it's windy in the galaxy

it’s not the first time dizzee’s woken up, a little stoned, next to brett. half of the other boy’s face was buried in his pillow, a small stain on the pillowcase, indicative of drool. 

and dizzee’s grinning, because his friend’s never looked more transcendent. 

reality greets dizzee slowly, as he hovers in the place between sleep and wake, settling on the image of his friend’s face. his expression is smoothed out with the peace that sleep sometimes brings and dizzee’s definitely still a little high, so it can’t be too much after midnight. 

the room is dimly lit by the hue of his lava lamp, the walls tinged orange, and dizzee thinks it’s kind of beautiful. brett’s laptop is likely discarded somewhere by their feet, a movie half watched having already ended, and dizzee wonders about picking it up and setting it to a side so as they don’t kick it off the edge of the bed. 

brett must feel dizzee staring at him, because the other boy’s nose wrinkles a little, like he’s about to sneeze. brett sniffs, mumbles something, and buries his face a little more into his pillow, so that all’s left is the other’s cheek, and part of his nose. 

brett is safety in a place far from home. sometimes, dizzee can’t believe how lucky he was - to find a white boy in the city so much like brett. filled with the stars and speckled with all the colours of the universe. brett, who would cry with him, laugh with him, talk to him and listen to him. who would go to protests with him, normalize inclusivity, who would grin at him when dizzee came home smelling like spray paint, who would order way too much food, and understand that even when dizzee didn’t want to speak - he didn’t need someone to speak for him. least of all, a white boy.

dizzee’s smiling lazily now, yawning again as the night drew him back to sleep, clouding around him gently. 

brett must have felt his unrest, because the other boy shifted again, and then his eyes opened. brett turned, facing dizzee and yawning. there’s a question in his friend’s eyes, written in his face, and dizzee understands it as a question, wondering if dizzee wanted brett to go back to his own bed. if dizzee wanted to kick him out of his room, which brett wouldn’t hesitate to do, no matter how tired. 

and it’s with affection, genuine and overwhelming affection, that draws dizzee to shift, lean over, and lightly - chastely - press his lips to brett’s cheek. 

“Snow,” he says with a shudder, more a response to the concept than actual cold. He folds his legs and tucks his feet beneath his thighs. It is a bad idea to be barefoot in such cold weather. Regardless, his brain provides an idea almost impossible to refuse, and he turns to Dizzee with a crooked grin.

“Do you think the polish will set faster if we bury our fingers in snow?”

The grin is definitely crooked for how stupid that idea is.

The playlist is, once again, filled with sci-fi action and alien conspiracy theories. Brett cannot be more thankful for a roommate who shares similar interests with him. Once that is done, he gets up to fetch the polish. He also brings the tissues, too, knowing too well he will mess up at least once, if not twice.

“I used to think snow was awesome. Then I actually experienced snow. Turns out it’s just… very cold. Pretty for photos, though.” He says, uncapping a bottle of sky blue polish to check if it is in prime state for application.

It takes a moment for the thought to set, and Dizzee’s grinning back before he knows it. “Think it depends on how dry the polish is,” he responds, as though it was a potential outcome they’d actually consider. Dizzee watches Brett inspect the polish, shifting so as to position himself better so as to paint the other boy’s nails. 

“Got some thinner lyin’ around if it’s drying out,” Dizzee offers, but notices that the applicator is wet with the polish, indicating that it’d yet to dry out. “Nah, it’s good.” He crosses his legs beneath him on the cushions, taking the tissue from the other boy and laying it out over his knee. 

“as a matter of fact, i did. this sounds strange but i like to look at them when i walk past. they’re pieces of art. they inspire me when i’ve got a low writing day.” she grins back at him. “i take it you saw it too?” obviously he did but mo wants to keep the conversation going for as long as possible; she runs a hand through her hair.