up every morning with you right next to me, wrapped up in all the blankets when I had all the pillows and morning stubble against my chest and-” he was crying, the words turning into hitches as he bowed his head again and his shoulders shook in time to the wet, rough sounds of breathing.
“Why wasn’t that enough? Why did it all stop, Mari? I knew- I knew that it wasn’t a fairy tale when we started, I knew it could be bad and I knew- I just don’t understand. We were so happy and then we weren’t and I don’t know what I did; I don’t know what went wrong or how to fix it. All I feel is you farther and farther away and I just- want you close again, want to feel safe again but I can’t because it’s all just gone wrong and you’re telling me that it just did and I can’t do anything about it just did,” he couldn’t shout, hadn’t in decades, but his voice shook and cracked and dissolved.
Marijuana: "Then don't. Don't go anywhere." Marijuana's voice was soft as he leaned into Heroin's hands. He felt like a puppet, jerked in a different direction every few seconds. Heroin mixed the defeated resignation of one moment with the loving confessions of the next moment and Marijuana was gasping to catch up, keep up. His fingers tightened in Heroin's hair as if he was trying to hang desperately to the last shred of his sanity. "I don't know if I can change those aspects of me; the paranoia and anxiety and the jealousy they cause. They're my symptoms. But I can work on it. I want to work on it." Part of Marijuana's mind wondered about medication. Weren't there anti-anxiety medications out there? He filed that idea away in the back of his mind and tightened his arms around Heroin. "I remember, I remember all of it. We can have that back again, I promise. I promise on every leaf, bud, and stem. I promise on the sun, the rain, and the dirt. I promise on everything I am, we'll have that again." He rubbed his hands soothingly down Heroin's back, trying to calm his shaking brother as much as he could even as his own body trembled, half with nerves and half shivering from the cold. "I don't understand either. I can't pinpoint when- and maybe there's no quick fix or easy answer but..." Marijuana trailed off, fingers tightly curling into the shirt that covered Heroin's back.
His words might have been rational but his mind was anything but; he needed sleep, he needed love, he needed to go back to the shop and be close to- Marijuana shuddered and bit his lip. "The little things, we can work to recapture them. I know I haven't been calling you the past week, not as much as I used to but I can start again. Take time each day to sing to each other. Play with our rubber duckies in the bath. Lounge on the couch and just spend hours petting each other's hair. That- we can do those things. And the rest will come, we'll talk and work everything out and-" Marijuana shifted against Heroin and this time it was Marijuana's head that bowed, his forehead that pressed against Heroin's shoulder. "Can we- I'm so tired, Heroin. Please, will you come with me to the Highway? Sleep in my arms, hold me while I sleep? We'll make breakfast together in the morning. Have a bath. Talk and love and regain our happiness."
Heroin: Holding tight to Marijuana, Heroin ran his fingers through his brother’s hair, saw them flash like white bones among the blackness as he rested his cheek against the top of Mari’s head. His exhaustion pressed on Heroin’s shoulders; a little voice stirred, whimpered that those little things had never been work before, but it was crushed underneath the weight and the warmth. It was not quite resolution, but it was another step and Marijuana was there, real and solid and in Heroin’s arms and did he want to balk, stall over semantics? And if it wasn’t semantics? He sighed and tried to drown the thoughts without much success. Little things, little things, big things and bigger and growing until they pushed and pushed right back up to the top of the Empire State Building where it was cold and Marijuana was so tired and slumped down in Heroin’s arms, who was heartsick and sore. What was worth the work? He kissed his brother’s temple, lips lingering in benediction. “We’ll work at it,” he promised in a whisper as he hugged Marijuana’s waist with fingers splayed along his back and hip and just held on for dear life, their dear life.
“C’mon, little brother, husband; you should not be up here for long, it’s far too cold in winter,” he spoke in gentleness and slipped back just enough, not much, but enough and kept an arm around Mari’s hips to hold him against Heroin’s side- for as long as he wanted to stay. “I’ll go back with you; hold you while you sleep and have the cookies waiting and coffee brewing and we’ll talk. We’ll talk through all of this where we’ll both be warm again.” The smile was watery, the tracks of tears were so clear on them both and exhaustion haunted every gesture, but it was a smile all the same, unsure but game and hopeful. He kissed Mari’s temple again, just as Heroin always did and started towards the elevators and the Highway- home, in a roundabout way.
