Stan sucks in and in and in until his face is red and his eyes are gleaming in the pale street light. The tight, narrow shell of paper and cannabis sativa is held carelessly aloft between his middle finger and thumb, like a perverse censer. The smoke is thin as it rises to the roof of the Diablo. Ford imagines that it gathers there, like storm clouds, but no righteous lightning rains down on Stan’s lazily lolling head.
“Come on,” Stan sighs. He sighs everything like this; his mouth is loose and red in an easy smile. “Live a little,” he holds out the joint like an offering. Ford flushes.
“I mean,” he stutters nervously. “I don’t–”
“Easy,” Stan sucks until the tip glows like a cherry. Ford watches, entranced. Stan holds and holds until he exhales in a burst. “Try it.” Ford rubs at the back of his neck and eyes the offered drug carefully. Stan laughs. It’s rough and languid. “Here,” he says. “Just breathe in when I blow.” Stan takes a deep drag and cups Ford’s face. Ford feels tense and loose at once; he is nervous and pliant as Stan draws him closer. Ford opens his mouth to ask a question, to protest. Stan blows a concentrated stream of smoke into Ford’s mouth.
At first, Ford tries to snap his mouth shut. Stan snorts.
“Ya gotta breathe,” Stan says. He sucks another lungful while Ford quietly protests. Stan rubs a thumb over Ford’s bottom lip until Ford’s mouth slacks open. Then Stan ducks in, nearly lip to lip, and blows directly into Ford’s mouth. Ford chokes in surprise before he figures out how he needs to breathe. Stan pulls back, joint glowing between his fingers.
“So?” He asks. Ford clears his throat. He coughs.
“I might need, ah,” Ford clears his throat again. “More data.” Stan blinks at him. Ford waits. He clarifies. “I might need to do that again.” Stan smirks and leans back into Ford’s space.
“Well,” Stan’s hand cups Ford’s cheek again. Ford pretends that the redness of his face is from the smoke. “I think I can help with that.” Stan fills himself with smoke again and leans in.