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The car’s done for. Smells like pure sin. Poor soul responsible for renting it out to Aaron screwed over and then some. They might as well return it with an apology note and stack of twenties in the glove box. Smoke curls in lazy loops under the parking lot lights, filling the car and fogging over the windows until the windows are nearly impossible to see through. aaron can barely feel his body. Just the fuzz of a high. Mike’s in the passenger seat, slouched low squeezed between the dash and the seat, dragging slow on the joint like there's nothing else. No chance of being caught, no turn around trip to the nearest dispensary for another round.
Aaron mutter, low like someone’s listening. The parking lots far too nice of a place for this. “So illegal.”
Mike snorts. “Not with my card.” He gestures vaguely with the joint, nearly dropping it, but catches it last second, fingers quick despite the haze.
Aaron rolled his eyes but took another hit anyway. “This is fucked up,”
Mike exhales, watching the smoke drift toward the cracked window. “You’re literally holding a joint right now.”
“Yeah, but you—” Aaron waves vaguely, the joint between his fingers slicing through the air. “You got that card all official, like, for your back and shit.”
Mike grins, lazy and lopsided. “And?”
“And I feel like we’re taking advantage of the system, man.”
Miek laughs, tipping his head back against the headrest, eyes flicking over to Aaron. “Oh my god, we are the system. Relax.”
A stretch of silence settles between them, thick with smoke and warmth. The joint burns down slow between Aaron’s fingers, but he barely registers it. He’s too busy watching him—how the glow from the dashboard cuts sharp against his jaw, how his fingers curl around the joint, the way his lips part slightly before he inhales.
And Aaron has a staring problem.
It’s not new, but the weed makes it worse, lets his brain slow-cook in thoughts he usually ignores. The soft scrape of Mike’s stubble when he runs a hand over his jaw, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the fucking way his neck looks—exposed, right there. It’d be so easy. Just lean over, let his teeth scrape against the skin, sink in just enough to make Mike jolt.
He takes another drag instead, the heat of the joint grounding him. Exhales toward the cracked window. “Wanna go watch a movie?”
Mike snuffs out the joint against the ashtray, looking over with a slow, crooked grin. “Hell yes, I do.”
Mike doesn’t answer beyond that, just flicks the nearly-finished joint into an empty soda can before climbing out of the car.
Aaron follows him in a daze, still processing the fact that they’re walking. By the time they stumble into Mike's hotel room, they’re still laughing at a joke neither of them actually finished, giggling like they were half as old as they are. Aaron’s cheeks hurt, and Mike keeps snickering at nothing, his hands on his knees like he needs to physically hold himself up or he’ll crash into the floor. Not that Aaron’s in any better a state, collapsing face-first into the hotel bed. The sheets are cold and smell like something woody and sweet. Like Mike.
“Could you flop harder?”
“Was kinda hoping I’d clip through.”
They lose it. Laughter bubbles up fast, too loud for the hour, but neither of them cares. Aaron’s face is buried in the blanket, muffling his wheezing, while Mike just cackles, arms wrapped around his stomach like he’s physically holding himself together.
Eventually, the laughter fades, leaving behind a breathless sort of quiet. Mike flops down next to him, rolling onto his side, close enough that Aaron can feel the warmth of him. They just stare at each other for a moment, something unspoken hanging in the air, but neither of them reaches for it.
“What are we watching?” Aaron asks, turning his head toward the TV.
Mike hums, turning over to reach for the remote. “Disney marathon.”
“Disney?”
Mike shrugs. “Colors, Aaron, colors,” he says, like it explains everything.
It pretty much does.
They get through Tangled with frequent interruptions—Mike quoting half the lines unprompted, Aaron having a small existential crisis over how much the king looks like a Jokic brother, and both of them clapping when Flynn gets smacked with the frying pan. Then Frozen starts, and somewhere between “Do You Wanna Build A Snowman” and Mike mumbling about how Elsa’s whole situation is so relatable, Aaron realizes he’s staring.
He's sprawled on the bed, one leg kicked out, the other bent up with his elbow propped on it. His hair’s a mess from where he’s run his fingers through it, and his mouth is twisted in concentration, eyes locked on the screen like it actually matters.
Then he suddenly sits up. Even high as a kite he moves quickly.
“Dude. Room service.”
Aaron blinks. “Huh?”
“I’m ordering food.”
It starts out reasonable—some fries, a burger, chicken nuggets. Then it spirals. Aaron watches him, staring like he’s witnessing some kind of cosmic event, ears three seconds behind, and even then the words not registering in his head.
The poor lady at the front desk sounds so tired, - an hour away from walking out on her job - but Mike’s just nodding along, murmuring, “Mhm. Mhm. Oh, what about the cookies?” while Aaron tries to figure out if he’s actually dying or what. Christ, what did he smoke? More importantly, how much?
By the time Mike hangs up, he’s got enough food coming to feed the entire team.
By the time the poor soul arrives with Mike's ridiculous order, Aaron’s half-asleep, warm and boneless under the blankets. Mike sits next to him, cross-legged, demolishing a plate of some sort of loaded chicken fries. He shoves one into his mouth, then holds another out toward Aaron without looking.
Aaron blinks at it. “What—”
“Try it,” he says around a mouthful of fries, wiggling it closer.
Aaron groans but tilts his head, letting Mike press the fry against his lips. He chews lazily, barely keeping his eyes open, his head sinking against Mike's thigh.
“Another?”
Aaron grunts something that might be a yes, existence like a bag of rocks. The fries keep coming, and Aaron takes each one, too comfortable to move more than an inch at most. His whole body feels like it’s made of lead, warm and happy and safe.
Eventually, Mike's fingers get too close. Aaron’s mouth closes just as he’s pulling away—teeth catching skin, biting down just enough to make Mike jolt.
“Ow,” Mike yelps, yanking his hand back.
Aaron grins, eyes still half-lidded, looking up at him through his lashes. “Tasted your finger. Kinda salty.”
Mike stares at him. “You bit me.”
Aaron just hums, nuzzling further into his lap, eyes already slipping shut. “You’ll live.”
And while Aaron tries to figure out if he’s actually dying or just falling in love in real time, the answer settles somewhere between them, unspoken but obvious.
Because that’s what this is, right?
It’s not about the weed. It’s not even about the food. It’s about the way Mike talks to people—so easy, like the world’s been built just to accommodate him. It’s the way he sits cross-legged on the bed, tapping his fingers on his knee while he waits for his milkshake that didn’t make it with the first delivery, completely unaware of the way Aaron’s looking at him.
And Aaron is looking at him.
He’d probably be panicking if he wasn’t high off his ass. But instead, his body decides for him—his eyes get heavy, his limbs sink deeper into the mattress, and before he can process it, sleep drags him under.
The last thing he sees is Mike, still sitting next to him, eyes glued to the screen, shoving a handful of nacho chicken fries into his mouth.
Somehow, that’s the best thing Aaron’s ever seen. And he’s been to some of the greatest places on earth.