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The world is wavy. Lines, slightly blurred, barriers between self and other crumbling. Mac and Charlie lay next to each other on the floor, and the carpet feels like blades of grass against Mac's skin. The ceiling is a mass of clouds amongst a purple, blue haze, and the fluffy, welcoming formations of condensation look close enough to touch. He reaches out his hand, and his fingers make the clouds ripple.
"What do you think the sun tastes like?" The voice belongs to Charlie. It feels like the familiar burn of whiskey running down ones throat, the warmth it brings to the chest and the flush to the nose and cheeks. Mac watches as the coloured haze above him turns a commercial Valentine's Day shade of pastel pink.
"Like gold," Mac replies.
"What does gold taste like?" Charlie asks.
"I don't know. I've never eaten gold," Mac says. He wafts his hand through the air, entranced by the otherworldly shapes that swirl through the white clouds.
"I've eaten metal and it tasted bad. But I haven't eaten gold. That's more of a rich man's delicacy," Charlie informs Mac with a matter-of-fact tone. Mac feels like the information is sacred, and his heart races at being let in on this.
Finally, he looks across at Charlie. They're close, and Mac can see every detail of his face. It looks like his freckles are moving, bouncing off each other like little neurons colliding. "What does metal taste like?"
"Blood," Charlie says, looking back at Mac. His eyes widen, as if he'd just seen the greatest of beings. "Woah, dude, you're... like... glowing."
"I am?"
"Yeah..." Charlie breathes. Mac watches his pupils expand so wide, they absorb the rest of his eyes. They look like black holes. Mac wants to crawl into them and discover the secrets of the universe. "Like, this white light... S'coming off like, all of you, in these big glowy lines..."
"Maybe I'm an angel," Mac gasps.
"I think you are, dude," Charlie nods seriously. "I always had my suspicions, but now I think this is... definitive proof of your angelness."
"Woah..." Mac grins. His cheeks feel like they expand and inflate as he does so, and it makes him wonder about his teeth. About nothing in particular. He just wonders about them. He lays on his back again, the most intense feeling of bliss flooding his body, head to toe. It felt like the world was hugging his brain softly. "I don't know about you, but... these mushrooms are doing something, for sure."
"No kidding," Charlie says. Mac feels his hand land on his t-shirt, his fingers tracing over the fabric with a hum of awe. "We should do this. All the time."
Mac wonders what Charlie is feeling as he strokes his top. He knows that his skin prickles up with goosebumps underneath Charlie's fingers, but he's not sure if that's the shrooms, or whether that would happen when they're sober too.
"Yes," Mac says simply in response. "I wanna be like this with you. Forever, I think."
"Forever," Charlie repeats. "Your t-shirt feels like it's melting."
"That makes no sense," Mac replies with a chuckle. "It's all in the same place. Not melting at all."
"I didn't say it looks like it's melting, I said it feels like it is," Charlie says indignantly, spreading his hand out across the fabric. "Feel it."
Mac sighs but does as Charlie says. His voice still feels like whiskey to listen to, and it's almost like the liquid is trickling down into his stomach. Charlie could say anything right now and it sound like gospel to Mac, so he touches the fabric of his t-shirt.
The cloth feels like it's moving beneath his fingertips, morphing in a liquid state although not moving to his eye.
"Oh. You're right," Mac admits. "What the fuck, that's so cool..."
"Are we sharing a trip right now?" Charlie grins. His inflection is warm. Mac wants to drown in it. To fill up his lungs with the warm whiskey and wallow in it forevermore. "Our brains must be, linked together. Is that possible?"
"It must be possible, dude, if ours are," Mac says in awe. "That makes sense, right?"
"Total sense," Charlie agrees wistfully. "Let's test it."
"How do we test it?"
"Well," Charlie looks up at the ceiling. "Tell me what you see when you look up. Do you see clouds and cool colours?"
Mac gasps, sitting up from the floor in disbelief. "That's exactly what I see," he says, looking up at the ceiling clouds and then down at Charlie, whose skin looked so warm, it was the colour of the gold he wanted to eat. "What does that mean?"
