Work Text:
You look at the brown, taped box on the coffee table right in front of you; something new to try. You did some research about edibles, you made sure to hydrate and have water nearby as well as snacks. You have a list of some side effects that you’re expecting; hunger, heaviness, fatigue. What you really should have listened to, is the advice of having a babysitter for the first time you get high. Really, at the end of the day, you should have at least informed Kyle of what you bought.
However, you didn’t. Despite all of the reddit posts, the articles and the tumblr blogs insisting to have a first time babysitter, you didn’t bother to listen. You use a kitchen knife to open up the box, grunting a little as you fold back the cardboard flaps to reveal a bubble wrapped bag. You set the knife aside and take out the bubble wrap, ripping open the small piece of tape. Putting the bubble wrap aside once the bag is in your lap, you open up the little bag. You peer inside and you spot the gummies you bought. Curious, you lean down and sniff.
You get a whiff of a musky scent—very similar to the weed you’ve smelled people smoking on the street, but not quite. You’ve certainly read the package, but you still didn’t really process how much THC the edibles contain, so you end up popping two gummies at once. They don’t taste the greatest, the sweetness of the treat doing little to mask the harsher tang on your tongue. While you wait for it to kick in is when you begin to underestimate how hard the high will eventually hit you.
You, being the person you are, have always assumed you kind of digest things quicker than most folks—something that is incredibly false. About thirty minutes into your scroll on your phone, you end up eating another one—you don’t feel anything, so you eat a fourth.
At one point, you push yourself up, standing up and—oh. Your entire vision shifts for a moment, giving you a split second of an odd case of vertigo. Your hands shoot out as if to stabilize yourself. You blink languidly, swallowing; your throat is dry, and you have this foreign sensation behind your eyes, kind of trailing down behind your sinuses. In your sinuses? You’re not sure. “Oh, fuck.” You whisper.
Your eyelids feel.. Heavy. Not quite tired, but physically heavy, similar to the rest of your body. Your arms feel like there’s sandbags tied to them, and you kind of want to sink into the floor where you’re standing. Unlike being drunk where you’re swaying, you just want to.. Sit.
So, sit you do. You take back your spot right where you were previously sitting—you entirely forget whatever you were planning on doing before—and you sink back into the cushions. It feels so damn good, just taking a moment to exist and lay back. You glance around the living room without moving your head first; you think you can handle it, that this’ll be nice until you physically turn your head.
Vertigo strikes you so hard, it makes your heart skip a beat straight into a panic. You’re also becoming so unbearably aware of your bodily functions; every breath you’re taking and the energy it requires to do so, the rate of your blinking speed, how dry your mouth and throat are. You close your eyes in an attempt to regain control, to ground yourself a little bit. There’s this sense of.. Impending doom or some sort of anxiety trickling into your bones, starting in your intestines. The sensation spreads like wildfire, it’s everywhere yet nowhere at the same time. It really doesn’t help that your arms and legs are just concrete cinder blocks right now.
A sort of fog is wrapped around your brain, and the panic turns white and cold. That’s when you know you can’t do this, and you think of the only person you can right now—Kyle. Your hands pat your pockets for a moment before one of your hands slips between the couch cushions, fingertips brushing against the edge of your phone.
Once you pull it out, you open your eyes a bit, muscle memory clicking your messages app and calling Kyle’s contact. You swallow thickly as you press your phone to your ear, waiting ring after ring for him to pick up. You just want some normalcy. You know he’s at work, so you don’t exactly expect him to pick up as quickly as he does.
“Hey, sweets. What’s going on? Is everything alright?”
Kyle’s voice is like a breath of fresh air, like the crisp wind on an autumn morning in the woods. His softness helps settle the rumbling feeling in your gut a tad. You lick your lips, your brain taking a moment to catch up with your mouth. “I fucked up.” You garble out, breathy and a little weak. “I.. I bought some edibles, and um… I didn’t.. I ate too many and I’m just.. I don’t wanna be alone, it’s hitting me so fuckin’ hard, Kyle.”
There’s a pause over the phone at first, and you almost think Kyle hung up before he makes a humming noise. You know he has to be taken aback; this is definitely a purchase you usually would have and should have informed him about, but what’s done is done. “Take a breath, hm? You’ll be okay, I’m gonna be home as soon as possible, sweetness. Twenty minutes, max.” Kyle murmurs, his voice smooth like shea butter and coconut. It washes over you, like a gentle ocean wave tickling at your ankles before receding from the shoreline.
It’s almost enough to pull you from your panic—almost.
You don’t move from your spot on the couch much, maybe you shift around here and there, but you don’t get up. You’re trying your best to breathe like Kyle told you to—and you know he won’t be home for a little white, so naturally you begin to think about.. Things. Things your mind typically wouldn’t really let you think about too hard.
