"Come on," Tom teases. "Surely you've done this before."

Marc rolls his eyes. "Of course I have."

"When?"

Marc tries to think, which is difficult with Tom perched splay-legged on his lap. The joint dangles, ever so coolly, from a corner of his mouth, enveloping him in fragrant smoke.

"When I was younger," Marc says hoarsely, meaning as young as you; but when Tom leans down, blue eyes glinting, and softly exhales the smoke into Marc's open mouth, Marc digs his fingers into those messy curls and yanks him closer, deciding right now age doesn't matter. He breathes in deeply.