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It wasn't every day that Fluixon and Saparata got high.
Well, actually, it might as well be every day. But it's not every day they get high together. It's been a little while since their last sesh.
See, the rest of the Conspiracy, their little brood of nerds, was frazzled by the discovery of a burial ground or whatever. They tag along when the gang explores abandoned buildings, but truth be told, they thought it was some bullshit — just an echo chamber of fearmongering amongst themselves. I see it! — they’ve heard a million times over. They have never seen it.
Today, the pair bailed without a word. Flux opted to spend his day at Saps’ apartment, ignoring all of Thomas’ calls. They could spare a visit if they cared all that much. It’s not like Flux goes anywhere else, really.
Flux leaned against the armrest, while Saps opted to sit parallel to him, just facing the coffee table where they laid out what they thought they'd need for the next couple of hours.
They made use of a porcelain, daisy-patterned plate in place of an ash tray. Flux picked it up at a garage sale, thinking of Saps the second he saw it, for whatever reason. He didn’t even like daisies all that much; he preferred sunflowers.
“The name for these, daisies, come from the Old English word dægeseage, meaning day's eye.”
Saparata sat on the grass, picking at the flowers, forgetting how he had initially hissed at Fluixon for touching them. He twirls one in his fingers absentmindedly, ignoring the way Flux scoffs at him.
Saps is leaning across Flux's stomach as the latter plays lays on the picnic blanket. It's cliche — rather, it would be if they were actually dating, which they aren't. Much to Flux's disdain.
“I prefer sunflowers,” Saps states plainly. He fixes his eyes on the white petals.
Flux nods, clicking his tongue, “I don’t have a cool fact for those, unfortunately…”
“Hm…” Saps says, tapping his finger on his chin exaggeratedly. His face lights up—
“If you were the sun, I’d definitely be a sunflower.”
“...Ew. Don’t even try that on anybody.”
Saps grins, “What? You wanna be the only one to hear it?”
“Shut up!” Flux shoves him away.
“You’re blushing! You’re totally blushing!”
A few freshly-rolled joints rested on the plate beside Saps’ stash, but they knew that wouldn't last. Saparata was awfully skilled at rolling joints, at least in Fluixon's opinion, and he firmly believes his rolling-abilities are the foundation of his drug problem. (“If you were a terrible roller, you wouldn't like smoking this much.”)
Beside the plate sat two mug coasters: one in the shape of a music disc, and the other in the shape of a lily pad. Saps had bought the lily pad when he saw it, thinking of Fluixon. (“Get it? ‘Cause you’re like a grumpy frog!”) He had considered giving it to him outright, but he instead decided to keep at his house. Flux basically lived there, anyway.
Since Saparata rolled, Fluixon does the honors of lighting, passing the first to Saparata. He lights his own afterward and doesn't hesitate to take a drag. He doesn't feel Saparata's eye on him until he hears a barrage of stifled giggles.
“...What?” he frowns, relief interrupted as he looks up at the other boy.
“You’re holding onto that like you haven't smoked in years, and I know damn well you had one yesterday. And the day before.”
Fluixon laughs a breathy laugh, smoke coming out of his nose and mouth as he does, “You can't blame me. I haven't had a good blunt in a long time.”
“Whatever you say, addict,” he feigns harshness in his tone. Flux simply giggles. Because for whatever reason, getting high has them both like middle school girls, huddling together and sharing secrets at a sleepover.
They spend a good thirty minutes exchanging back and forth banter. Saps calls this period the Schrodinger's high: you're not quite high yet, but you're definitely not sober.
Fluixon watches the stringy waves of thick, translucent smoke, thinking to himself about everything and nothing at the same time. Meanwhile, Saparata doesn't think at all while high. Unless it's about the boy next to him. In that case, he thinks a lot.
“Y'know,” Fluixon slurs, uncharacteristically ineloquent, snapping Saparata out of his thoughts. He’s at his mansplaining stage, wherein he takes common trivia and makes it sound like niche scientific revelations. Saps likes it, anyway — he doesn’t have much of a choice than to listen.
“In a closed room, there's limited air movement. Smoke, consisting of tiny particles and hot gases, rises due to warmth. But without strong air currents, it doesn't disperse widely…” he talks as if he's reading from a book, looking over at Saparata to see if he's listening; to which, he nods.
“…Instead, the smoke tends to flow in a path, if you will” he swallows, “like, the, uhm, stringy appearance. You see?”
