Coach Potatoes 1: Chris and JC "Yeah."
"Do you have any more of that?"
Chris flopped into the sofa. God, it was still hot as hell. "I got plenty."
"You're the pot king."
"I like to keep a supply. It's medicine, baby."
"Baaaaad medicine ..." More giggling. He rolled another with frowning concentration. He congratulated himself on his talent in the area. Hell, it was dark. JC was a pale smudge on the other end of the sofa.
The conversation got choppy, choppier, then faltered altogether. Chris' eyes started to droop, and it was very easy to just ... sort of ... lean over and make JC his very own, slightly bony pillow.
"We should do this more often," JC mumbled. His breath was hot and smoky on Chris' face. "I could put up my own stash and all."
"Why bother, I've got the goods, man."
"Yeah, but, like. I should just ... dunno. Um."
JC always thought too much. And he just wasn't very good at it. Chris waved a hand in front of his eyes. He could still see it. Stupid to pretend it was going to get really black. "You're not worrying about mine-yours-mine-yours shit, are you? Cause that ain't cool. This isn't business, it's ... whatsit. Friendship."
"Yeah. Um. Hoo. This was good, though. You should." Quiet, for a while, then, "you know. Haha. Do you mind if I pay in trade?"
"What are you talki--" but he was silenced by a clumsy, badly aimed, but pretty enthusiastic kiss. That was out of the left field. That was a curve ball. He fought his fuzzy brain and faulty balance and clawed himself upright. "Hey. What?"
JC was quiet.
"Hey." Hmm. This night seemed to have hit a bit of a downward spiral. Or upward. Or ... whatever.
"I could--"
Quickly now: "It's okay. It's ..." and it was. Sure it was. "'s good. Yeah."
He slid back down. His head spun lazy circles. JC threaded his hands through his hair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Chris was glad he hadn't thrown away that old couch.
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