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They do this sometimes.
The sky’s a mess of pink, oranges, and blues, splaying across the city around them. Kuroo’s legs dangle off the front of the car, spine uncharacteristically hunched over in concentration at the joint in hands. Bokuto’s at his side, foot bumping into his own with every swing, lips wrapped around his own blunt in a deep inhale.
Kuroo rolls the joint with familiar efficiency, bringing the paper to his lips to give it a quick swipe of his tongue. He can feel Bokuto’s eyes trained on him, but he thinks nothing of it, mind too foggy to pursue any hidden meaning behind his friend’s intense gaze.
There’s no boundaries between them. The tension is evident, tangible even. The late nights spent together where trusted secrets are whispered, hands sidled up against each other, to witty flirtatious comments in the locker room was a testament to their undefined relationship. No big confessions were told, no shared kisses, only quaint, intimate moments where the sun shone a little too brightly for the both of them.
“Shit, I’m out,” Bokuto looks at him, lips in a frown as he held out the joint for him to see. The roach held between deft fingers loses it glow, trails of smoke dancing away, melting into the sunset.
Kuroo’s lips puckered on his own, looking disapprovingly at the roach as if it betrayed him. His eyes flit to Bokuto, trying to decide the best course of action, which proves rather difficult with the weed clouding his brain. Puffing out a cloud of smoke, he hands his blunt over with a low “Hmm”, faintly remembering Bokuto constantly complaining the last time he didn’t share. Bokuto takes it greedily, golden eyes lighting up as he brings it up to his lip. Little smoke rings escape from his mouth rapidly, an ability that Kuroo has never had, before passing it back over. They sit in silence for a while, the car radio playing dimly, with the occasional question from Bokuto on whether ants fart or not, or the processes of snake sex, received by a small shrug and “I’dunno” from Kuroo.
The joint is passed into Kuroo’s hands again, with a small sigh from his side. A midnight blue has already taken up the sky, stars starting to take their place above them. He can hear a mosquito buzz past his ear and he hopes it doesn’t land on him. The sticky summer night air clings to him faithfully, weighing down perpetual bed hair into brown eyes.
The blunt’s noticeably light between his fingers, and Kuroo brings it to eye level to examine it with narrowed hazy eyes. “There’s only one drag left,” he says dumbly. Bokuto blinks at him, processing his words, eyebrows in a furrow.
“Let’s shotgun it.”
He says it like it’s obvious.
As if it’s the only solution.
The implications of it make his hands shake.
Tan hands bring the joint to his lips, the scent of burning cannabis strong in his nostrils. Kuroo inhales the blunt for all it’s worth, filling his lungs to the brink. He can feel Bokuto on his side, already facing him eager as ever, despite the drug’s effects.
Struggling to keep the smoke within, Kuroo leans in close. close, close, close. High pinks and golds mingle in Bokuto’s eyes, reminiscent of the sunset, telling all but sharing none, drawing Kuroo in, in, in.
Kuroo feels suspended in time, watching with bated breath full of silky air and barely told confessions. Bokuto opens his mouth slow and wide, with uncharacteristic gracefulness, inviting him closer. Smoke seeps from his lips, confines loosening as Kuroo leans in, lips all but touching, and exhales.
The air is quiet around them. Still. The moon only a crescent, shines down faithfully, lighting the asphalt. Bokuto breaths in, eyes falling closed, drawing the air from between Kuroo’s teeth.
Close, close, close. So close.
Its overwhelming. The thought of Bokuto’s skin underneath his own running rampant in his clouded mind, filling his veins with intoxicated movement.
Lips melded together on their own accord. A sharp inhale is heard, but whether it’s from himself or Bokuto he doesn’t know. He feels Bokuto lean into him, unyielding and passionate, rough from shared pent up frustrations. Kuroo slides a hand on his waist to steady himself, gripping smooth skin under his clammy palm. He can taste the weed on his lips, but it only spurs him on, seeking it out with his tongue. Kuroo presses his thumb into Bokuto’s hip, eliciting a barely audible moan, the sound running a jolt through his spine.
His head was spinning, dizzy and hazy, only the feeling of Bokuto under him strumming clear and true through the fog. He’s running out of air, breathing hard and fast when he parts away from him.
A grin spreads over Bokuto’s face, bright and wide as ever, infectious all its own as Kuroo feels his own swollen lips grow into a smile.
He watches him flop back on the hood of the car with a faint thud, a breathy, “Yeah,” released into the air with it.
Yeah, Kuroo guesses, he could get used to this.