By now, Saparata is completely lost in his own thoughts, but he still nods along, as if comprehending anything. He tunes out Fluixon's ramblings, captivated at the way the smoke leaves his lips: flowing gracefully as he bridges together his words; stuttering when he trips over a word. God.
A lightbulb lights up above his head and he swears he could hear the flick of a switch.
“... slight clumping contributes to the smoke appearing denser and more compressed compared to a—” Fluixon's words finally register, but he can't hold his thoughts back.
“I have an idea,” he blurts out, cutting Flux off, eyes widened and shades of red ever-so-slightly dusting his cheeks.
“Is it about airflow and smoke?”
“Well… yes, actually.” Saparata pauses, but not long enough for Flux to speak again.
“What if…”
And that's how Fluixon ended up here, on Saparata's couch while Saparata hovers above him.
His elbows are on either side of his torso, one of his hands cupping his face while the other cradles a lit blunt. His knees trap his right leg, essentially keeping him pinned.
Fluixon's head is held up by the couch armrest. He doesn't know what to do with his body, his hands settling on Saparata's shoulders, gripping as if he were the one who had to balance on top of him.
“You're so tense,” Saps whispers, moving his hand away from his cheek.
“Yeah, well, sorry I haven’t had any practice for… this,” he tries to keep up the cynical bickering, but he’s avoiding his eye because he knows damn well he'd melt.
“We don't have to go through with it,” he’s already retreating.
“No, no—” Flux tugs him back and immediately regrets coming off as too eager.
“I'd, um, definitely want to try it, Saps.”
“Okay, okay. Good.” He gives him half a smile. “Let's just do it.”
He adjusts his body, opting to kneel in between Flux’s legs instead of leaning his entire weight on him.
“Open your mouth when I tap,” Saparata orders, and Fluixon is quick to comprehend.
He takes a long, long drag, holding his breath as he looks down at Fluixon with his eyes lidded and mouth ajar. He brings his free hand to his neck as he leans in, finally breathing out. Fluixon feels the smoke hit the back of his throat, inhaling profusely.
And it feels good. It burns, expectedly — the only difference being Saparata's warmth floating above him. It takes every bone in his body for him to not lean upwards and close the gap.
Flux almost feels his breath hitch, but he doesn't let that happen. The moment is too fragile. It’s a smoke cloud that can get swatted away. It’s a flickering campfire in a windy forest. It’s the teeter between homo and no homo.
“...Was that good?” Saparata is the first to break the moment, warmth radiating from his voice.
It’s everything Flux ever wanted.
“...Yeah, I guess,” he purses his lip, and it could be interpreted as a smile. “You didn't tap.”
“You were already doing it.”
Past his closed eyes, Fluixon can hear Saparata inhale again, and he instinctively opens his mouth. He gives him what he's looking for, breathing out that same refreshing air. He feels it in his throat. In his lungs. If this is what causes lung cancer, he’d willingly be a part of that statistic.
Hesitantly, he opens his eyes, immediately meeting Saparata's half-lidded eyes already lingering on his lips. He finds that neither of them had pulled away. He doesn’t think either of them really want to, anyway. His own gaze flickers from his lips, to his nose, to his eyes.
And before Fluixon can comprehend it, Saparata’s lips are on his. Like in his fucked-up, half-high fantasies. It's totally unreal, but it's real, and oh, God, is it better than his imagination could ever paint for him.
Their lips fit together just as well as their fingers intertwine. Without breaking or even looking away, Saparata puts out the blunt on the couch, thinking little of the burn mark, tossing it aside. His hands find Fluixon's hair, who lets out a little yelp. Flux’s hands drape past Saps’ shoulders, moving to grip his wrists for a tinge of control. It doesn't feel like the fight for dominance Flux reads about often; it feels like a dance. And Flux lets Saps take the lead. He lets himself indulge for once in his life.
This is not something they regularly do. Sure, they smoke together all the time, they flirt with each other here and there, but they don’t just make out like it’s nothing.
…Not that either of them are complaining.
They pull apart from each other, gasping for air in perfect synchrony, only to fall back into position like opposite poles of two magnets. Flux's hands end up around Saps' neck, somehow, while Saps nibs at his own.
Somewhere in the distant background of Saparata's apartment, Saparata's TV box played a shitty daytime series, a radio he couldn’t bother to turn off buzzed with static, and the telephone rang with the concern of their friends.
But they didn’t care, really. They were right where they need to be.