Timeline: Vague mid-season three
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A little pot goes a long way.


He loves being stoned on pot more than the high from any other drug he’s ever done. He bets if people knew that, they’d laugh him out of the club, because Brian Kinney liking marijuana over anything else is ridiculous. There are so many other, more expensive ways to distort your thinking and to make everything soft and blurry at the edges. He’s tried them all, he should know.

But pot is different for him. He loves the way it steals over him slowly, the really good stuff crawling slow and steady through his brain and turning life more mellow than it was five minutes ago. The cheap shit does the same thing, but too quickly. He hates it when his buzz is all of a sudden there, wham.

Brian’s never been one for surprises.

So he loves pot, more than pills or poppers or anything he stupidly injected into his veins back in college, and he doesn’t tell anyone. Brian’s not ashamed of it, because goddamn, he’s not ashamed of anything he’s done in his life. Why should he be embarrassed about liking to smoke up? He isn’t. He just keeps it quiet, and nobody really knows.

Well, one person does.

Justin brings him prime hash on average of once a week. He doesn’t tell Brian where it comes from or who his dealer is. He doesn’t make a thing of it at all, in fact. If Brian’s not there, Justin leaves it on the bar or sometimes Brian’s dresser top, or even in the nightstand drawer next to the rolling papers.

But if Brian is there, then Justin just hands him the bag or goes to roll one himself. They sprawl on the couch or the bed or even the floor and pass the joint back and forth, letting the high steal over them and watching as the haze fills the room.

The buzz is different every time. Sometimes it’s sharp and crisp and clean and Brian can feel it licking at his edges, demanding more space in his brain. Brian doesn’t let it. He likes to control his high, which is another reason pot is his favorite. Easy to control. Other times it’s mellow and fuzzy and soft, like the cotton candy Michael used to buy every week with the small allowance his mother gave him. There is a faintly sweet flavor in Brian’s mouth at those times, as if just the memory of the blue spun sugar is enough to call up the taste.

This time is sort of in between. He’d been home when Justin came by, the silk shirt Brian had worn to work that day discarded in the ‘to be dry-cleaned’ pile but still wearing his slacks. Justin had grinned and picked up Brian’s tie from the floor and gone to hang it in the closet, bringing the papers back with him when he reappeared.

They sit on the floor and smoke until they’re too loose-limbed to sit upright any longer. Both of them ooze down to the floor and lie on their backs, looking at the beams crossing the ceiling and holding out their hands when they want the joint passed back over.

“Good,” Brian says, unnecessarily. It’s always good. He imagines he can see the word in front of him and watches it roll around through the smoke, the vowels getting all mixed in with the consonants.

“Mm,” Justin agrees, and giggles a little.

“Don’t start,” Brian warns, remembering the last time they’d smoked up, when both of them had become completely hysterical over something he can’t even remember now. Probably the price of tea in China.

Justin tries not to, but somehow the little choking sounds he makes in an effort to hold back his laughter are funnier than the laughter itself. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is strangled.

Brian bites down hard on his lip in a huge effort not to smile, but it works its way out anyway and then he’s laughing. “I said don’t start,” he chuckles, and throws an arm over his eyes. His stomach hurts by the time they both manage to stop rolling around. “Christ,” he mumbles, swiping at the tears on his lashes with the heel of his hand.

“Hungry,” Justin sighs, which is usually the norm.

Brian points at the cupboard and stays where he is, waiting to see what Justin will come back with. He’s a creative eater when he’s stoned. Last time, it was a spatula of peanut butter with raisins stuck to it. Brian had watched him eat the entire thing in disbelief, and then laughed later when Justin had complained of a stomachache.

Just a bag of plain marshmallows this time. Brian’s surprised Justin didn’t drizzle pancake syrup or something on them. Hell, he didn’t even know he had marshmallows, and wonders if Justin had planted them there ahead of time. Brian watches through a lazy haze as Justin tears into the bag and starts eating them.

“I like these,” Justin announces when he has three in his mouth.

“You don’t say,” Brian answers. He watches Justin put one more in and reaches out his hand. “Let me have one of those.”

“Really?” Justin asks, pausing in his enthusiastic chewing. “You don’t like marshmallows.”

“I don’t eat marshmallows. I never said I didn’t like them. Give me one.”

Justin’s eyes light up and he tosses one into Brian’s outstretched hand. “They’re good. Hey, you wanna toast some over the burner on the stove?”

“Yes!” Brian says happily. “And then let’s set up a tent and campfire in the living room and watch for bears!”

Justin scowls at him. “How come being an asshole comes so naturally to you?”

Brian grins and pops in the marshmallow. “I only make it seem easy.” He bites down on the soft, spongy puff and lets the sweetness spread across his taste buds. It’s too sweet, really, and if he was sober he’d spit it out after one bite. But he’s high, with all the accompanying munchies, so he chews the marshmallow and then asks for another one.

Justin is starting to look a little green around the gills and shoves the bag at him. “Ugh. I ate one too many.”

“You ate ten too many,” Brian snorts. “Take another hit, wash the taste out.” He nods toward the joint, still smoking on the floor next to them.