Marijuana: Marijuana smiled slightly in relief, the expression widening just slightly when Heroin called him 'little brother'. No one else was allowed to call him anything like it; from anyone else, it would have been diminuitive but from Heroin, it was protection, warmth and love all rolled into one. And even if that warmth had chilled temporarily, the spark was still there. It just needed nurturing to grow into a flame, a blazing fire again, and Marijuana wanted that to happen. It seemed, he was hoping, that Heroin felt the same. "I'm not that cold, big brother." Marijuana mumbled, clinging just as tightly to Heroin. Heroin was home, warmth, love, everything good in the world and Marijuana wasn't about to let go. Not without a fight. He nodded thankfully as Heroin spoke again, his own arm cinching tight around Heroin's waist as they made their way to the elevator. "And I'll make tea in the morning. Pancakes and waffles. We'll have a nice, big breakfast and-" He broke off, yawned, leaned his head against Heroin's shoulder as the elevator started toward the ground.
With every floor, he straightened up, a bit less erratic, a bit more grounded. Wiping at his cheeks, he tried to at least look presentable when the doors opened on the first floor. A glance out the glass windows showed a nondescript car with a bulky redhead leaning up against the hood, smoking a cigarette and eying his boss, concern hidden behind dark sunglasses. "Bossman. Hazel." The grunts came out even gruffer than normal as the back door was opened for them. The ride back to the Highway was a blur; Marijuana had threaded his fingers through his husband's hair and pressed tentative kisses to Heroin's cheeks but, finally, they were pulling up in front of the Highway, Wes opening the door for them silently. The stairs were as blurry as the ride back, the living room almost as hazy but when they reached the bedroom, everything snapped into focus around Marijuana and he leaned in, pressing a soft, loving, needy kiss to Heroin's lips. "I love you." He said simply; he wasn't sure if there were words that could phrase what he felt any better. No, he decided as he reached up to brush a lock of Heroin's hair away from his eyes, the love they shared would be enough to get them through this rough patch and any other that cropped up.
Heroin: The ride down the elevator had felt like falling down a very long hole, Heroin’s mind immediately supplied rabbit hole as he had closed his eyes and hugged Marijuana just a little bit tighter as the earth caught up to them. Now in the Highway apartment, stranger for all its familiarity, Heroin felt as though he’d come out the other side, but he shied away from another Wonderland analogy. It was a hazard of staying with the Opiates, but they weren’t the only ones to linger in the pages of Carrol’s book. The kiss quieted all the turning thoughts and for a moment, there was only the euphoria of the high and the tingle of lips and the peace of being with Marijuana. Heroin curled into Mari’s side, as he brushed the hair from Heroin’s face. It fell back into place as he ducked his head again, but the normalcy of the gesture meant more; he slipped both arms around his brother-husband’s waist and hugged him close. “I love you too.”
And that was enough. He laid his cheek on Mari’s shoulder, breathed in and smelled his hair and remembered dirt underneath their feet and Holst playing softly from an old record. That was everything. Heroin lifted his head for another kiss, forgetting everything for the instant that their lips touched and Marijuana’s breath like smoke wound through Heroin’s mouth as he laid against his brother-lover-husband and curled trembling fingers tighter into the soft squish of the down jacket. The suggestion of a smile touched Heroin’s lips as he slipped back a step. “And you- you need to get out of your cold things and get under the covers. You said that you were tired.” Quick fingers tugged at the zipped and he cast Marijuana a suddenly shy look, “I- you don’t mind if I, ah, help?” Heroin was blushing, and it was silly and stupid and just a jacket, but he couldn’t help it and when Marijuana nodded, Heroin gratefully ducked his head, hair tumbling back around his pink cheeks as he finished unzipping the jacket and slid it off Marijuana’s shoulders. Heroin’s fingers lingered there, touching the shirt and tingling from the warmth of the skin below.
Then he was busy with the jacket in his arms, getting it hung and in the closet and then- and then- Heroin turned around, looking lost, looking for something else to do. “Bed. You should get in bed and I’ll make you something, whatever you like.”
Marijuana: Heroin's cheek against his shoulder, it was a single spot of light and warmth in a mind and body that had only experienced the dark and cold. Like the kiss, the simple joy the touch caused spread through Marijuana's psyche slowly, soothing away aches and pains and little sore spots caused by stress and anxiety. The words were even better; confirmation that everything was going to be alright, that Heroin still felt for him what he felt for Heroin, that, in just a few minutes, Heroin would be under the covers with him and they would soothe and lull each other to sleep. His hands, their trembling calmed by Heroin's own hands working at the zipper, settled on Heroin's hips, thumbs finding Heroin's hip bones through the fabric, rubbing light circles as avid, focused eyes watched the fall of Heroin's hair back into his face.
