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Even though Killer always walks softly, as though he’s a cat trying to get the drop on his prey, Cross hears him before he sees him.
“What’s up?” He doesn’t turn, and barely even looks up from the book Nightmare had recommended to him - some fantasy novel, with a lot of worldbuilding. Cross isn’t a reader, usually, but it keeps him busy when insomnia and panic attacks keep him from sleeping. Like now.
“gettin’ good at that,” Killer says from behind him, and then he’s in Cross’s field of vision, leaning around the armchair. “so, dust is busy…”
“...And?” Cross wills him to continue, almost afraid of where this is going. Dust and Killer aren’t stupid, sure, but they’re on the recieving end of lectures from Nightmare a lot more than anyone else.
(Not to mention lectures from Horror, which were a different kind of torture entirely. Cross knows he can’t help it, but he just speaks so slow.)
“and i got a new lighter i wanna break in, ‘nd i hate smoking alone.” Killer holds up a plastic bag, rattling the contents slightly. There’s a lighter, something ceramic, and another, smaller bag in it, full of something green and crumbly-looking.
“Wait, like,” he knows he sounds like an idiot, he knows he does, but he continues anyway, “like… marijuana.”
He can tell Killer is rolling his eyes by the exaggerated tilt of his head. “yeah, crossy, marijuana. weed, pot, mary-jane,” he barks a laugh, “devil’s lettuce!”
Cross makes a face, and Killer looks uncertain for a split second, but the expression is gone as soon as he sees it. He stuffs the bag back into his hoodie’s pocket, followed by his hands. “...least sit with me? i hate smoking alone.”
“Am I gonna get in trouble for it?” Cross replies, raising a brow, and Killer just shrugs.
“boss don’t care, long as we don’t buy any suspicious strains, and long as we smoke outside,” he explains, “and as long as it’s the only thing we do - got really pissy when dust brought back… y’know i don’t remember what it was.”
“...I kind of don’t want to know,” Cross admits, sticking the bookmark he’d been (forcefully) given into his book. “I’ll go outside with you, I guess.”
Killer’s grin is so wide that it looks as though it might split his face. He hauls Cross up from the chair and pulls him towards a narrow spiral staircase that Cross had seen, but never used. It’s a little dizzying, but Cross follows him up, wondering where the hell this tower leads. Killer takes the steps two at a time, staring up towards the apex of the castle.
Eventually, they come out onto the roof, and the cool air is refreshing after so long in the stairwell. Killer lopes toward the center, flopping into a sitting position easily. Cross follows slower, a little winded, his unseen muscles burning from the stairs.
“c’mon, have a seat,” Killer says, patting the roof beside him, and Cross does as he says, sitting cross-legged next to him. “‘s nice tonight.”
It is, actually; the moon is only half-full, though Cross isn’t sure if it’s waning or waxing. Either way, it paints the roof in a pale light, softening the edges of all the shadows.
And it’s weird to know it’s actually nighttime as he stares at the moon, though; the sky never lightens here, so Cross usually had only his own internal clock to go by, rather than the sun and moon.
Killer is fiddling with his bags, packing marijuana into the wide end of the ceramic thing. The lighter lays in front of him, though it doesn’t take more than another moment for him to pick it up. When he puts the thin end between his teeth it looks like an old-timey cartoon pipe, and Cross can’t help but snort.
“whatcha laughin’’ at?” Killer grunts, muffled. “‘s just a bowl.”
“...Only the end looks like a bowl.”
“they still call it a bowl,” he shrugs, lighting the wide end and inhaling deep. After a minute, he takes it from his mouth and exhales, puffing the smoke out in a huge cloud.
Cross watches, slightly entranced. It smells kind of nice, like that crystal shop he’d gone into with Dust and Horror once, though certainly stronger. Kind of earthy, but with an almost floral tinge, of course laced with the tang of smoke.
Killer sees him watching, of course. “see somethin’ you like?”
“N-no,” Cross stammers, though he’s still staring. Killer snorts; they both know how good he is at reading people, almost as good as Nightmare. Cross is no exception.
“sure you don’t wanna try?” He takes another hit, and although the lack of eyelights makes it hard to tell, Cross thinks he’s staring right back. Then, he turns and blows the smoke out in misshapen rings. “damn, i’m still terrible at that.”
“What’s it feel like?” Cross blurts. When Killer raises a brow at him, he elaborates, “Getting high, I mean.”
“dunno. kinda floaty, i guess.” Killer’s eyes narrow a bit. “c’n make you feel like shit sometimes, though, depends on the strain.”
“...Why would you smoke it then?” Cross isn’t trying to sound judgemental, but he feels his face scrunch up in distaste as the words come out of his mouth. Killer shrugs.
“‘cos usually we get strains that chill us out,” he replies. “‘s what dust likes, and i’m not picky.” Once more, he interrupts the conversation for a hit, this time blowing the smoke out quickly. “still depends on you, though. got somethin’ that was supposed to be a chill strain one time, and it freaked dust out real bad.” He cackles, “nightmare and horror were pissed.”
Cross stares at the bowl in his hand, unsure why he’s really considering this. Unsure why he isn’t just doing it, anyway; he’s an adult, he can do as he likes, and -
“y’know, if you wanna try, i’m not gonna let you, uh,” Killer scratches his skull, letting the bowl rest on the discarded bag that had held it. He looks as almost uncomfortable, which is certainly new. “not gonna let you get hurt, y’know.”
