dahlia watches them from where she stands. her feet are cold, fairly exposed to the chill of the night in her plastic slides, her thighs equally as cold. the blanket helps though, or at least, she thinks it does. she believes it does. her smile only falters slightly when she sees the blank expression on their face. she worries that she’s said something wrong for a second— that she’s crossed some sort of line she had forgotten or some unspoken rule. worried that the buzz of the hits she had taken had fogged her memory of something imporant. she’s relieved, rather when she’s them start to move towards her. she’s reassured then that if she did do anything, it’s at least not too bad. it soothes her own worry, a spark of anxiety that simmers. she lets out a soft breath into the night. her arms wrap happily around them, pulling them equally into the embrace. they’re warm, she thinks, giggling into the crook of their neck, muffled by their chestnut hair. her second thought was about how their hair smelled nice— and really, the rest of them did too.
“ that’s okay— i get you, ” she starts, mustering the most sincere and honest voice she could manage. she was high, yes, but she was still serious about being there for basil. she would be the last one to turn away someone in need, especially some she valued so much. “ don’t be sorry ! i promise it’s okay, really. i don’t mind at all. if you didn’t text me, i was probably gonna end up watching like, i don’t know— conspiracy videos or something on youtube until i passed out. you’re much better company, ” she explains, “ i promise. again. ” she’s been told she has a tendency to talk too much when she’s high. maybe it’s true. she’s thought about it before, considered it as the substance fills her lungs. she’s eased again by the fact that she’s earnest, at the very less— even if she will tell you an unnecessary amount of information about some scientific concept (that she saw bill nye talk about) from time to time, between hits and smoke.
she pulls away only slightly so she can better see their face. it’s dark outside, but with the help of the moon and the stars above, she make out their face fairly easily (they look nice, too). she still has to squint though. it’s okay. she relaxes, letting her forehead rest on their shoulder again comfortably. “ we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. i understand that too. we can just stay like this. or lay down. or whatever— whatever you need, i’m here. i’ll even let you paint all over me if you want, ” she tells them, bordering on a mumble into the fabric of the hoodie they’re wearing.
Warm. That’s how Dahlia feels, even as cold as she may be right now, and Basil is like a neglected flower soaking in the sun for the first time in weeks. It’s a bit dramatic, they know, but no one ever told them they aren’t allowed to be a bit dramatic (well, not in so many words; Basil imagines they have to make that stipulation when they’ve been told they aren’t allowed to do so many things in their life), especially considering outwardly they’re the complete opposite. Right now, they’re resonating with that kinda deeply, and they’re trying to work out in their head what it is they’re meant to do next while it’s not weird yet to still be hugging her. Of course, she says that they can stay like this, but Basil figures it’ll get pretty awkward pretty fucking quickly past the ten minute mark. Best to sort their head out now and not wait ‘till later, right? They try not to let themself linger for too long on how nice it is, on the perfect fit of their height difference and the way Dahllia seems impossibly small even though they know that she isn’t. It’s not something new, which doesn’t make it any less of a marvel.
“I wanna get really fucking drunk. Black-out, pass-out drunk.” They admit after a few moments of silence, and it makes their stomach churn with nausea, like some sort of sick muscle-memory. It’s not as bad as when they smell certain alcohols, but it’s enough to jerk them out of that mindset pretty quickly. It’s not all that bad, anyway. Anxiety always makes things seem bigger and darker than they are, and their rational mind knows that as it grapples with their irrational one. They won’t be doing anything stupid -- at least involving liquor -- tonight. “But I won’t. How’s Ellie?” Basil wonders who she’s staying with. Surely Dahlia hadn’t brought her on the camping trip. It just wouldn’t make sense. It barely makes sense that Basil had brought their dog, and they remain uncertain as to whether or not they’re even allowed. Right now, Dot is sleeping on the ground beside where they’re stood, having not really stirred even when he no doubt heard Dahlia. He’s used to her by now. Before they no longer possess the willpower, Basil is forcing themself to let go of her, not really pulling away too much, but just not squeezing her so tight anymore. It feels a bit like a loss, but not too big of one.
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