Things being Kyle.
Kyle, Kyle, Kyle… The absolute sweetest man in your life. He has always treated you with kindness, even during your worst moments. He’s incredibly patient, caring, and extremely compassionate. If there’s a solution, he will find it with you as a team, not butting heads with you in an argument. Your mind lacks the typical barriers it has, so you can’t help but slip into dangerous territory.
Kyle’s voice is rich, charismatic; not the deepest voice you’ve heard, but definitely the most pleasant to your ears. He always makes you feel some type of fuzzy when he flashes you a smile, a throaty laugh; one of your favorite sounds nowadays. It’s a sound you constantly replay in your head and it never fails to spread this warmth. Your mind begins to drift to the curve of his lips, the way they stretch against his teeth when he grins, especially when he’s about to say something especially cheeky.
The curve of Kyle’s jaw, how you crave to know how his stubble feels against your skin. You would love to be given the opportunity to count the freckles on his skin, developed by the sun exposure he’s been getting as of late.
You think of the way his shoulders are nice and wide; sturdy and strong—Kyle’s arms, and the way his skin stretches over his muscles.. God, you’re so fucked. The sight of Kyle always makes you feel so gooey, his confident stature and the way his chest tapers into his waist. You won’t admit it to yourself, but you find yourself glancing at him over and over when he comes home in his uniform, especially when you see the way he fits the uniform.
You love the way the fabric stretches over his wide back, bunching up at his waist, shoved below his beltline. You’ve grown accustomed to the sounds of his heavy work boots thumping against the hardwood floors; a comforting sound, actually. Lets you know he’s home and he’s safe. You love how strong his forearms and hands are, too.
Oh, and Kyle’s eyes. Big and brown, alluring and identical to pools of vanilla extract in a metal teaspoon. You could drink him in on any day of the week if you were allowed to. If you allowed yourself to.
Vanilla.. He’s sweet, just like vanilla. Sometimes you wonder if he tastes as sweet as he acts? How would his lips feel on yours? Would Kyle go slow, or would he be as desperate as you feel for him?
…God, you’re high. That’s what you’ll tell yourself later when your mental barriers are back up, that you were too high to know what you were thinking about.
You only realize the very man you were fantasizing about is right in front of you. Kyle’s bent over, his fingers carefully wrapping around your wrists to pull your hands from your face. “Hey, hey, I’m here. I’m home.” Kyle whispers, careful to not disturb any peace you may have found before he pulled up in his car.
Oh, what this man doesn’t realize is how much peace he brings you.
You swallow again for the nth time, barely any saliva slipping down your throat, your hands relaxing as Kyle guides them down to your lap. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb gently brushing against your cheek bone, eyes searching your face as you blink. You feel so heavy, yet you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. You subconsciously lean forward, taking in a breath like Kyle told you to do.
You look at him through your eyelashes, your lips parting for a moment as your hand reaches up. Kyle’s hand meets yours, guiding your palm straight to his chest. His heart beats underneath your touch, making you shakily exhale a breath you didn’t realize that you were holding. “Kyle.” You whisper, your fingers twitch a little against his shirt before he gently smiles, taking a seat right next to you on the couch. His legs slot underneath your knees—he at one point lifted your legs so they were draped across his thighs, something you didn’t notice him do.
The contact is.. Good. It’s nice. You can feel his familiar warmth not only sinking in from his words, but also his presence; his touch. “There you are, hey.” Kyle utters, his hand moving from your cheek to smooth over your scalp. You make eye contact and—Jesus, you’re so fucked. It feels like he’s peering right into your soul, like he knows the individual strands of your DNA, speaking to your nervous system like quiet hymns spoken on sacred ground.
You’ve never felt so known, yet so exposed.
You know that Kyle is speaking to you; saying stuff you’re not really processing. What he doesn’t realize is that he just.. Being here is helping. His warmth from his mind, body and soul—that’s what is keeping you grounded.
It reminds you of when Kyle is gone; how much you shouldn’t take his physical presence for granted. You have your phone calls, your facetimes, your letters—but when there’s those periods of time where he has to go radio silence? You just wish he was home, especially when the smell of his body wash, cologne and just.. him begins to fade from the apartment. You always wish he would be there for a longing hug, like the ones you share before he has to leave.
Your heart clenches then speeds up for a moment at the possibility for the next time that he won’t be home like this; won’t have the availability to come to your cry for help.
Maybe, just maybe, this one time you’ll allow yourself to yearn for something more; something closer than friends, a kiss. Hands roaming, and sweet nothings. Early mornings and skin to skin.
This will do. It has to.