Chapter Text
Mac returns with the sloppiest joint Charlie’s ever seen clutched between his fingers. Unground buds of weed wrapped in printer paper, stems stabbing through, no filter, a little bud eking out each side.
“Dude,” Dennis admonishes when he sees it but Charlie’s jonesing so bad, that shitty little joint looks like heaven. His mouth is almost watering the second he sees it. He can taste the charred bud on his tongue already.
“I couldn’t find your grinder,” Mac protests, “and you’re out of papers.”
Dennis waves him off. “It’s fine, Mac. I told you to roll a joint, and you did, so that’s...fine.”
Dennis stands and Mac and Charlie both follow. He leads them to the former resting place of Mac’s green chalk leaf of indeterminate species, directing Mac and Charlie in turn so by the time they’re settled in they’re sitting in a shitty triangle, legs crossed “Indian style” so Charlie’s denim-clad knees are awfully close to Dennis and Mac’s bare ones.
There’s an attempt to stuff some of the eking bud back into the joint with the narrowest part of his pinky nail, but eventually Dennis just rolls his eyes and lights the thing. The sun’s mostly gone down now, and no one’s bothered to switch on the garage light, leaving the concrete room in a sort of indigo dim. It makes the sparks and eventual flame of the Bic seem all the brighter, makes the glow at the tip of the joint not quite the only thing Charlie can see, but the it’s so bright and draws his eye so strongly that it’s the only thing his eyes seem to think is worth seeing.
Illuminated by the light of the joint like the storyteller of a scary campfire story, Dennis locks eyes with Charlie, raises his brows. Charlie spares one last look at an oblivious Mac before sighing, rolling his eyes, and leaning in, keeping his hands firmly in his own lap even though it makes him feel slightly off-balance as he leans in to Dennis.
The slight brush of lips is unexpected, unexpected enough that Charlie almost jolts back but thinks better of it at the last second. His open mouth is lightly, but undeniably, pressed against Dennis’s open mouth. He can feel where the dry outer part of Dennis’s lips meets the much wetter inside and the idea of it being wet with Dennis’s spit makes him want to squirm away to a point that’s almost visceral but then right as he’s about to panic there’s warm breath coming into his mouth and that’s weird, too, for sure, but only for a literal millisecond before he tastes, oh god yes, that skunky-smoky taste he’d been craving. The high curling in as he sucks the breath into his lungs makes him press a little harder against Dennis’s lips without meaning to, upgrading it to a full-on kiss now for sure, but Dennis doesn’t seem to mind, emptying his lungs into Charlie’s throat before pulling back and leaving Charlie to it.
They both turn to Mac at the same time. Mac’s mouth is open wider than Dennis’s and Charlie’s had been, so wide it’s almost scary in the dark.
“Gay,” is the only word that seems able to come from his mouth. “Gay. Gay gay. Gay.”
“Calm down, Mac,” Dennis soothes. “It saves on weed, buddy.”
“I-I-I-I-I don’t wanna...gay,” Mac stammers, “I don’t wanna…”
But Dennis doesn’t seem worried, instead snapping at Charlie, “Dude, breathe out and take the next puff already. Now is not the time for holding in your hits, you are literally burning product as we speak.”
Bluish-grey secondhand breath floats away towards the ceiling and then Charlie’s got the joint in his hand, fumbled into his waiting fingers by a half-blind-from-the-dark Dennis, narrowly missing pressing the cherry right into his palm. He pulls it in fast, not wanting to annoy Dennis further, but oh, oh, ouch, ouch, ouch, that hurts! His throat constricts and convulves around the too-hot, too-harsh hit of stems wrapped in computer paper. He swallows a portion of the smoke into his stomach, winces and grabs at Mac’s wrist, leaning in.
“I don’t…” Mac leans away.
“Mac, be nice,” Dennis admonishes, but he sounds faintly amused. “He’s choking!”
Mac’s dark gaze shoots in all conflicted directions before landing on Charlie’s flushed, desperate face and watering eyes. He finally leans in, surprising everyone in the room - including probably Mac himself.
