Basil has smoked more today than they have in a long time. It’s a little ridiculous, actually, just how much they’ve smoked, and thinking back on it, borderline comical. They haven’t been finding a lot of things humorous, what with the impending doom of the night fast approaching, but that isn’t to say that it’s all been totally awful. Right now, for instance – well, this is pretty okay. They inhale, the scent of their own clothing mixing with the underlying Ari that seems to be slowly permeating everything around them, and then they’re turning their head so it’s their cheek pressed against his shoulder rather than their entire face. Probably easier to talk that way, if talking can be considering easy under any circumstances. “Nah, I’ll probably just die.” They deadpan, the sarcasm obvious in its absence; it isn’t as if he’s going to have trouble finding it. “Or get thrown in the clink when they discover the dispensary I’m running out of my bag. Whichever.” They lift their shoulders in a shrug, glad for the fact their expression is masked by their position, and for the pressure of their friend’s head resting against their own. It’s nice, and it’s calming, and they’re relaxing more and more by the second. They’d probably make it in prison, is the thing. They lived a lot longer with far more rules.
He knows they aren’t being genuine which is why he’s able to resist rolling his eyes dramatically at their hyperbolic statements. “I’d probably miss you,” he shrugs casually, “and your eulogy would be fire. Hope you wouldn’t mind that I’d deliver it high out of my fucking mind.” He doubts they would, even in hypothetical. Ari’s never written a eulogy before (and he hopes he never has to) but he imagines Basil’s would be lit if he did write it, intoxicants or not. “Or, if the alternative proves true, I’ll visit you in jail. We both know I can’t afford bail though so I’m afraid you’re stuck in the slammer until further notice. That’s cool though; I’ve always wanted to know a suspected felon.” He nods sagely, all while patiently waiting for them to hand the bowl back again. Ari nuzzles, a fact he’d deny if asked about it directly. He’s not the type one assumes to be cuddly but so many young, tactile little siblings has for a soft man made. In fact, Ari’s favorite place to be is at the center of his king sized bed, smaller bodies packed around his in a Winters clan cuddle puddle from which there is no surfacing until everyone’s hand their fill. Basil gets a touch of that now (literally), just enough to be a reassuring presence at their side and there in case they want more. “Do you think they’d take me in as an accomplice?” he hums, taking back his lighter and flicking it on and off aimlessly. “I mean, it’s partially my pocket serving as transportation.” Basil’s wearing his hoodie, right? He can’t be bothered to second guess.
