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"That's a relief because I don't have any of my own so I gotta bum it off you." He's very obviously teasing.

Whoa. Hold the damn phone.

"Lord of the Rings? Please, tell me you've heard of it?"

It's amazing, really, the power that Crichton has to put Arthur in a jovial mood. He responds in kind: "Well, it's a good thing then that young Mr Harrington gave me enough for two."

Aaand nope, sorry buddy, you're about to be disappointed. "I promise that unless you have personally witnessed me watching it, my knowledge of pictures peters out around the era of Clark Gable and Joan Crawford."

"I'll have to thank him later." Oh, if only. But he will get some more smokes off him, eyyyy.

"Oh, I'm so wounded. I can't believe it. That's it, as soon as we get back to the ship I'm ripping that library apart until I find a copy of those books and we'll read them together starting with The Hobbit. You don't know what you're missing."

As for right now, though, he is getting that pipe out. The time is 4:20 baby. "Okay, gimme your stash, I'm gonna get this party started."

EYYYY.

"Are you offering to read me bedtime stories?" Both eyebrows are up and there's a grin on his face. That's kind of delightful.

"Right, it's, ah..." Memory-jogging hand movements. Uhh. Where did he put the stash. He remembers making a mental note to remember the place but he doesn't remember the actual place-- oh right. "In the, the night-stand." Which you might think is a direction for Crichton, the one with a direct visual bead on Arthur's night-stand, to get it. But no, Arthur's going for it himself.

"You know, actually I am. I think that sounds like a nice way to end the night." Now that they have agreed to not go out drinking so much. Sitting in bed together and sharing a book before they drift off does sound exceptionally healthy for them. (What's the catch?)

By this point, Crichton's come to expect this kind of action from Arthur, so he just snorts, shakes his head, and hopes for the best while Arthur finds his way to the nightstand. He'll go get the pipe from his bag of stuff instead.

"Let me know when you find it and I'll pack the pipe."

"You know, I-I think I agree. I think I'd be glad to fill my calendar that way."

Reading and sharing one of Crichton's passions sounds like a very lovely and wholesome replacement for going out and getting wankered. There we are: new leaf turned over. (The catch is that Arthur had better like Tolkien's prose, or else he'll be in for some very long evenings.)

Arthur gropes inside the night-stand; the cold and solid cylinder that is the metal tin is easy to identify. It's even easier when the lid is off, given how strong this stuff smells. The whiff of it takes him back to his rocky first experience with the stuff; he's sort of hoping he can skip that part this time, now that he knows what to expect.

"Here." The tin is held aloft. "God," he adds, tone philosophical, "if you'd asked me a few months ago what I, I'd be doing with my Christmas day, I'm not sure that settling in with a reefer could have been further from my mind."

(He would have said he'd be spending it quietly with Parker. But, uh, let's not introduce that thought into the mix.)

Edited (sphere? SPHERE?) 2023-01-03 14:13 (UTC)

"Good. We'll make it a new tradition." Look at them both being so reasonable--right before getting high off their asses.

"You're telling me. Hell, I haven't even celebrated a Christmas in probably two or three years. But this, spending it getting cozy with the guy I love, I don't know if I could ask for much better than that." He hasn't even toked up yet and he's already getting sappy, this bodes well.

"Oh, but I did do a little something for you as a gift. Don't laugh, but I couldn't decide on something better so I... wrote you a poem. Maybe I'll wait to read it to you until after the reefer sets in--in case it sucks."

Well if 'the guy I love' gives Arthur a sentimental look, then 'I wrote you a poem' gives him an expression that's basically like Crichton just got down on one knee.

"You... you wrote me a, a..."

Whoops, you might have short-circuited him.

"No," this in response to waiting, because Arthur has a hard enough time waiting for the kettle to boil and he certainly doesn't want to wait for this, and the idea that it might suck is of course too impossible to consider-- "No, I... I-I." Wow! "I would really like to hear it."

The look on Arthur's face is going to make it worth everything, even if it does end up being a terrible poem. (He's very nervous that it is.)

"Okay. Just... don't be too let down if it's lame. I..." he clears his throat and there's the sound of paper rustling as he takes it out of his pocket and unfolds it. "I've never done something like this before."

He gathers his courage and starts to read. It's surprisingly romantic, full of imagery about the cosmos and stars aligning, about soul mates and perfect timing. But there are some humorous bits that mention how they met and how they sometimes drive each other crazy (not in the good way) Yet still, it concludes with a heartfelt promise that he will always be by Arthur's side through the good and the bad. It practically is a marriage proposal.

When it finishes, he clears his throat again and waits nervously for Arthur's critique. "Wasn't too sappy, was it?"