“I like the taste,” Justin says, and crawls toward him with a marshmallow hanging out of his mouth. “Here,” he says, with the marshmallow clenched between his teeth. “Taste.” And he bows his head for Brian to take a bite.

Brian does, and then he has a mouthful of sweet, puffy marshmallow, and Justin. The flavor is a heady mix. There is too-sweet marshmallow, but underneath it is the taste of good weed and then Justin. Justin, who can be cinnamon and honey and sugar all rolled into one, and Brian wonders sometimes if that’s what really makes him high.

He swallows the bite of marshmallow, but when Justin leans back down with another piece in his teeth, Brian shakes his head. “Spit that crap out. It’s ruining the taste of you.”

Justin beams at him, eyes soft and mellow from the pot, and obediently takes the marshmallow out of his mouth. He crawls back on top of Brian, straddling him and rolling his hips, making no secret of his erection. Justin kisses him, and now the marshmallow has faded to the more muted flavor that Brian prefers. Sweet and sugary and sticky, all on a warm tongue that traces Brian’s lips before darting inside to sweep his mouth.

Brian tries to work a hand in between them to get to his fly, but Justin shakes his head once and stays where he is, grinding down harder and sliding a leg in between Brian’s. The position lands Justin’s hip in the perfect spot for Brian’s cock to rub on, and two pairs of pants in the way don’t do anything to mute the jolt of pleasure that slides through Brian like lightning.

He’s either too stoned or too comfortable to care how he comes, and if Justin’s happy to rub off on Brian’s hip, then Brian might as well reap the benefits. He lets his muscles all go limp and relaxed and arches his neck on the hardwood as Justin shifts again, sliding up and back and spreading his legs.

“Mm,” Justin murmurs, his sounds of pleasure coming as little, breathy noises that Brian soaks up and relishes. Justin’s body is warm and Brian hooks a leg over Justin’s calf, pinning him in place and biting down hard on the inside of his cheek as he feels his balls draw up tightly. Normally, a little dry humping wouldn’t be this… arousing, this ‘ohmygodsoclose’, but it’s just one of the reasons that Brian loves to get high. It gives him the excuse he needs to let his inhibitions down, to get off in the quickest, most pleasurable way he can.

It gives him the excuse to whisper Justin’s name, something he rarely uses. Brian calls him ‘Sunshine’ and ‘hey’ a lot, but he only uses his given name when it’s just the two of them, entwined and hot and grinding together on the floor of the loft like teenagers. High as two goddamned kites.

Brian feels his orgasm get nearer, knows it’s hovering just at the base of his spine, and as soon as Justin –

Justin comes right then, one hand squeezing Brian’s shoulder and the other one splayed out on the floor near Brian’s head. Brian feels him freeze and then grind hard, moving back and forth in one-two-three quick movements as he shudders and clutches at Brian’s shoulder with a sudden, indrawn breath.

Brian would watch, normally. If he wasn’t high, he’d control his own climax and watch how beautiful Justin is while he’s coming, how his eyes dilate until the blue is only a thin ring around the outside of the black, how the color infuses his cheeks and his brows draw together when his eyes finally flutter closed.

But he’s too high to wait, his dick is too hard and already leaking a spot onto his expensive slacks, and besides, there’s always another orgasm. So Brian throws his head back and slides a hand down the back of Justin’s cargoes, palming the perfect ass and pinning Justin tightly to him. Brian trembles and plants one foot on the floor and arches his hips up, and then there it is – his prick pulses once and he shoots all over the inside of his boxer briefs.

They both start laughing at the same time, their limbs heavy and movements slow. Justin doesn’t try to slide off and Brian doesn’t make him. “You came in your pants,” Justin giggles, finding this hilarious.

“And you didn’t?” Brian snorts, trying to stop laughing. It’s undignified.

“I’m not wearing Armani,” Justin points out, and then finally manages to ease off Brian and roll to his back.

Brian lifts his head and looks down at the damp spot on his crotch with distaste. “I have to throw these away.”

Justin lifts his head too and looks at the wet spot. “Those are three-hundred dollar pants. Is dry-cleaning not an option?”

“If I brought these to the dry-cleaner, then they’d know that I came in my pants,” Brian says reasonably. “That’s not an option. That’s just embarrassing.”

Justin starts giggling again and drops his head back with a thunk. “Brian came in his pants,” he informs the ceiling.

Brian rolls his eyes and wishes they were already in bed instead of all the way across the floor. The bedroom’s far. He contemplates the beams above him for a while until Justin’s deep, relaxed breaths alert Brian to the fact that he’s almost asleep.

He rolls over and nudges Justin’s arm as he gets up. “Let’s go,” he coaxes. “I need a shower.”

“Why do you need me?” Justin mumbles, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“For the post-high blowjob,” Brian tells him, and waits. There’s always a post-high blowjob.

Justin considers that. “Okay,” he finally shrugs, and staggers to his feet. “Ugh. Marshmallows are not a good snack. Don’t let me eat them next time.”

Brian laughs and kisses him.