If Charlie had to guess, he’d say Mac probably intended to leave a bit of space between the two of them and misjudged the distance in the dark, because as soon as they meet Mac gasps against Charlie’s lips before Charlie’s even breathing out yet, gasps in a way that Charlie’s almost certain has nothing to do with shotgunning and everything to do with shock. Remembering how much better Charlie had felt after Dennis had given him the smoke, he does the same for Mac, pursing his lips against Mac’s fuller, softer ones and slowly but deliberately streaming smoke into Mac’s waiting lungs.
Charlie’s relief is absolutely palpable when Mac does the same thing Charlie found himself doing, pressing in harder to seek more of the smoke out. Charlie can’t exactly find himself complaining, and attributes it to the weed that he’s picturing having his mouth against twin rose petals, because kissing Mac’s soft, pillowy mouth - shotgunning it, he mentally corrects - is nothing like having his lips against something so thin and flimsy.
Smoke trails between the two of them as Mac leans back. Even through the purplish tint of late evening Charlie can see that Mac’s face is absolutely flaming, the tips of his ears reminding Charlie of those jars of sweet cherries at ice cream shops.
“Give Mac the joint, Charlie,” Dennis says, voice soft like he’s afraid speaking might break whatever spell is happening here. Charlie gets it in Mac’s hand without trying especially hard, their actions already synced somehow.
The darkness mostly camouflages how much Mac’s hand is trembling as he pulls in a hit. He takes too greedy of one, clearly; the joint burns down a little more than it should from one puff, and Dennis clicks his tongue irritably. Charlie’s not sure why he’s mad; he’ll be getting most of that smoke for himself in just a second anyway. If anyone should be annoyed, it should be Charlie - he’s the only one none of that extra large puff is benefitting. Trembling even more now, Mac leans in to give the hit to Dennis. His hand falls on Dennis’s knee, and Charlie sees the corners of Dennis’s mouth twitch up.
Charlie’s pretty sure it’s that little smile that breaks him.
“No!” Mac cries suddenly, stumbling to his feet. A massive plume of smoke tumbles from his lips. “No, no, I can’t, I can’t do this! This is way too gay not to be a sin!”
Dennis is giving Mac a disapproving glare, which would probably be a lot more effective if he wasn’t also trying to suck in all the smoke that Mac let out, his lips pursed and cheeks drawn in, head darting around wildly to try and collect it all before it dissipates. The two expressions don’t create an especially flattering result when mixed.
“No,” Mac says, already halfway up the steps. “The, uh, the joint is yours, I just…” Opening the door to the house fills the garage with light, blinding Dennis and Charlie. He glances back at them one more time. “Gay.” He closes the door.
“What a fucking prick,” Dennis snorts. He glances over at Charlie. “You gonna pussy out on me too?”
“No,” Charlie says adamantly. “I need that joint.”
Dennis purses his lips, nodding his approval. “Good,” he says. “That’s what I like about you. You’re up for anything.” He turns so he and Charlie are facing each other fully now, and takes a long, slow, deliberate drag, even longer than Mac’s ridiculously oversized hit moments ago. He raises his eyebrows as if to say “Ready?” and Charlie nods his head to say yes.
Resting both of his hands on Charlie’s thighs, Dennis leans in and kisses him. There’s no other word for it - there’s no lean and accidental brush, no light and soft press. Dennis leans in and presses his mouth right to Charlie’s, then moves slightly, brushing their lips together and connecting more fully. Charlie represses a shiver, and not in a bad way. He takes in what Dennis gives him as soon as he feels the warmth of it, and finds himself strangely mourning him when Dennis pulls back.
Smoke escaping as he speaks, Charlie says, “Dennis, you kinda just…”
Dennis just shushes him. “Talking wastes weed,” he says wisely, and gives Charlie the joint. “Smoke instead.”