Charlie doesn't reply for a moment. His pupils are swallowing the whites of his eyes again and his lips are parted, gazing up at Mac silently.
"Charlie? What does it mean?" Mac taps Charlie's shoulder impatiently.
"We're probably just soul mates or something, bro," Charlie blinks as he realises he didn't verbalise his words. "What else could it be?"
"Oh," Mac's eyebrows raise. He can feel every millimetre of his forehead move in high definition. "That makes sense but... don't soul mates have to be in love?"
"Maybe we are," Charlie hums in thought. Slowly, he pushes himself up to sit, crossing his legs in front of Mac. "What if we are?"
Charlie's face feels like sunlight to look at. He's replenishing Mac's vitamin D just being near him, enough of a presence to make the whole city feel sunny, all the time. "I think we might be," Mac replies. He wants to be sun burnt by this man. He wants to stay in his light for too long and turn a tremendous shade of commercially Valentine's Day shade of red, to match the ceiling or the sky or the amorphous cluster of clouds.
"We're sharing a trip," Charlie says, and holds his palm out to Mac. It's upright, his fingers spread out. The palm lines look like mini Grand Canyons in his skin. "So touch my hand. And if we're in love, this'll definitely confirm it."
"What will confirm it?"
"How it makes us feel," Charlie says. "What it does to our trip. If we tell each other and it's the same feeling and also a good feeling, we're in love, and then we'll know. Knowing is better than thinking."
"I want to know everything," Mac mused.
"Then touch my hand," Charlie pleads softly. "I want to know everything too."
So Mac does. He brings his palm up and presses it carefully against Charlie's, shivering as a warm breeze seems to filter through the room, although the door and windows are closed.
"Woah," Charlie whispers, looking at their hands. They almost feel fused together, like their skin is the same and their fingers are one with each other's. Mac's never felt his chest react to something like this before in his life, as if its gained a consciousness and started feeling emotions of its own, completely separate to one's perceivable by humans. "Did you feel that breeze?"
Mac nods. His eyes are wide and he feels locked into Charlie. He couldn't look away if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to. Charlie's hair seems to be moving in waves that fused with the world around him, and his freckles wobble again, his skin a living, breathing organism.
"And our hands... they're stuck," Charlie adds. Mac wonders if he's getting drunk off of his beautiful whiskey voice, along with the high from the mushrooms.
"Yeah," Mac mumbles. "That solves it."
"We're definitely in love," confirms Charlie gently. "That's kinda cool."
It is cool, Mac thinks. It's cool, because it feels like he's known this nugget of knowledge for most of his life, but simultaneously, is just hearing it for the first time. His chest is doing wonders, and his hand feels like it's melting into Charlie's. Mac wishes he could melt entirely into him for all eternity.
"I wish I could melt into you, too," Charlie mumbles. "Just become a big puddle of us. Completely mingled together."
Apparently, he was talking aloud just then. He doesn't mind too much. Charlie hearing that doesn't bother him. "We should hug," Mac says. "If our hands are doing that, then maybe our bodies will melt together too."
"You're so smart." Charlie shuffles closer to Mac, getting on his knees with balance that slightly wobbles as the room around him pulsates, moves, breathes. Mac does the same, and the two wrap their arms around the other without so much as a second thought.
It feels like magic, Mac decides. Charlie's hug feels like magic, if that was something he even believes in. If magic is real, Mac's pretty sure it's a sin, along the lines of sorcery or something, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that this magic feeling is a sin as much as he doesn't care that the fact he's apparently in love with Charlie is a sin too. It's simply not possible for anything to feel remotely ungodly right now, when every sense is heightened and it feels like he's ascending above the plane of existence he's been accustomed to for so long.
He rests his head on Charlie's shoulder and it feels like his skin takes root there. He's slipping into Charlie's soul, and Charlie into his, hugging each other on the floor of his bedroom.
"I think..." Charlie starts. His voice is careful and delicate and the whiskey has turned into a fine wine. "I think that the whole world created us to be like this."
