Title: Colorado Sunrise
Author: yourmomlemon :D
Fandom: Pineapple Express
Pairing: Saul/Dale
Rating: PG-13 (probably? no lemon.)
Disclaimer: I don't own nor did I create any of the characters from Pineapple Express. I'm not profiting from this fic in any way and don't intend any harm by it.
Notes: I wrote this a long time ago, back in May, I think, but I never finished it until now! It's in first person, which I normally don't do, because it's rarely a good format for fic. But whatever, I'm okay with how it turned out. Based off the song Colorado Sunrise! by 3oh!3. It takes place a while after they've gotten together, and I believe I'd written a chapter fic that went before this, but I lost it. D: Sorry! Saul's "POV" or whatever the hell they say.

And if I had something to say to you, I'd whisper it softly
Kiss you on your rosey lips and never let you off me
Shiver on the roof and see your face lit by starlight
Hold you through the night and watch that Colorado sunrise.

Somehow I convinced you to come up on the roof with me, and even though the wind is ripping through us, I like it. It feels nice. We look up at the stars and they're so gorgeous and this moment is so perfect—mainly because you're here. You're smoking and it's drifting over to where I am, and I love the distant smell even if I haven't smoked it today. You clutch around my chest and you're so high. You have that idiotic smile on your face and even though you look kinda stupid, it gets me every time. I hug your arm as it's wrapped around me and I close my eyes, leaning back into you. I'm not high at all, and that's alright. I don't care if I'm not laughing constantly, or if everything isn't a joke to me because right now everything is so real and I'll take the pain along with the pleasure as long as I have you.

I know these past few weeks have probably been crazy, what with me realizing that I've lead such a fake life up until now. I've probably put you through hell breaking down and crying and shit. Guys aren't supposed to do that, I know. One of the reasons you like me so much is because I'm not a chick. But I've never felt this before and I know you're trying your best to understand and help me through it, like a real friend would.

You're a real friend.

I look up and your face is lit so beautifully by the calm rising sun and no amount of any drug could make your face any more perfect. Your eyes are glazed over and you're not even looking at me but that just makes you seem even more attractive. I'm sitting in-between your legs and we're both wearing jammies because it's still early in the morning. I can tell I've worn you down badly, because even though everyone has this distracted look on their face when they're high, yours is much more deeply woven. I nudge your neck with the top of my head as a gesture of me having to say something.

You murmur "What?" and I just feel like I have to tell you how great you look against the light glow that morning is bringing, but I can't shape my words and nothing comes out. I don't even know what I'm thinking now, and all I have to say is "I'm sorry." The words escape before I can catch them. I feel like I'm going to cry, but I know that I can hold it in because that would just make everything worse. I feel bad—bringing you into this. I'm a train wreck, I really am. I feel so awful for making it your responsibility to take care of these unfixable faults. Will you leave me if I break down again? All these questions that I'm too scared to ask come flooding in and I suppress this strained breath. How broken do I have to get before you get tired of me and leave?

I think you sense that something's wrong because the muscles in your arm tighten around my upper body and you start to say something that turns out to be gibberish. You try to speak again, but I think you're having as much difficulty as I do in painting your emotions. Finally some words come out: "Sorry for what?" Damn, that's a good question. How could I ever possibly express to you how much you mean to me? How much I owe you? I owe you my life, I swear.

"For everything. I'm so sorry, man. I'm such a wreck…" My voice is stifled and I can't keep talking or even finish because I'm scared I won't be able to hold in all these tears. I'm so self-destructive, and it translates into every single word, and I hope you don't leave me for it. You deserve someone better than me. But I can't even handle the thought of you finding someone you like more because right now you are into me and if that ever changed I don't know what I'd do. Your voice starts in again, and I brace myself for whatever you have to say. "Nah… It's alright, dude, really. I like staying here with you. You're great." I can't stop the smile on my face or the tears that come along with them and I'm so happy—they aren't tears of sadness, I promise. I know you must be sick of this. What type of guy cries more than once a year, in front of people (well, you exclusively) no less? I've done enough crying for another decade. But you don't seem agitated at all and instead you toss your roach and grab my hand, your breath playing into my hair.

"Are you crying again?" You speak into my head, and I figure it must be pretty obvious that I'm crying because of my uneven breathing and sniffles. I'm not sure if you even know why I'm crying or why I've been like this recently, but it doesn't really matter because I'm here resting with you and I never can get over how warm you are. I mostly ignore the mocking tone in your voice, but I smile at it being there. When I finally answer your question, it's barely audible: "I'm so sorry, I can't help it," I'm not lying. I can't help it. I'm so glad that you're here and that you're all mine, and I can't shake this possessive feeling.

I'm in debt to you. You're incredible. There is nothing about you that I have the capability of complaining about—you're perfect. I know this is cliché, but you complete me. Before now, I lived for myself, justifying it with the excuse that I needed to pay for Bubby's retirement. I was an idiot. I am an idiot. But you love me, we're best friends. You like me how I am, right? Otherwise you wouldn't be here with me right now, otherwise you wouldn't have moved in, otherwise you wouldn't have made love with me and devoted your life to me, otherwise you wouldn't be holding me as I weep right now, that unstable self-loathing side of me released by your tenderness. I didn't know I was capable of ever feeling again. I thought I'd just be some uneducated, resource-consuming dolt the rest of my life, living for those moments on TV where the characters say something funny or get themselves out of some sticky situation, but here I am, unable to hold in my happiness and sorrow, overflowing with emotion. You are my pillow. My sponge. Absorb me. Take me.

