patrick was no stranger to substances. he was a wall street socialite; what else did anyone expect? cigarettes, hard liquor, cocaine, the occasional valium to even himself out. weed, though? it stunk and simply didn't look nice. why would he bother with touching the stuff? a little green flower that makes your eyes red and squinty didn't sound like his idea of a good time.

boy, had he been wrong. you two weren't close by any means, although you were perhaps the only company he could tolerate to be around for more than a forced smile and laugh. so, here you two were, at your flat. certainly not as nice and as expensive as his own apartment, he noted. patrick supposed he would have to make due; the space was quaint, almost homely, even. a touch he thought maybe he could get used to.

the best part of the evening, however? had been that sweet, sweet herb. sure enough, while you had effortlessly put together a joint to share, patrick had listed off all the flaws and traits he thought of the flower. then you had offered the lit end of the marijuana-cigarette to patrick and... he hesitated. if he could handle practically gobbling down an entire 8-ball to himself, he could handle a single drag.

"one puff," he insisted.

the taste was certainly unique; almost like citrus, with a strong earthy edge to it. whatever variant you had didn't quite stink, as he had found most bud to but closer to a sage-y sort of scent. maybe he had bit off more than he could chew by attempting to match your pace. after each drag you took, he'd take one. now, the joint was cashed out in the ashtray across from patrick.

he felt so calm. not his usual calm, either. just... quiet. his job, co-workers, status; it was forgotten right now. "i don't like to admit when i'm wrong," he started with a snort, his head resting back against the cushions of your couch, eyes half-lidded and lips curled upwards into a lazy grin, "but wow. that's the stuff of miracles, isn't it? you've... got to tell me where i can find the stuff."