How About No

"Hey! Quit hoggin'." Dipper said, gesturing to Raz, who was taking an exceptionally long drag from the top of the bong. He'd waited long enough, hell, it felt like a solid year since he'd taken a nice long toke, and he swore to god that he could feel his high wearing off, and if Raz didn't hurry the hell up, he was going come down, and be pissed.

Raz, came off the top, and wheezed a little, grinning goofy and using the lateral of his tongue to blow smoke rings in the air. He failed. "Dude, chill, I know what share means." Raz said, leaning back nonchalantly, biting his tongue because it felt good to him. Dipper gave him a look, and snatched the bong, and the slightly scuffed lighter. Fuck Raz, if Dipper was in his right mind, he'd get off his fat ass and take his ass down to Trenton and find himself a dealer, but he didn't have time for that, he was too grown.

The lighter came to the bowl, and he lit it up, putting his mouth over the lime green shaft, and breathed. Smoke, fumes and the otherwise flowed into his lungs, and that all too familiar weightlessness came over him again. There he was, back home, betwixt the reigns of a six-leaved plant.

Dipper coughed solemnly, and set the bong down on the dinky little coffee table that sat in front of the ratty couch, shoving more cheetoes into his mouth, and taking a sip of some of his drink. Raz had the bong again, but he was up there again, so there was no need to quarrel.

Just a normal Thursday night in the household of Dipper pines, one could suppose. He'd been doing this since his third week of high school, he remembered because the first time he smoked pot, he set his hair on fire. (he needed a haircut anyway.) The usual pot smoking ceremony took place more often than dipper had a proper meal. Pot fumes lingered and kissed just about every inch of the bottom floor of the house. It was a mundane as taking a shower, well, in dippers sense it was.

Raz gave him a sheepish sideways look, running his hands through the dark red hair that laced his head. Dipper, had reached that blissful state of cannabis nirvana where everything was pretty, and he was just conscious enough to retain his basic motor skills.

And that's when the redhead struck.

He prowled along the hem of the couch like a tiger, or at least that what was her was akin too, and he arrived at the crux of dippers legs so smoothly and sublime, one would have the notion that he had been there the entire time. A breath was taken, and partially shook as Raz' fingers brushed the lateral of his stubbled cheek, prickly hairs meeting calloused fingers. He could smell him now; the deep sent that Raz wore constantly. It lingered between them like it had been there forever. Dipper found himself, between his lust and Raz, whose hands moved down his lower collarbone, and found the makings of soft hairs on an even softer chest. Dipper's eyes met Raz' and the hand kept going, over exposed nipples, to the soft of his abdomen, and to the very hem of his underwear.

And that's when the music started.

Raz managed to wiggle his fingers between Dipper's underwear and his skin, and his hands went to work like he was on the assembly line. Dipper sighed slowly, leaning back so Raz could do his thing. The redhead leaned in, and he felt his lips on his.

Raz was odd, he didn't have a taste, he was just there, nothing special or extraordinary but the brunette found that so invigorating, or at least high Dipper did, but that was beside the point. Raz' hand was around his hardening length, and Dipper's hands slipped inside the deep of the others pants so he could grip his firm ass.

It was a long Thursday night.

XXX

It was raining. Outside, the sun cracked into dawn, sending streaks of royal purple across a deep blue sky, and brought the towns and cities to life. In the city in the horizon, suited men and dressed women crawled out from the darkness, harnessing book, briefcases, and consorts of the type on the trek to the subways and to the busses. Nobody in the neighborhood was awake yet, or at least he didn't think so, but that was none of his concern. The sky bathed the dry streets in warmth, and basked the streets in a holy light.

It was raining.

Pinot Blanc, not one of his favorites, but Norman supposed it was good enough to cater to his dwindling sanity, if he was even sane anymore. It was cheap wine, not like the hard stuff he kept around, it was cheap store-brand wine. The cold of the shower wall was finally warming up, and he could lean against it with minor discomfort. However, he had to be careful; the bottle could slip out his hands and send glass all along the tile.

He didn't really care.

Norman leaned back, sinking down to the floor with his knees high, taking another few gulps from the bottle of white wine. He'd had a long night, a night filled with sleeping pills that didn't work, and the acrid smell of cheap marijuana from the house next to him.

Ugh, he didn't even want to think about that asshole right now. He was too in contempt with sitting in the shower and drinking his early morning few cups of wine.

Weak ass wine, he couldn't even get a decent buzz.

Norman rose to his feet, shutting the shower off roughly and picking up the bottle as he left. He looked a mess to say the least, not like an alcoholic, but a mess. His hair drooped as much as it would allow, he had dark circles below his eyes, and he swore to god there was a ghost in the kitchen.

Fantastic.

Next door, the lights came on, and so did the loud music.

"Goddamit," Norman muttered, shaking out his hair and wrapping his lanky waist in a towel. This was how every weekday morning was. Norman would wake up at the asscrack of the god-forsaken dawn, and drink in the shower until he got a reasonable buzz, and at some time during his shower, Dipper would wake up, drag himself to his stereo, and blast his music. And it wasn't slow songs from the sixties' or classic rock, it was all underground rap, newer rappers from newer artists, Mash-ups, or dubstep.

Please god not the dubstep, Dipper sang when he played dubstep. Norman could only pray for the best.

Norman padded into his room, and went to the window that was parallel with Dippers.

"SHUT THAT SHIT OFF!" He yelled over the music, frowning and gritting his teeth. It was too early for him to be doing this. Dipper came to the other window, his all too cheeky grin on his face, and Norman was sure he got a shot of his crotch.

"SHUT UP NORMAN, GO BACK TO SLEEP. IT'S TOO EARLY FOR LITTLE KIDS TO BE AWAKE!" He yelled over the music. Dipper drummed his fingers along the lateral white of the window sill, and rolled his eyes.

Norman furrowed his brow. The almost ever apparent sense of irritation was setting in again, something that even the copious amounts of booze coupled with sleeping pills couldn't salvage. Reasoning with Dipper was akin to reasoning with a brick wall; it was hard, and refused to do what it told you. Dipper was too smug to listen, and Norman was too irritated to care. The drumming continued, and dipper gave him a tongue-in-cheek gaze. Norman rolled his eyes, and walked off. The towel around his waist loosened with each step, before falling to the ground, and exposing the entirety of his back to the idiot on the other side of the window.

Norman heard Dipper shriek with laughter at his bare ass.

"Lucky me."

XXX

Dipper had to admit when it came time to do something important, most of the time he ended up watching cheesy sitcoms and porn rather than taking himself down to the DMV like he was supposed to. But what could he say; in his opinion the Department of Motor Vehicles was a terrifying place that was always packed to the seams. He swore he could feel the evil in the building lowering his sperm count by the minute. He flipped open his notebook and grabbed the nearest pen.

"See…if the…DMV…Is possessed…" He muttered under his breath as he jotted the details down.

He was in his study, which was in turn, an extra walk in closet with a power outlet for his computer. It was dank, and dim, but he could care less. He was an enabler for god sakes. He managed to get the big desk through the tiny doorframe, so he was qualified to save the world, or at least perform an exorcism on the DMV workers. Dipper brand logic was flawless, and anyone who argued was dumb.

Mainly Norman.

Dipper sighed beneath his breath, and took the rolled up dollar bill in his hand, hunched over, and snorted.

It was a long night.