anonymous prompted: blaine + sugar, the color green
It’s not that Blaine’s, like, devastated that Kurt couldn’t make it home this weekend; he’s a little disappointed, is all. He’s just deciding to spend all of Saturday lying around in his underwear and catching up on Mad Men when he gets Sugar’s text.
bb im bored, come smoke a bowl w me!!!
Well. Okay. That works, too.
The weed’s green and soft and sticky, and it smells almost fruity when Sugar dumps a couple of buds out of the baggie and onto her desk. She always has good weed. Sugar always has good everything, really. She’d greeted him at the door with bloodshot eyes and a giggle, tugging at one of his curls — he’s been experimenting with gel-free weekends.
“Here sweets,” she says, passing him her bong — clear with red sparkly cherries; he’s always thought it was super cute — once she’s done packing the bowl. She hands him a lighter and tosses herself down on her ridiculous canopy bed, singing Lady Gaga’s new single under her breath. Blaine hums along for a few bars, and thinks of Kurt. He smiles, then, and flicks the lighter, and watches the bong fill slowly with white, swirling smoke.
Blaine is stoned. Like, lying on the bed, zoned out, full body buzz stoooooned. Sugar’s rambling about a dream she had, or maybe something that actually happened, Blaine lost track a while ago. He hmms and yeahs every so often, but mostly he’s just really into the way his hands feel in his hair right now, the way his fingertips totally tingle against his scalp. If he closes his eyes (yes, that’s much better) he can even kind of pretend it’s Kurt’s fingers, tracing little circles and stroking lightly at Blaine’s curls. He sighs happily, and it takes him a minute to realize that Sugar’s stopped talking. Blaine cracks one eye open and jumps — his reaction maybe a little slower than it would usually be — when he sees her peering down at him from a distance of maybe six inches.
“Still gay,” he says with a snort, and Sugar cackles and boops his nose.
“I thought you were asleep,” she whines. Or maybe she’s just talking. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
Blaine loves her anyway.
“No,” he says, hoisting himself into an upright position. “Not asleep. Just, wow, really high.”
“I know, right? This stuff is like the Juicy Couture of weed. I can’t even feel my face.”
“I can feel it,” Blaine says — hilariously, he thinks — and pokes her in the cheek.
“Ooh,” she says, half-heartedly swatting his hand away. “You know what we should do?! Go to the mall!”
“You hate the mall. You say it’s for poor people,” Blaine says, glaring at his reflection in the gilded mirror over Sugar’s dresser. Ugh, he’s a wreck — his hair’s just curling everywhere and he hasn’t shaved since maybe Wednesday, and it’s getting to the point where you can tell. Not to mention his eyes, which are half-closed and almost as red as his capri pants.
“Yeah, we can make fun of the poor people buying clothes at JCPenney’s,” Sugar says brightly, and Blaine shakes his head.
“Nooo. That’s mean. And look at me, I look way too stoned.”
“You can borrow some of my shades,” Sugar says, grabbing a pair out of the basket of sunglasses she keeps on her vanity. She tosses them to him and misses by a mile, but Blaine scoops them up anyway and slips them on. He glances at his reflection in the mirror and grimaces — hot pink Wayfarers, really?
“Oh god, I look like a total douche,” he says, yanking them off. “Try again.”
The big black Chanel ones are better — he feels like Audrey Hepburn, kind of. He can work with this.
“Come on,” Sugar says gaily, tugging him up from the bed and linking their arms together. “I’ll buy you a Cinnabon and we’ll take slutty pictures of you licking the icing off your fingers and send ‘em to Kurt. He’ll love it.”
“Ooh, yeah he will,” Blaine giggles, and lets himself be led out to the car.