Arthur carefully backs into the bed and sits there to listen.

Fun fact: this is the first time someone has written him a poem in years, and the last time it happened was when he was a boy trading limericks with a family friend, which has quite a different emotional tenor. This is more like the Sonnets (not, all right, not in quality, if he was to sit down and analyse it joylessly, but—) and it strikes at Arthur's heart just as the Bard must once have struck at his fair youth's.

There's a danger, when you fall in love quickly and deeply, that you will sometimes feel silly and demanding, and as if you want more from your partner than they can give (more than any normal person, who doesn't cling so tightly, would want). Crichton's poem is like a treatise to the contrary. It's Arthur's own feelings, mirrored. And there's the fact that Crichton wrote this, anyone else's opinions about whether it was manly enough or not be damned. It fills Arthur with pride and with a warm and overwhelming fondness.

Tl;dr: Arthur thinks both Crichton and this poem are hot shit.

(At the same time, there's a strange kind of terror that comes with having someone so good in your life, when everyone good in your life gets snatched away. When your affection for them is practically a black spot on their future. But— a few years, at least. Please, at least let them have a few years, please.)

When Crichton finishes reading, Arthur's holding himself on the edge of tears, and when he starts to answer it's game over.

"No, it's," he starts, and then has to sniff and rub his eyes as the tears burst out. His smile is wide, lest there be any doubt that these are happy tears. "S-sorry," he adds, embarrassed. "I'm being silly. It's…"

He gets his spilling emotions under control, but is no less sincere and moved when he says: "It's good. Thank you. Thank you. It's— it doesn't suck in the slightest."

The tears might alarm him if not for how brightly Arthur is smiling despite them. Crichton finds his own eyes are starting to prickle too. He's never... he's never driven someone to happy tears with a poem before.

"No," he answers thickly, his own voice betraying the well of emotion backing up in his throat. "No, it's not silly at all." He takes a seat beside Arthur and throws and arm around him, leaning in close enough to smash his nose into the side of Arthur's face.

"I'm glad you like it. I... I wanted you to know how much you really mean to me." Then, a thought occurs to him and he's lightly cursing. "D-damn. I should have had you record it so you could listen to it again." As if the dummy couldn't just read it a second time...? Forgive him, he's so overwhelmed by happiness in the moment he's not thinking completely straight. (Not straight at all, in fact.)

Oh good, if Crichton's face is close enough for nose smashing, it's close enough for Arthur to cup his cheek and pull him into a long and loving kiss. There: that's what he thinks of your poem.

When they break apart, Arthur confesses wryly: "Well. I'm afraid that my gift for you is- is going to seem terribly unoriginal, now."

(Three guesses what it is, and the first two don't count.)

Crichton practically melts on the spot from that kiss, his shoulders slumping loose, releasing the last of his fearful stage-fright as he's enveloped instead in the warmth of such deep and passionate love. Arthur's said it all without saying anything at all.

He laughs as they break apart. "That just means we're both masters at picking the best present possible, doesn't it?" Because if Arthur wrote him a poem too, he's going to bawl like a baby about it. If that isn't proof that they are a perfect match, he doesn't know what is.

"I want to hear it."

Then they'd better hope there's a box of tissues in this room, because...

There are several things about which Arthur is shamed or reserved. Poetry is absolutely not one of them. He flashes a smile, pleased by Crichton's request, and then finds one of Crichton's hands with his own, and smoothly he starts to recite.

It's a sonnet, and a shorter verse than Crichton's, since Arthur had to compose and remember it mostly without the benefit of, uh, writing (he's working on it). There are some self-aware wordplay flourishes -- a symptom of him wanting to show off in front of his boyfriend -- but other than that it's starkly sincere, an ode to someone who has saved him from despair and loneliness and given him love and hope. From the first line to the last couplet it is unapologetically romantic.

By the end of Arthur's reciting, Crichton has his hand in almost a death grip out of sheer enthusiastic love. And, if those sniffles throughout didn't give away his tears already, the fact that he can barely get a full sentence out after will make it crystal clear.

"A-Arthur... that was... no one's ever..." Frell it! He crashes his lips into Arthur's for another passionate kiss since that won't fail him the way words have.

Arthur makes a little mph! noise as Crichton launches himself into another kiss; it's a surprised sound, but also one that Crichton will have heard plenty of times before, enough to know that it's entirely positive. He kisses back hard, lifting a hand to move possessively through Crichton's hair, delighted by the reception his little poem got.

