“Is this even gonna work on you?”
“No idea. Let's find out.”
They're laid out on a blanket, on top of a hill flirting with the delusion of being a mountain. Isaac is on his back, watching the stars pop into sight, one by one, while Stiles is sitting cross-legged beside him, steadily packing weed into a bat. The monstrosity Stiles calls a vehicle is parked just behind them, the dented up mess of a Jeep that had, despite Isaac's doubt, brought them two thousand odd miles across the country, and still keeps running. He's almost as fond of it as Stiles is these days, but he's not going to tell him that.
It's the anniversary of the day they've more or less christened as the start of “them”, and it's always filled with such a fucked up mix of memories, both awesome and awful, that Stiles doesn't even make a token protest when Isaac pulls out the baggie of weed he's gotten off some random kid in his chemistry class, as well as the bat – neither of them have done this before, and Isaac isn't patient enough to spend hours trying to figure out how to roll a decent joint.
Stiles just makes a face and says “We're not smoking it on campus; we're on scholarship, remember?”
Isaac doesn't care; he likes it here better, anyway, where it's just him and Stiles, and he can clearly hear the sounds of their heartbeats. There's a bite of cold in the air, but that's okay, too. If he needs to, he can be warm enough for the both of them.
Stiles finishes and tosses the rest of the baggie to the side, then screws the tip of the bat on. He holds out a hand. “Lighter.”
Isaac tosses him the little orange Bic they'd picked up at the convenience store at the mouth of the canyon. Stiles catches it and throws himself on his back beside Isaac, then sticks the bat in his mouth and lights it. He sucks hard and immediately coughs uncontrollably.
“Holy fuck,” he gasps when he finally gets his breath back, passing the bat to Isaac. “That's disgusting.”
Isaac shrugs. If it's disgusting for Stiles, it's probably going to be downright revolting for him, but he figures tasting good isn't exactly the point here. He runs his tongue around the end, and yeah, it tastes like shit, but he can also taste Stiles, and he concentrates on that as he draws in a deep breath. He fights the urge to cough, fights the burn in his lungs, and lets the smoke roll around in his mouth before finally blowing it out.
“Oh God, that's gross.”
Stiles makes a sympathetic noise and they pass the bat back and forth a few more times as dusk turns into true night. Isaac lets his body settle further into the blanket, press into the ground, one hand tucked behind his head, and listens to crickets chirping.
“Hey,” Stiles starts, “when is this supposed to -” He breaks off into a laugh that turns into a snort that turns into a giggle. “I guess now.” His head falls back so that his throat is bared. “I see why people put up with the shit taste.”
Isaac can feel it, too, thrumming through his veins and spreading to his fingers and toes, as his muscles just...jelly out. The idea that werewolves can't get drunk is bullshit – it just takes a hell of a lot more bottles – but Isaac doesn't like to drink; it reminds him too much of his father. Sitting in chem class, bored out of his mind, he doodles out random ideas in his composition book and theorizes that the reason it takes a six pack of beer to do what would normally be the job of one bottle, is due to heightened metabolisms, and the fact that alcohol works at a relatively slow rate through the bloodstream. Werewolves kick it out almost as soon as it gets going.
Pot though...straight to the lungs, straight to the capillaries....no pesky little digestive system in the way...
Isaac realizes his thoughts have hazily wandered away, and he's been staring at the way the moonlight glints off his hand for way, way too long. Point of the matter being – his theory is right. As long as he keeps steady smoking, he'll stay steadily high.
Everything feels prickly strange, but also cottony soft, and he likes the way the leather of Stiles' jacket presses into the bare skin of his forearm. His head flops lazily to the side, so he can see Stiles, who is grinning as he takes another drag and hands the bat back to Isaac. Isaac doesn't mean to ask, but his filters are low, so the words fall out of his mouth before he realizes it.
“You ever think about where you'd be if we'd done it different? Or, I don't know, I hadn't said yes to Derek, or we'd never met?”
Stiles rolls to his side and props his head on his hand. His eyes are glassy, but surprisingly focused. “You mean do I ever think about not being with you?”
Isaac takes another drag. Holds. Exhales. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Nope.” Stiles pops the “P” and grins, loose and happy. His heart rate doesn't change. Doesn't speed up, doesn't slow down, because he's telling Isaac the exact truth. “You?”
Stupid question. Of course Isaac does. Has those nightmares whether he's awake or asleep. Rationally, he knows Stiles isn't going anywhere, but the truth of the matter is that the largest part of Isaac is irrational, and always will be. But he doesn't want to talk about that, so he just shakes his head.
Stiles hooks his leg over his. “Good, because you and your disgusting good looks are stuck with me.”
Isaac traces his fingers over the knee of Stiles' pants, his skin tingling at the scrape of denim. “Know what I do think about?”
Stiles laughs, bright and loud, and clamors on top of Isaac, braces himself with his elbows on either side of Isaac's head. “Do you now?”
“Mmm hmm.” He holds the bat to Stiles' mouth and watches his lips wrap around it, watches his cheeks hollow out and his eyes go half lidded, watches as he never breaks eye contact with Isaac. Smoke drifts, thick and pungent, between them, and Stiles plucks the bat and lighter from Isaac and drops it on a patch of dirt.
“Then we should fuck.” He catches Isaac's bottom lip between his teeth and nips hard, before sitting up and pulling his jacket and shirt off.
And Isaac...well, Isaac's not going to argue with that.