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Every winter, at some point, the SleepyCabin’s heater would break down. It'd be a week before some sort of tech made it out to the middle of the woods to get it working again. This year was no different. Everyone in the office felt the minute it went out today, in the middle of work, but at least it gave everyone some time to prepare before sunset.
You decide to take Jeff's Jeep into town that evening to try and find some sort of space heater, only to return after dark unsuccessful. The only spoils from your endeavor were a few of those reusable hand warming packs, one for each of the guys, and a little something extra from the smoke shop. You relish the Jeep's fading heat for a few extra moments before treading over sticks and dead leaves, up the porch, and through the creaking front door of the cabin.
Half of the boys have already holed themselves in their rooms upstairs for the night, leaving you to pass out the hand warmers to those who remain. Jeff and Niall are bundled up and chatting on the couch, and Cory is working on commissions at his desk. You pull your beanie down and decide to join Cory, a couple desks away, hoping that getting some work done will distract you from the biting cold that invades the space. Jeff drapes his blanket over your shoulders when he heads upstairs, which you pass on to Cory a few hours later when you retreat to your bedroom.
The moment you open your door, your eyes are drawn to the glaring lack of a blanket stack that was supposed to be waiting for you. A sticky note sits in their place at the foot of your bed.
‘Sorry but not actually’
You groan as you recognize the handwriting, and peak out into the hallway. The light is off in Stamper's room, but you creep over to try the handle anyway. Locked. Fuck. As much as you want to bang on his door and demand your blankets back, you don't want to disturb everyone else. You slink back to your room and curl up under your comforter, defeated. Cracking your hand warmer and hugging it to your chest, you drift off.
Only about an hour of sleep is had before you wake up shivering. You toss and turn for another 20 minutes before giving up, and go to rummage through your drawers for any extra layers. It's not much, but you pull on your beanie from earlier and an extra pair of socks over the ones you already have on, before quietly making your way down the stairs.
The smell of cigar smoke derails you from your mission to make a late night beverage, a brief flicker of light drawing your attention to the back porch. You open the door to peek out, and meet eyes with Zach. He raises an eyebrow inquisitively. “It's almost 2 in the morning, what are you doing up?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” You gently close the door behind you and lean on the wall beside him. “Stamper took all my fucking blankets while I was out. Can't sleep.”
Zach takes a deep drag from his cigar, letting out an amused hum. “Have you tried stealing them back?” He lets the smoke waft out from his mouth as he speaks.
“Bastard locked his door.”
Zach snickers, and is met with a glare as cold as the night air. You shuffle your way over to the couch and settle down, thankful to find a blanket left on a cushion. Wrapping it around you to get cozy, you look back over to him. “You wanna smoke?”
“I am smoking.” Zach holds up the cigar between his long, curled fingers and waggles it a bit. You roll your eyes.
“No, like, actually smoke.”
“This is actually smoking, retard.”
“No it's not. You hold the smoke in your mouth like a pussy. I'm trying to get high, dumbass.” You pull out a blunt from the fold of your beanie.
Zach raises an eyebrow, an amused grin spreading across his face. You silently nod for him to come over, and he plops down on the couch beside you. You pat your pockets, realizing that you didn't bring a lighter. Zach is a step ahead, offering you a light behind a wind-shielding hand. Leaning into the flame, you take the first hit. Once he puts his lighter away, his slender fingers brush against yours to take it for himself. He leans back into the couch as he inhales, resting his free arm on the cushion behind you.
You blame the shiver that runs down your spine on the chill of the Philly winter.
“So,” Zach blows the smoke out before looking over at you, “you've been extra busy lately. What's the deal?”
“Oh, you mean the freelancing stuff?” You take the blunt back to take another hit. “Just tryna pull in a bit of extra money, I guess. Thinking of what to do in the future.”
“The future?” Zach lets out an amused scoff. “What are you having a crisis or something?”
“Nah just, like… What I'm gonna do a few years down the line or whatever. SleepyCast ain't gonna last forever, y'know.”
“I know, I know. But still. Everything with Newgrounds is going well, commissions have been promising, shit’s looking up. Can't you just roll with the punches?”
“I am rolling with the punches. I just like to be prepared, that's all.”