Heroin had to turn away to hang up his coat and, for a moment, Marijuana rocked his weight back and forth between the balls and tips of his feet anxiously, absentmindedly. It felt like he needed Heroin's touch to stay grounded and without it, well... Marijuana stepped forward and reached for Heroin's hand tentatively. He ducked his own head, not answering Heroin's question just yet as he trailed the tips of his fingers over the bumps of Heroin's knuckles, over the soft skin between thumb and forefinger and, lastly, over the inside of Heroin's wrist. When had the ribbon - the green one that Marijuana had tied around Heroin's wrist - fallen off? Marijuana's silver ribbon was tucked safely in the drawer of the table by the side of the bed, but Marijuana drew himself back into the moment.
"Mi corazon, I have everything I need." He raised Heroin's hand gradually, meaning to press a kiss to Heroin's palm but instead, he acted on instinct and tilted his head, rubbing his cheek lightly against the back of his husband's hand simply because the skin was soft and Marijuana needed the contact. He flushed deeply though, when he realized what he was doing and just stepped back to sit on the edge of the bed. "Come to bed with me, Heroin?"
Heroin: Heroin watched Marijuana take his hand. Just the touch of callused fingers along the soft skin was enough to slow Heroin’s heart to almost stop like hummingbird wings suspended in one impossible photograph. He shivered, licked his lips and repeated again and again and again that he wouldn’t moan, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t. Heroin whimpered instead, an impossibly small noise when Marijuana rubbed his cheek against the back of Heroin’s hand. When his husband-lover-brother stepped back, he had to follow and follow and bump against Marijuana’s knees in two steps as he sat at the edge of the bed. Heroin blinked in surprise before he leaned down for another kiss; his lips were hardly parted, but they lingered, yielding and offering as he bent closer. He combed his fingers through dark, thick hair as he nuzzled at the curve of Marijuana’s lips. All these little tastes, these little touches, not taken for granted, not again, it was pure euphoria and Heroin just couldn’t have enough. He peppered Mari’s mouth with kisses, and then titled his face to kiss along a stubbled cheek up to his eyelids and then temples.
“I love you, mi amante, mi Marihuana,” Heroin murmured, and then, “Ich liebe dich, Geliebte, mein Rauch.” Not letting go, not breaking the intoxication of touch, Heroin slid his knee onto the bed, right against Mari’s thigh, and then let his weight follow until Heroin was settled next to his husband. “I’m right here- are you sure you don’t want me to make you something?” Heroin smiled a bit sheepishly, hair in his face and leaning against Marijuana’s side. “I- I just want to show you- to do something for you.”
Marijuana: Marijuana did his best to cling to the sound of that whimper, to play the sound over and over again in his head, to catalogue it and memorize it, to hold within him in case he never drew a sound like that from Heroin again. But he would, he knew it, he just wanted to be safe, sure, positive that the sound would be burned into his mind for all eternity. Hands braced against the mattress as he looked up at Heroin as his husband followed him, but only for a moment before they were raising to rest on Heroin's hips and skim down the sides of Heroin's thighs just after; soon enough his fingers were curling in the divot of the back of Heroin's knees, just wanting to hold Heroin there so those kisses wouldn't stop. His head tilted back up into the touches like a flower reaching toward the sustenance of the sun. "Meine Seligkeit. Mein Trost. Mi marido." Even the words came out breathed like pure devotion.
Mind blissfully cloudy, Marijuana instantly wrapped an arm around Heroin's waist as his husband joined him on the bed. Slowly, he leaned in to nuzzle lightly, gently, at Heroin's jawline, enjoying the brush of Heroin's hair against his cheeks almost as much as he loved pressing a kiss to the tempting bit of flesh just where jaw became neck. "I just want to curl up in bed with you, husband-mine." He tugged at Heroin lightly; he wanted to lie down and snuggle up against his husband-brother-lover-Heroin. But he gave Heroin another soft smile even as he tugged. "But if you want, we could roll a joint together before we sleep." He didn't need it, but it seemed like Heroin might have needed to do something for Marijuana and Marijuana just didn't want to tax Heroin with demands. This was something they could do together, a compromise that might satisfy them both.
Heroin: This was rapture, the high of Heroin was in touching his husband and the words the blissful, breath of words that turned already weak knees into liquid as he settled next to Marijuana in bed. Over and over, the sound of him speaking rolled through Heroin’s head in time to the new touches, being touched as he pressed closer and closer, needing another kiss and another, chasing after Marijuana’s lips as another addict filled his veins with heroin to chase after another high. Mari hadn’t needed much more than the first tug for Heroin to want to melt into the covers and the second one had Heroin in his brother-husband-love-Marijuana’s arms. Eyes shut, Heroin could smell the smoke and rich dirt—that he wasn’t going to think about—and the something underneath it that was indescribably Marijuana. It was the smell of home. Heroin pressed closer, rubbed his cheek over his brother’s chest until his head rested right over Mari’s heart; the steady thump had been Heroin’s lullaby for almost all of their eight months together and knots of tension along his back eased at hearing it again.