So that’s what he does. This time he’s a little bolder, scooting in closer than necessary, bumping knees. He keeps his eyes locked on Dennis’s the whole time he’s smoking; Dennis’s tongue darts out across his own lips, hungrily. Charlie rests a hand on Dennis’s jawline as he leans in, smashing their mouths together with the sort of urgency he thinks Dennis will appreciate.
Not one to be outdone, Dennis breathes the smoke into the space between them as soon as they’ve parted and immediately fumbles for the joint. They’re getting better at passing it, fewer near-misses as far as burning each other goes. Dennis takes a page from Charlie’s book, eyes steady on Charlie’s as he takes a long, easy drag. Charlie’s stomach twists, not unpleasantly.
Dennis rests his hands on Charlie’s shoulders and uses them to steady himself as he leans forward. Charlie goes to scoot a little closer, having to relent as their knees get in his way. Dennis slides his tongue over the swell of Charlie’s lower lip, so fast Charlie’s not sure it’s happening until it’s over, the spark from it making Charlie’s toes curl in his Keds.
At this point, the joint isn’t long for this world. Charlie sucks in as much as he can, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Annoyed by their knees knocking, Charlie slides his knees apart to go on either side of Dennis’s. It straightens Charlie out a little, giving him a slight height advantage over Dennis that he’s not used to. He takes advantage of it, sliding in close, at first getting his hand around the back of Dennis’s neck but then sliding it up, against the grain of the soft short hair at the back of Dennis’s head. His other hand finds it way to Dennis’s thigh, index finger slipping slightly beneath the hem of Dennis’s shorts. Charlie feels goosebumps there.
Dennis’s hand comes to the small of Charlie’s back, pressing the baggy fabric of the hand-me-down t-shirt from Mac that Charlie’s currently wearing right against his skin for once. Charlie’s teeth nick a little at Dennis’s lower lip when he pulls away, and the shirt goes extra taut against Charlie’s stomach as Dennis grips the fabric he’s holding a little tighter.
The joint’s spent, Charlie’s half in Dennis’s lap and they’ve stayed connected at the mouths a good ten seconds after Charlie finished breathing the last of the final hit into him. Dennis breaks away long enough to exhale, then leans back in, no smoke to justify anything anymore.
The one thing they’d avoided was getting their tongues too involved, save for that one swipe, but almost instantly there’s a slick, wet something pressing at Charlie’s lips and when Dennis’s tongue finds his own it’s like a lightning bolt shooting into him. He’s not super great at the whole “making out” thing yet, not entirely sure what to do, but Dennis’s mouth is moving so deftly against his Charlie kind of forgets what they’re doing at all, giving himself over to the feeling of it rather than thinking it through and worrying that he might be doing it wrong.
They break apart and instantly dissolve into stoned giggles, sprawling out on Dennis’s garage floor. Eventually their laughter dies away and they’re just lying there, comfortably stoned, feeling the summer breeze filtering in through the open garage door. Cicadas start to sing, crickets chirp. The universal song of summer.
“Charlie, look! Fireflies,” Dennis says suddenly, pointing. It’s the first thing either of them have said in ages. Charlie half-sits, peering out the garage, and Dennis is right. The sun’s fully gone down now. The street is lined with the shadows of houses and trees and people, and overshadowing all of them are these little pinpricks of light, fading in and out, dozens of them scattered, the outlines of the garage door like a picture frame over a perfect summer scene. The fireflies aren’t quite the only thing Charlie can see, but they’re so bright and beautiful, drawing his eye so strongly that they’re the only thing his eyes seem to think is worth seeing.
Well, that’s not quite right. Charlie glances over at Dennis, who is watching him with a serene, stoned smile on his face. The air smells of nighttime now, of crisp air and oncoming morning dew. An owl hoots in the distance. Dennis’s attention is drawn away as a couple fireflies make their way into the garage. His joy at seeing them is absolutely childlike, and he’s too high to hide it.
I’m going to remember this,
Charlie thinks again, and thinks it so strongly that the combined efforts of chemical abuse, numerous concussions, nightly binge drinking, and decades of time barely even fade the memory.