“Sweet of you,” Cross says, but he hardly even means it sarcastically. Killer shrugs, a little awkwardly, before picking up the bowl and repacking it. “...I guess one hit wouldn’t hurt.”
Killer hums in agreement, resting the bowl again and flipping his lighter a few times, like he would with his knife.
“so, smoking one-oh-one, criss-cross,” he begins, pointedly ignoring Cross’s eye roll. “you’re gonna wanna inhale into your belly, but only when the weed’s still glowin’. otherwise you just get ash ‘nd it’s nasty as hell.”
At Cross’s nod, he continues, “and then you hold it for a bit. and exhale sloooowly.” Killer’s grin quirks up a bit. “make sure you really breath in deep, though, ‘cos otherwise all the smoke’ll just go out through your ribcage ‘r somethin’.”
“That sounds awful,” Cross responds honestly, and Killer laughs his loud, strange laugh, nodding a bit.
“yep, it does, trust me.” He holds the bowl out to Cross, and he takes it, trying to forget that Killer had his own mouth on it only minutes before. “y’should form your tongue, makes it easier.”
Cross does so, flexing it against his teeth before taking the pipe into his mouth, steadying it with a hand near the bowl. Killer grabs the lighter in one hand, flicks it on, and then puts his other hand right near Cross’s.
“ready?” When Cross nods, Killer says, “okay, inhale,” and brings the lighter to the bowl, igniting the weed packed into it. Cross breathes as deeply as he can, trying to ignore Killer’s hand against his, and the acrid smoke blowing towards his face.
He fails, pulling the pipe from his mouth and hacking up a storm. Killer is laughing, he thinks, but he also gives Cross a few good whacks on the spine to stop his choking.
“That was,” he wheezes, and Killer hits him again for good measure, “that was h-horrible.”
“well, y’did it wrong,” Killer replies with an easy shrug. He puts the pipe back in his own mouth and sucks on it, making the embers in the bowl flare for a moment.
“N-no shit,” Cross grumbles, still trying to catch his breath. Killer watches him for a moment, though he eventually turns and watches the sky as he takes another hit.
It’s an easy rhythm that Cross isn’t exactly a part of; they both look at the sky, with its new stars and perpetual moon, and Killer inhales and exhales the smoke. Every so often, he flicks the lighter on and off again, bathing himself in the weak orange light of the flame. Even less often, he repacks the bowl.
Cross times his breathing with Killer’s as he smokes, mostly to catch his breath. If the low chuckle to his left is any indication, Killer notices, but aside from that, he doesn’t comment.
“...y’wanna try again?” Killer asks eventually, quiet enough that it takes Cross a moment to look at him. There’s something strange in his expression, and Cross only recognizes it because he’s known Killer for so long.
It doesn’t mean he can parse it, though. If he had to guess, it’s uncertainty, or maybe uncomfortableness.
“Kind of,” Cross says after a moment. “Still kind of catching my breath, though.” The humor is a little forced, and so is Killer’s laugh, but it does seem to break that strange tension.
“a’right,” Killer says when he finishes laughing. “got any strong feelings about kissing?”
“...I mean, other than the fact that I’d like to do it someday?” Cross cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth. Stars, he sounds like a fucking loser. But Killer only chuckles quietly.
“right, okay… so the idea is, i inhale the smoke, and when i exhale, you inhale it,” he explains after a slight pause.
“You’re going to kiss me,” Cross says, dumbfounded.
“i mean, not if y’don’t want me to…” Now he knows why Killer has been so unsure. (He didn’t really think Killer was anything other than cocksure of himself, the asshole…)
“No, I want to,” he replies, way too fast. But Killer smiles a little, genuine, before the expression drops again, and he takes a long hit.
Cross waits, tense, watching as Killer takes the pipe from his mouth without opening it. And then his mouth is on Cross’s, and he’s opened his mouth automatically to inhale the smoke that Killer is giving him.
He hears the bowl clink against the roof, and Killer’s hands are on his knees, grounding. Cross pulls away, too soon, and blows whatever smoke is left, nowhere near as graceful as Killer.
Killer’s usual grin is back, watching the smoke swirl away from them up towards the moon. The fingers of one hand flex on Cross’s knee, and then it leaves to drag his face back towards Killer’s own.
Maybe they both taste like weed, or maybe it’s just Killer, but there’s nothing unpleasant about it, just strange in that, wow, Killer’s tongue is literally in my mouth, okay, but Cross supposes it’s strange that he’s kissing Killer in the first place. It’s longer than the first kiss, and there’s no smoke involved this time, yet he still feels disappointed when Killer pulls back.
He’s still grinning, like someone’s told the greatest joke ever. “you’re a shitty smoker, and a shitty kisser.” His hand is still on Cross’s knee, though.
“...Fuck off, I’ve never done either,” Cross says weakly.
Killer flops onto his back, and his grin is lopsided, and really, really genuine, more so than Cross has ever seen. “yeah, i know. so, y’know, if you ever wanna practice either one…”
The stupid little ‘call me’ sign Killer makes with his free hand makes Cross’s soul do more flip-flops in his rib cage than both the kisses and his offer combined.