smoke you 'til i'm dying.

     “no, like, we aren’t going as a band because it’s not about the band. if we both go, it’s saying something about the band. that’s the point. jesus.”

‘  no problem.  ’   she adjusts his collar, somewhat possessive in nature. they’re showing each other off. that’s how these things usually go, anyways.  ‘  he’s just jealous he doesn’t get to come along.  ’

     “well, you brought the favorites.” 

     he’s seen the social media response. hashtag pray for aaron. it’s strange. aaron’s never prayed in his life.

    “maybe it’ll help business when i get out.”

         ‘ fuck business, ’ monty says. monty means, ‘fuck me for doing this to you.’ he reaches over and thumbs at a petal of one of the flowers he brought.

      “stop, you don’t gotta keep askin’ if i’m going to be okay, mate. i just wanna talk to you, not have to worry about all the doctor bullshit. no offense.” it’s addressed with a charming smile to the nurse writing something on the whiteboard in his room. 

monty hasn’t slept, hasn’t showered, hasn’t left aaron’s side since he was taken here. shitty hospital food and a frayed phone charger have been his lifeline for days.

he wants to touch him. he shakes his leg instead.

          it’s come to a game of taunts, then. dawn thinks she’s alright with that. she steels her jaw, cocks her head, and matches his gaze. “happy to move if you’re quick to apologize.”

       he had wanted to get up and order room service before monty would wake, and yet here his partner is,  eyes wide open and mumbling something incomprehensible. they’re bad about sleeping in. aaron looks at his phone on the bedside table in confusion. this is the daily ritual of drug abuse: a forgetful string of weeks scattered with significant moments all masked by some sort of fog in the subconscious brain. reading the screen, “uh… friday.”

DRUNK KISSES!

monty cobb, the secret sap, lives for nights like these. it’s not the lingering fear of alcohol poisoning or drug overdose that gets his blood pumping, but the fact that this is aaron uninhibited. beyond a certain point, it stops being show and starts into sincerity  ---  his partner laying across his lap and waxing poetic is no exception.

         ‘ you said that already. ’ a few times, if he’s being honest. he shifts and the room spins, so it takes him a few seconds to dive back into conversation. ‘ i know you love everyone at this party. ’

and then, the most beautiful and unexpected of things happens: aaron, who has just again been made aware of their company, takes the effort to hoist himself up and put them eye-to-eye. he sways with drunkenness. monty sets a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

they’re moving fast in the direction of a kiss.

         ‘ we’re too --- ’ we’re too far gone to be entertaining, is what he means to say. this is just for us. i hope you remember in the morning. ‘ we shouldn’t. ’

      “that literally made no sense.” his tone isn’t teasing. he has no idea what the fuck monty just said. “can’t we cancel?”

monty grabs aaron by the upper arms, gives him a quick jostle, and simplifies.

     “i don’t know. butt things.” oh, what a phrase. aaron pinches the bridge of his nose.

       maybe this would be funny to someone else. aaron is not laughing. “wh– why? what do they possibly want interviews for? we’re always getting fuckin’ asked the same fuckin’ questions…” 

         ‘ thanks for being my date. ’ did they ever agree on that label? ‘ aaron was being a right prick about it. ’

monty hasn’t given much thought to the idea that his and aaron’s setup could be seen as somewhat  ---  intimate. they’ve both had a long day, but monty is taking it particularly hard: tense instead of tired, quicker than usual to offer a biting remark.

they’re on their bus. aaron is laying down behind him, lazily working the knots out of his back with his fingers, the heel of his palm, his fingers ----

         ‘ mm. sorry. ’ he opens his eyes and locks ‘em with those of their interviewer. ‘ could you repeat the question? ’