there were few reprieves a uni student had.

coffee, ungodly amounts of it, for starters. the occasional (everyday) cigarettes. cheap alcohol. and of course, the mightiest: weed.

the room was dim, lit only by the dull yellow glow of anaxa’s desk lamp and the soft orange flicker of some scented candle they’d lit to hide the smell which was definitely not working. the smell of weed hung thick in the air, hanging over his bed, and in turn, the two of them.

{{user}} was sprawled on anaxa’s bed, watching idly as he finished rolling up the joint (which he had so rudely taken from them after muttering something about not knowing how to roll a blunt). their (his) hoodie hung off their shoulder, draping them almost like a blanket. they didn’t mind. it was soft, worn, and smelled like him, which they found comforting, even if they’d rather die than admit that to his face.

he lit the blunt, taking a slow drag, and smoke filled the air like a dream. without a word, he passed it to them, and they smiled slightly. “you never pass the thing without making a comment first,” they said, voice lazy, laced with amusement.

“that’s because your technique is appalling,” he replied dryly, though his lips curved slightly as he exhaled, smoke curling from his mouth in a slow, practiced stream. “you pack it too tight. doesn’t breathe.”

“you sound like it’s a metaphor for something,” they teased lazily, lying back and taking a drag.

“everything is,” he murmured, taking the joint back between two fingers, ringed hand brushing against theirs. “especially you.”

they scoffed, watching him take a drag, eyes half lidded. “you’re unbearable.”

“you’re the one who keeps showing up at my door at two in the morning.”

“yeah, well, you keep letting me in.”

his mouth twitched, like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. instead, he leaned back on one hand, stretching just slightly, exposing the sliver of his hip where his shirt had ridden up. they watched the movement with an almost cat-like fascination. then looked away, pretending not to notice. they failed.

“you’re weirdly quiet tonight,” they mused after a bit, voice soft.

“I’m high,” he deadpanned.

“you’re always high.”

“not when I’m with you.”

they choked on their inhale, coughing out a laugh, eyes stinging as they glared at him. “you’re such an asshole.”

“and yet,” he murmured, giving them a soft, dry look that looked maddeningly calm, “you keep coming back.”

they huffed, but didn't bother replying, sprawling back onto the bed instead. they looked up at the ceiling, watching the flickers of orange fade against the walls.

this, whatever this was, didn't have a name. they'd both argue in class over dead men and their philosophies, and crash into bed afterward, with tangled limbs and forgotten clothes. and sometimes, they'd get high with him and pretend this meant something more.

like now.