The sun is almost all the way exposed, but we don't move—we stay there for such a long time. I never want to let go. I contemplate telling everyone we're a couple, but I know you wouldn't appreciate it much. I want to scream it from the rooftops, let everyone know that I'm happy, and you're happy and we're together and that's all that matters, but I'd rather just lay on the roof of the apartment and watch as the wind blows through your hair and tries to uncurl it but nothing on this planet can uncurl your hair.

You gesture for me to get up, but I want to stay. I want to lay here and melt into one with you. Let's fuck on the rooftop, for the whole world to see. Wouldn't that be great? But you eventually give me a light shove and detach yourself from behind me, helping me to stand because maybe you think I'm too weak to do it on my own. I think I am too. "I need to relight," you say, a frown tugging at the corners of your mouth when you see how fucked up I am; my eyes must be pretty swollen. You hug me, and use your rough thumb to wipe away the remainder of the tears. "Okay, man, you know it's not my favorite thing to say, but I love you. I really do. Why're you so depressed? This is, like, the tenth time in a whole month that you've cried. Are you okay? You're not going to kill yourself are you? Maybe you should smoke some." I shake my head and look down.

I don't want to get high. I don't mind that you do—in fact, it makes me feel easier around you. But I don't need to right now. All I need is you; only you, who holds me without complaining. You, who looks fantastic against the orange-red-purple combination that the sunrise brought. Light bleaches your hair and lights up the dark of your eyes, midnight shadow only enhancing your coarse features. You love me. That's all I need.

"I'm just… I've tried explaining it before, I can't. I love you, Dale. I mean, I just need to forget everything and live in the now. You're all that matters." I wonder why I'm so meek and shy around you, without pot of course. You just look disappointed at that answer. I'm sure I'm being too clingy—making you stay with me every night and call whenever you have a break at work. Hell, at this point, I'm just being like an overly annoying girlfriend. But when we first started being friends we spent two whole days together, and we only got in one fight, if I'm remembering right. "I'm not being to clingy, am I?" What happened to the loosey-goosey attitude I had before? You must be wondering that. I want to punch myself for being so annoying. Maybe I should get high. You like me better that way, don't you? There's silence between us, and I'm trying to think of something to make it go away.

I don't know why, but you blush and look away. I'm embarrassed, so I pop my neck and fidget some. I should've never asked. Out of nowhere you pull me close and kiss my neck and for a split second I'm positive you're about to start balling into my shoulder but you keep your cool. I think about how bad you are at functioning when you're not high. You're much more awkward and clumsy, and it's kinda cute, but it's also kinda painful, because I know you hate yourself for it. I don't like seeing you upset. You bring your fingers to my collarbone and my breath shortens and I can't focus anymore. Not when you're this close. I shudder and wish that I somehow didn't desire you as much as I do. You bring your lips up from my neck to my lips and I taste the marijuana on you. You pull away and smile softly, starting to speak. "Clingy or not, I'm fucking worried about you. Before we got in that fight you were fine, and now it's like the end of the world, everyday. Did I do something? Is living here too much? I know I'm a slob, so it must be pretty shitty." I can't tell by your voice how sincere you're being, because you know I'm just as big a slob as you, if not more. It doesn't matter anyway.

I don't need to cause you anymore trouble. It'll take time, but soon enough, I'll be fine. I mean, I have you, don't I? You being here will help me. It does help me. "You didn't do anything, it's all me. We talked about this before. Just let it pass, I'll be fine. I love you." Why do I feel the need to say that all the time? It makes you uncomfortable, I should stop. But I just feel like if I don't say it, you won't know. Or it won't seem as real. Or you'll forget. I know, how could you honestly forget something like that? I shouldn't have such a low opinion of you, but I can't stop thinking you're just getting tired of it, tired of me.

"You don't need to say that. Everything will be just fine. Come on, let's get down from here." I stand up for a moment, noting how badly you stutter, especially while saying stuff like that. I embrace you and pull you back down, and if the look on your face isn't surprised, I don't know what it is. I smile, this time a genuine one. Not one of those fake cheesy smiles that you plaster on just so people won't ask questions, but one that says, Dale, let's get high and fuck some shit up. I sit back down, the sun's distant rising warmth spreading over my face.

"I know you're hungry, but could we stay up here a little longer? Look at the sun…" I trail off and before I can think you're beside me again. "Best fuckin' friends forever, right?" I mutter, and you instinctively put your arm around me. It's become this weird tradition, that whenever I mention our friendship, you act all manly and boyfriend-ish, even though neither of us have told anyone—not even Red—about us being together. We sink into the same position as before, only now there's nothing to hide. How could there have ever been something to hide? "In a bit, let's go to Taco Bell. Y'know that one thing where you pay ten bucks for…like, twenty tacos? Let's do that. It sounds so fucking good. Let's drive around. Go down to the beach. Chainsmoke all the weed we got, how 'bout it?" You hum something that sounds like 'alright' and drift in and out of sleep. I drift too. Together. Asleep together. How the hell did I ever get a guy as perfect as you?

And as long as it's okay with you I think I'll stay right here.
I got no where to go 'cause where to go is up to you, dear.
Happy as a clam, I see the glimmer in your eyes.
Hold you through the night and watch that Colorado sunrise.