Great, great you guys made it, far-out!
They took Peter and Micky's shoulders into their hands and led the group deeper into the cramped apartment. Sat on floor cushions, blankets, and a sofa there were already about a dozen people infront of a record player, both girls and guys, with some psychedelic album spinning.
Just uh make yerselves at home, and don't bogart the joint. Snacks on the bar and all that jazz.
Peter and Micky had been to their share of parties of this nature, and so whatever pleasantries were exchanged upon entering had barely been necessary (but not ignored; they were gracious stoners, at least.)
Peter had been the first to take a toke, doing so standing up and taking a spot next to a girl with long, flowing brown hair, “Hey, Mick.”
Micky takes the joint from Peter’s hand, taking as long a drag as possible, “Mhm?”
“Would you call me a stoner?”
“No, I’d call you a Peter.”
They both find themselves lying on the ground not too long after, their eyes glued to the ceiling as they exchanged nonsensical thoughts that led to more nonsensical thoughts. They’d forbade the rule not to hog the joint, and had gotten themselves pretty high in a short amount of time, before getting told off by someone who’d been searching for the joint.
The music was sweet to their ears, a real groovy record neither of them had heard before.
“You think we could make music like that?”
Peter was quiet for a while, “Maybe. Probably not. No.”
“We can only be ourselves. No matter how hard we practice, we’ll always sound the same. Like us. It’s not bad or good, just the fact of it.”
Peter breathes out, and a silence falls over them.
Finally, he says “God, I’m stoned.”
Micky giggles, and Peter finds himself doing so too, the reason unclear.
After collecting himself, Peter says with no real conviction, “You know, Mick, I’ve got coursework-“
“No, no, we’re- Where’re Mike and Davy?”
“Not here. Mike stayed home - maybe he thought we’d bring some home to him?”
Micky laughs a while at the notion, before saying “Well, what time is it anyway?”
It had suddenly become midnight, and the pair made their way back to their dorm in a most unproductive manner, stopping to laugh at jokes that barely warranted the title ‘joke.’
When they finally make it back, Davy’s already in bed, and Mike sat up with a cold, half-drunk coffee and a pile of pen-lined papers, looking every bit the stressed college student he is.
“Hello,” Mike says, his southern twang deepening with his sleepy voice. He notices they’re high as kites the second he takes a look at them, and he smiles, “Just try keep it down.”
They simply giggle. Mike shakes his head, looking back down at his work.
Mike perks up again, “Say, you didn’t bring any home, did you?”
And they completely lose it again, so much so that they wake Davy who says, eyes barely open, “Shut up or I’ll wrangle you.”
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