Mac wants to swirl Charlie's voice around delicately in a glass and smell the notes of honeysuckle. He thinks their skin might be fused together, but he doesn't think he minds. "You're right," he says softly. "Like, God created us both just for us to be friends for years and then take magic mushrooms and then hug like this. Like it's all part of His plan. This moment. And now we're stuck together but stuck in a good way and it feels like all the stars in the sky make sense or somethin'."
Charlie smiles. Mac can feel him do it, because his face is buried in his shoulder, and the stretch of his lips and the bunching up of his cheeks brushes against Mac's shoulder and it feels like electricity. "I think you're right, dude," he mumbles into Mac's t-shirt. "I think... this was meant to be. Before we were even born, like, this was the moment all the stuff was gonna build up to. And now it's like, I can see so much more stuff."
"What can you see?" Mac asks softly.
"I can see you," Charlie whispers. Now, his voice is like absinthe. Mac's intoxicated, and every drop of Charlie's voice feels sacred, special, a ritual to consume. Charlie's voice has been passed through a sugar cube, dripping slowly into a glass. Charlie's voice is being sipped carefully. Drip fed. Charlie's voice is an electric green that makes Mac feel wavy and peaceful and drunk.
"I can see you too," he whispers in return. And although he can't see Charlie very much with his eyes right now, he can see him more in a metaphysical sense than he's ever been able to see anybody in his life.
Soon, Mac can see Charlie in the physical sense too, as the man pulls back slightly and looks him dead in the eye. And without much warning, Charlie's lips are on his, and they're kissing. They're kissing, and it feels amazing, Mac thinks he might just be ascending from his stupid body entirely and going to heaven. Charlie's hands hold him with ease and comfort and his lips seem to know what they're doing, like they were made to be slotting with Mac's in such intimate, soft ways.
Every nerve in Mac's body is functioning to their most efficient capacity. He feels everything ten times more. He can feel each firm dent on Charlie's lips from where they're chapped, every slight flake of skin. He can feel every wrinkle as their lips drag slowly together, every hair follicle as his clavicle scrapes softly against the bristles of stubble, every bit of texture on his skin where his nose is nudged. It feels like the room is spinning around them and they're the only things that are still.
Mac doesn't know exactly how the kiss makes him feel, but he does know that he likes it. He likes it a lot. It's like drinking a cocktail of whiskey, wine and absinthe, all muddled together as the alcohol burn warms his chest and stomach and the apples of his cheeks.
Charlie breaks apart with a little exhale, looking Mac in the eyes again, who's met with green bordered, breathing black holes. Again, he wants to climb through and make a home in Charlie's skull. "You don't taste like blood."
Mac blinks. "What?"
"I thought you'd taste like blood. Because metal tastes like blood, and gold tastes like metal, and the sun tastes like gold, and you're the dayman, so you're my sun," Charlie explains. His voice is matter-of-fact. "But you don't."
Mac's lips part. The air feels high definition as it settles against his soft, damp lips, breath passing through. He can feel them dry as he inhales and exhales. The room inhales and exhales with him. "I'm the dayman?"
"Obviously," Charlie frowns slightly in confusion. "Karate and friendship," he reminds Mac with a cocked head. "Or... karate and soul mate stuff now. I should update it."
It takes a moment for Mac to process that. He keeps getting distracted by Charlie's freckles, that each seem like conscious organisms. Life forms. He nods eventually. "What do I taste like?"
"Like skin," Charlie shrugs which a giggle. "Which shouldn't be a surprise, because you are skin. You have lots of it. It's better than blood. I wanna hug you again." He doesn't pause between his clusters of words, nor does he pause between his words and his actions, instantaneously leaning forwards and wrapping his arms around Mac. They're connected once more.
"I'm glad that we're in love," Mac says after a moment. He likes the feeling of Charlie's body against his. If given the choice, he'd die like this. "Although I have a feeling that I'd have figured it out soon anyway."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Mac hums, which vibrates against his lips; it tickles slightly. "I have loads of feelings. All the time. And some of the things you do makes them even bigger, and I just think... I think that the shrooms are right and actually, that we've been in love for a while."