Whenever he thinks about that awkward and mistimed moment back in October, it feels like years ago. And yet the fact that he can kiss Crichton, and Crichton will kiss him, so freely and unabashedly still seems in some ways incredible. That he was afraid his feelings would scare Crichton away seems more incredible still; sometimes, trying to understand it feels like sitting in the morning light attempting to grasp what was so frightening about a nightmare. Would it have been like this if he took a chance in his world--?

Well. He's here, not there.

...One of them is going to have to come up for air eventually.

Edited 2023-02-01 10:15 (UTC)

Not just positive, but positively adorable. He's never going to get tired of delighting his love. Nor will it ever cease to delight him to feel Arthur's fingers raking through his hair. Unlike October, there's no hesitation here. No needing to second-guess if they both want each other. It makes him giddy and light headed just to think about.

Oh, wait. That might be the lack of oxygen.

He pulls back with a light laugh, mostly at how much Arthur makes him feel like a horny goddamn teenager like this, excited at the prospect of necking for the first time in the back of his dad's van.

"Maybe we should, uh, get more comfortable, huh? Put pajamas on and relax?" Smoke, and then... maybe relax in other ways too.

Arthur makes a soft noise of complaint as Crichton pulls away -- but, fine, okay, he supposes he needs oxygen too. Sentimentally -- and what is Christmas for if not sentimentality? -- he thinks he could spend all day with his arms around Crichton, and feel quite ridiculously happy about it.

"Mm, let's," he agrees, then adds: "I don't suppose the closet came equipped with smoking-jackets that you forgot to tell me about?"

Yes, in Arthur's time people still wear smoking-jackets. Feel young yet, Crichton?

Breathe first, then you can have more kisses!

"Smoking jacket? ...the hell? Those are real?" That wasn't just a Hollywood thing? Seriously?

"I think the kids these days just wear a hoodie. Sorry. Best I can do is a couple of silk bathrobes." Actually, come to think of it, he likes the sound of that. Arthur wrapped in silk would be a sight.

"Y-yes?" That's a baffling question? Of course they're real??

"Well, a silk bathrobe sounds closer to the mark than... whatever a hoodie is. What is that?"

(And hey, as a bonus, silk probably feels amazing when you're stoned.)

"I thought those were just made up for the movies. Now I want one." He wants to be all old-timey and shit.

"Hoodies are uh..."--he snaps his fingers while he tries to remember--"what do you guys call it a... a kind of jumper yeah. You pull it over your head and it's got a hood on it." Hence the name.

"Robes are a lot better." It's going to feel so nice. "Here, I'll grab them."

It means he has to get up, which sucks, but he will be right back. And when he does return, it will be sans his vest and shirt. Just bare chested and barefooted, as one does.

"I'll see what I can do for your next birthday." Which is a joke, unless they make port at some kind of fine tailor's shop or similar, and then it will be dead serious.

Arthur... spends the intervening seconds reminding himself to be cool, psyching himself down if you will, for the sake of not. Well. Not starting off today the way he started off the first time he smoked this stuff. Maybe he should say something. ...No, no, he's got this, as proven by him quietly muttering 'no, no, you've got this' under his breath. ...But maybe he should.

The sound of Crichton's returning footsteps is subtly softer, but still audible, and Arthur shuts up. The shirtlessness is, tragically, a perfectly silent affair.

"Make sure it's red. I look good in red." Wink, wink. Is he actually winking? Yes. Does he expect Artur to know that? Well, hopefully, he can hear it in his tone of voice.

Crichton comes back just in time to hear that. So, naturally, he has to ask. "What have we got?" Why does Arthur look so nervous all of the sudden? More than usual.

Shit, busted.

"Oh- ah, sorry, did- did I say that out loud?" The narration assumes it doesn't have to clarify that this is unconvincing.

"Nothing, just... well. I-it's nothing damning, I promise. Only a... well, all right; I suppose honesty is the best policy." One assumes that watching Arthur convince himself to change his mind in real time never gets old. He confesses: "I had a bit of trouble acclimatising to the, well, to the reefer, the first time around."

It was a mild side-effect, considering what doctors say about marijuana-smoking, but Arthur's working on the premise that the weed from Steve's world is of a less dangerous sort.

"I'm told it can happen if one is feeling particularly uncomfortable. I- I suspect the circumstances are more favourable this time, however."

"You know you're worse about talking to yourself than I am." Which is saying a lot.

Crichton comes and sits beside Arthur again, putting a hand on his thigh to add some physical support while Arthur works himself through the process of convincing himself to come out with it.

"That can happen. So I'm told." Shh, he maybe had a reefer phase in college. "It's okay if it does again, I'll be right here with you. I can think of some good ways to get you relaxed if that helps?"

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