Zach raises his hands in mock surrender, chuckling. “Fair enough. You're more responsible than most of these assholes, I'll give you that.” He lightens the mood with little effort, making you smile. You take another pull from the blunt before handing it back to him. The two of you finish the first blunt in a comfortable silence, listening to the wind whisk around forest debris beyond the porch light’s weak glow. Zach pulls you in a bit closer.
You blame the way your breath catches in your throat on the creepy darkness out beyond the porch.
You lean your head on his shoulder and hand him another blunt from your beanie for him to start. With the flick of his lighter, the passing resumes. Eventually you get tired of his bony shoulder and twist to rest your head in his lap, looking up at him as he takes a generous hit. The change in perspective makes you dizzy, and you realize that you're feeling it at this point.
“That's an unflattering angle to look at me from, you know.” Zach offers you the blunt, and you take it between your fingers to take a quick hit. You blow the smoke up into his face.
“There, now I can't see you. Problem solved.”
He waves the smoke out of his face. As you go to take another hit, a soft grip on your wrist stops you. He pulls your hand up, and takes a drag right from your fingers. The act makes you giggle in your stoned state, especially when he returns a puff of smoke down into your face. Once he releases your hand, you falter momentarily before taking the hit you were after beforehand.
“You know, I think we might actually be stupid.”
You cough out a laugh before managing a response. “Oh yeah? What tipped you off to such a grand revelation?”
Zach chuckles and pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. “We couldn't sleep because of the cold, so we decided to go outside where it's arguably even more cold.” He rests one arm on the back of the couch, and a sleeved hand over your midriff.
You blame the warmth in your cheeks on the shared body heat between the two of you.
“Well at least we've got some of the good stuff to keep us warm.” You ash the blunt and snicker, then hold it up in front of his face. An offering so that he doesn't have to expose his hands to the frigid winter atmosphere. He lets out an amused huff, but dips his head to meet it.
His drag seems to last ages as you watch him from his lap, giggling at the way he closes his eyes and savors the cloud he lets linger in his mouth. He chuckles at your buzzed amusement. “What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just havin’ a good time down here.” You dismissively wave your free hand, and take another lengthy hit.
“I bet you are. Not having to share your joints with any of the other guys? What a dream you're living.”
“Stamp won't be getting any joints from me any time soon, I'll tell you that much.” Both of you break out laughing, and you sink comfortably into his lap. He brings his hand down from the back of the couch, pushing it out of the sleeve just to tuck it away between your beanie and your hood.
You raise the blunt up to his lips, resting your upper palm against his chin as he leans forward. He takes it between his lips, your fingers flush against them as he inhales. Your eyes are fixed on his face as he takes his drag.
You blame the butterflies in your stomach on your lack of sleep.
Zach must notice your gaze, because he looks down to you with a bemused grin plastered across his face. “You keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you can see my future and I become king of the world. Is it the high, or are you just retarded?”
At the question, you space out for a moment. Why haven't your eyes left him this whole time? The only thought that the weed is allowing into your fried brain is, ‘Oh fuck, do I like him?’ Was it obvious to everyone but you?
“I either look at you or the spiderwebs above us, and personally, you're just a bit more interesting than bugs outside a cabin.” You giggle out a weak excuse, and go in for another hit.
“Just a bit, huh? I'm pretty sure you're the one laughing hardest at my jokes every time we record.”
“That’s just because you're the funniest. Don't get a big head about it.” Playfully, you blow a cloud up into his face again. You subconsciously hope that it'll keep him from seeing how red your face is.
It doesn't.
Raising an eyebrow, Zach shifts his hand forward to rest it on your jawline. “You sure about that?”
Your heart nearly stops in your chest as he leans down a bit and locks eyes with you. The whites of his eyes are tinged a light pink that you can only assume matches your own. You flounder for words, and dumbly mutter out, “I'm not sure about anything.”
Zach chuckles and shakes his head, eyes scanning your face affectionately. His attention keeps you warmer than any blanket ever could. “Wanna know what I'm sure about?”
You study him quizzically, letting out a curious hum.
Slowly, he pulls your face closer, giving you a chance to cut him off. You don't.
He closes the distance.
You blame the fireworks on him.