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You don't have a spare lighter.
Or any lighter, to begin with. After losing every last one within a week of purchasing it, you've resigned yourself to borrowing them when you can and just dealing with the grumbling itch for nicotine when you can't.
It's a bad habit, anyway.
So when Wayne's kid comes up, asking for a light, you don't really think about it. You pluck his packed roll from his hand and switch it out for your own between your lips. You have the lit end of your lit cigarette against his and pull off of it to light his. And then you drag off of his joint again.
"Tax for lighting it," you shrug off a question that never came, before handing it back. "There you are, man."
You don't notice it, but he's a bit awestruck with you.
He takes it, far too focused on how the curves and shadows of your face look to hit off of it. Eddie can't look away from your face under this shitty lighting. In the dim light pouring out of the windows of a bar neither of you are old enough to be at and it's bright neon sign from above, you're not the easiest to see. It all obscures and mangles the contours of your face.
He's seen you around. You'd had a few classes together here and there. You were the grade above him. You graduated a year before Eddie would've if he'd graduated on time.
It's weird. He never noticed how pretty you were for a man. Did you always look like that, or did you grow into it? Maybe it was the lighting and the weed.
He could've sworn you're face never moved as pretty as does in this lighting. You just looked completely new in this moment and somehow the exact same as you always have.
A few moments pass before you notice him staring. "Hey, uh, you good? Do I have something on m-"
"No," He rushes out. It's harsh. He tries again. "No, you don't. It's nothing. Just, I- uh, you-"
"We had pre-calculus."
"Biology."
You hum, not pushing for anything more.
Eddie can't think of anything else to say. He stays anyway. Despite the silence, despite the awkward air from overstayed company, Eddie stays.
Over the next few hours, minutes, or seconds (because Eddie can't tell how much time has passed), he slowly gets higher. He spaces out every drag, letting enough time pass so he can glance back at you again without feeling weird.
He's not sure what it is, but there's a tightening in his chest when he looks at you. If he doesn't look away quick enough it races to his throat and he feels sick. Like he'll throw up if he doesn't say anything and Eddie doesn't trust himself to say the correct thing right now. He's not stoned out of his mind, but he's too high to find the right combination of words that'll make you look his way and never look away again. And he's definitely too high to even try to understand why he's wants that in the first place.
So, smoking is fine.
He's only a little annoyed when Gareth pops his head out the door, calling him in for their set.
It's not relief, exactly, but that tightness lessens just a bit when you hold out your hand, "I'll hold onto that for you."
He suppresses a smile as he puts out the joint. "I don't give out freebies."
"It was a good try though."
Eddie shoves it in his pocket. The tightness managed to crawl up his throat.
He stared too long.
That tightness quelled when you spoke up again.
The low, calm gravel of your voice sticks with him through his set.
"See ya' on the other side."