His arm fell, suddenly so heavy, down his husband’s chest and across his stomach so pale fingers could play with Mari’s hip, flirt with the hem of his shirt before slipping underneath to tease the warm skin along hipbones and down his side. “I’d like that,” Heroin murmured, already sounding half-sleepy. But in an instant his hand went still and he was looking up, bright-eyed and intent. “But tomorrow, I’m making you a huge breakfast with bacon and sausage and fried tomatoes—do we even have tomatoes in the fridge?” It had only been three days, but the Highway crew could empty cupboards in about that time- and Heroin couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d been shopping. “It doesn’t matter; I’ll figure something out when I get to the kitchen. And anything that I haven’t baked over Christmas, I’m making tomorrow.” Menu finished, or at least, started, he slumped easily against Marijuana again and continued mapping the curve of his hip and the top of his jeans. “Mari?” Heroin’s voice was soft as he shifted against his husband’s side, still needing to be closer. “The spike in power I felt- Rehab- that you, wasn’t it? She didn’t fall on her own.”
Marijuana: Marijuana's heart seemed to flutter under Heroin's ear, the mere gesture causing tense muscles in his back to unclench and ease, Marijuana sighed in contentment as a hand threaded into Heroin's hair gently, curling the locks around his fingers absentmindedly. He could reach to get the rolling papers, reach to get the baggie of pre-shredded marijuana that he would need for them to roll a joint but he simply didn't want to move. Heroin was comfort and excitement all rolled into one; love and passion, want and need. There would be many joints but there would never be another moment like this. Oh, there would be moments similar; snuggled up in bed together, but this moment would never be replicated. Marijuana wanted to cling to it tightly, not roll away to get the necessary supplies for lighting a joint.
His eyes were sliding closed when Heroin looked up, suddenly intent. "Hmm? Tomatoes? Wes might have some in his fridge. I'll-" Marijuana broke off to stifle a yawn, hand still threading repeated through Heroin's hair, free arm wrapped around his hubsand's waist. "I'll ask him in the morning. You'll let me help, though, right? Can I make chocolate chip pancakes?" He shifted, squirming toward Heroin's touch and the hand that wasn't in Heroin's hair began to trail lightly up and down Heroin's side, fingertips searching out divots and dips and little juts of bone to get lost in. But when Heroin spoke again, the hand stopped and Marijuana licked his lips anxiously. "She stopped by with muffins. To-" His back was tight again, shoulders slightly sense and when he spoke, it was in a rush. "To offer her condolences." He didn't want to refer to what she was offering condolences for; talking about that with Heroin seemed like a very bad idea. "I don't know why I did it. But I did; forced the needle into her arm." He tilted his head to look at Heroin, the slighest bit of anxiety forcing its way into his eyes. "I- I hope you didn't mind. I just thought- I wanted to do something for you."
Heroin: Heroin stilled- any answer to breakfast forgotten, a touch to Marijuana’s lips, the pleasure of his fingers in Heroin’s hair, all temporarily faded under the weight behind the words and his fingers curled tightly into the waistband of Mari’s jeans. There, held, anchor, Heroin absently rubbed his cheek over his husband’s chest. Condolence echoes louder than the needle driven into Rehab’s flesh—for the moment—and Heroin moved again, rolling onto his side so he was lying next to Marijuana and not on top of him; it made looking easier. Heroin answered the apprehension he heard in Marijuana’s voice with another kiss. It was slow reassurance, shared breath, and Heroin’s hair falling against Mari’s cheeks and eyelids like light rain, Seattle drizzle in sun and earth stands. “I didn’t mind,” he confessed to his husband’s lips before lifting his head up to see all of Mari’s face. “I was- surprised, I guess, I wasn’t sure what- well, I know what- but I wasn’t sure why she relapsed, why my power spiked. But I’m glad it was you.
Thank you, Geliebte,” Heroin kissed his husband again, letting more of himself fall into the kiss and the lazy movement of mouths became that much deeper. Sliding from the kiss with a soft, wanting sigh, he lifted his hand from Mari’s stomach to brush back his dark hair; Heroin’s fingers curled into a thick lock of hair and tucked it carefully behind his husband’s ear. “I- my love-“ Heroin laid his head down on the pillow next to Mari’s, “I- you can talk to me, my love. About anything. I just- I want you to know that, okay?” There was something horribly unsure in Heroin’s eyes—he couldn’t push, the moment was too… too fragile—and he didn’t want it to end. And still—he ran his fingers over Marijuana’s temple and down his cheek to his wonderful mouth, pressing against his lower lip and chin and to his jaw; the continuous touch so light and curious as Heroin stamped the feelings underneath his fingers into memory.