Work Text:
Your phone buzzes around eight at night.
— u up?
It's from Colin
Your first reaction is a roll of the eyes. Yes, you are— on your phone, watching videos of dancing fruit as you green out. And that notification is almost scoff-worthy enough to snap you out of it.
You would have ignored it, but he persists.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Come back. He's editing himself in real time, deleting anything too real.
— i’ve been doing a lot of processing tonight and I’d really love to see you if you’re in a space for that
You actually snort, smiling despite yourself. God, he really cannot help himself, can he?
But you're damn well not someone to judge because not even a minute after that text comes in — not even thirty seconds after, you're dialing up an uber.
When it arrives, you double back to grab the dented tin of pot brownies from your counter.
And when you arrive, Colin opens the door to his place almost immediately. It doesn't take a genius to guess that he had been waiting for you. And you didn’t even text back to confirm you were coming. How long did he stand in wait? You're not sure. But he had definitely been standing there. “Hey— hi,” he says, endearingly, like a nervous kid with a crush.
But you know you have about thirty seconds before the Colin who isn't from Maine kicks in.
You walk past him without asking, brushing his shoulder on the way in and recline on the couch, taking up half the space.
“I'm glad you decided to come. I wasn't sure—” His fingers are raking through his hair when his eyes meet yours. He studies you for a moment. “You high?” He shuts the door behind him.
You hum, “Mm-hmm.”
“You came here high?”
“I ubered,” you draw out slowly, flipping the lid from the tin resting on your stomach. “And I brought brownies.”
He raises a brow. “Pot brownies?”
“No,” you say with a sarcastic note and a dead panic expression. “Betty Crocker.” What other kind of brownies would you bring?
His lips melt into a smile and he comes over to you. “I’m kind of obsessed with you,” he says, reaching in and grabbing one as he falls onto the couch beside you. “And Betty Crocker.”
“Yeah,” you say, snapping the lid back shut. “I know.”
Your eyes drift, because they always do, to that stupid tattoo. That absurdly big marijuana leaf sitting right under his ear like it’s trying to be profound. Like it’s symbolic of something deeper than the fact that he smokes and once thought it would look cool in a mirror selfie.
You sit up and flick it with your finger. “I hate this thing,” you say.
He winces, pulling back slightly, hiding his face in your thigh. “You tell me every time.”
“Because it’s embarrassing every time.”
He opens his mouth, already halfway into something automatic. You can see it happen. the shift — “It has a deeper meaning than you think at first glance—”
You give him one flat and unimpressed stare.
He stops mid-sentence, blinking once, like he’s buffering. “... Yeah,” he catches himself. “See, that one slipped out.”
“You sound like a podcast I couldn't suffer through no matter how high.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s something a little sheepish under it.
You continue, “You literally texted me ‘if I’m in a space for that.’ What does that even mean? You wanted me to come over and hook up. That’s the sentence.”
He presses his lips together. “Well when you say it like that—”
“That's exactly what it is.”
“Okay, alright. That’s—okay.”
You watch him for another second, making sure it sticks, then reach into the tin and pull out a brownie for yourself.
He watches you going for seconds. “How much pot did you put in those?”
“Enough to eat the whole batch by myself and survive the night.”
There’s a pause. He leans a little closer, chin hovering by your stomach. “C’mere, mama.”
You roll your eyes immediately. Don’t ruin it,” you warn.
“I won’t,” he swears.
You slide you hand behind his neck, fingertips covering the tattoo.