"Can I admit something to you, man?"
"Of course, buddy," Mac says quietly. Every breath that Charlie takes is in line with his. They inhale at the same time, exhale at the same time, and the walls breathe with them. It's quiet. Quiet in the good sort of way that makes everything feel sacred, like there's nobody else around yet everything is sentient, one, whole.
It feels otherworldly.
"I think I'd already figured it out," Charlie says. His tone is tentative, but not nervous. Vulnerable, perhaps. "I... I knew before tripping that I love you. I guess. Sorta."
"...For real?"
"Yeah," Charlie replies shyly. "...It just felt like the right time to say it. I've kinda known for years."
Mac can hear his heart swell. It's almost orchestral, the way it makes his hairs stand up straight and warms the depths of his very soul. "Cool," he says, because it is. It's incredibly cool. Charlie's so fucking cool.
"Cool," Charlie mumbles. "We should... Remember this. And not pretend to forget that we said it and go back to normal."
"Don't think we could argue that we forgot it anyway, it's not like we're blackout drunk," Mac muses quietly. "We took a little dose of shrooms. No soul mate amnesia, I swear."
"Good, I'd kick your ass if you tried to pull that on me," Charlie grumbles.
"I wanna look at the clouds again," Mac says quietly. "Can we still hug and look at the sky?"
"It's technically the ceiling," Charlie says. "Or maybe you were right about all your God stuff and it's heaven."
"Can we still hug, though?" Mac presses, and then he pauses. "...Please? I-I don't wanna stop touching. It feels... special."
Charlie smiles to himself; Mac feels it against his shoulder again. "Yeah," he says softly. "Lie on the bed with me."
So they stand, awkwardly manoeuvring so as not to let go. If they stop touching, the skin fusing will break, and they'll be empty again — or at least, that's how it feels, as they stumble down to lay on the bed. Charlie rests his head on Mac's chest and uses it as a muscly pillow, and Mac wraps his arm around Charlie's front, who holds onto his forearm. The clouds are still there, moving in swirls now, vaguely otherworldly shapes morphing through the pastel, psychedelic swirls of colour.
"I think," Mac starts, speaking into the peaceful quiet. "That things mean so much, all the time."
"Yeah," Charlie says softly.
"I think that things have been bad for a really long time," Mac admits further. "But right now, things feel good. And that means a lot, and I don't think I'll ever forget today, actually. Even if I pretend to one day."
"Please don't pretend to," Charlie says. He strokes his fingers against Mac's forearm. "I think this should be one of those special memories that we think about forever and ever."
"Yeah," Mac whispers.
"Because it feels like the whole world is giving my brain a hug," Charlie continues. "It's saying like, it's okay, Charlie. It's all gonna be okay, I've got you man. Things hurt but some things don't and Mac feels nice and also, here's some cool shapes and colours."
"I think the whole world is saying that to me too," Mac says. "Maybe it's God. Maybe God is giving us extra attention. Telling us that the bad things won't be bad forever, and letting us be with each other to be able to feel things like this."
"Maybe," Charlie exhales quietly. Mac watches the air tumble from his lips and disperse through the room. Apparently, he can see air now.
"Maybe," Mac echoes back.
Their words die down as they lay with each other, as each other, apart of each other. They feel the weight of feelings on their chests heavily and exist in the knowledge that they have love, so even though the mushrooms are making them feel, maybe it's not so bad. Charlie's head feels nice on Mac's chest — it's a constant, grounding weight. Otherwise, Mac feels he might start floating.
This day feels significant. Like the thoughts, verbalised or otherwise, will hold precedent in their lives for some time.
"Mac?" Charlie pipes up. Either a minute or an hour has passed. Neither man would be able to guess.
"Yeah?"
Charlie sighs a slow sigh. Mac does too. Their synchronisation is entirely and boundlessly unmatched.
"We should definitely do shrooms together again."