Dílse (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _dilse) wrote,@ 2005-04-02 14:36:00 |
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17.
"Hold up your end, Monaghan, before you tip us over."
"I am holding my end, Boyd, it's you who's gone lopsided."
"If you drop this box Miranda will skin you alive. She makes her spending money on these bottles, you know."
"Well she should have thought of that before she went to bed and left a drunkard like you to tend them for her."
Bill stopped, causing Dom to stumble forward; the empty bottles wobbled in their crate.
"Are you implying that I am intoxicated?"
Dom's cap had fallen down over one eye; it slipped a bit more when he grinned.
"I'm implying nothing, Mr. Boyd, sir." They hefted the box again and moved forward a few steps. "I'm stating quite plainly that you are knackered off your Scottish arse."
It was a fair description of them both, truth be told. They stumbled down the basement corridor with the crate of empty bottles between them, bumping first into one wall, then the other, then into each other, puffing and swearing in pungent little grunts.
"Wasn't me who was makin a fool of m'self with every lass in the pub, shooglin about with my braces hangin off."
"No, twas you who was leaping on the table like one of the Wee Folk, and your face as red as the port." Dom chuckled at Bill's indignant splutter. "You do have Wee Folk in Scotland, don't you Glasgow? You must have, as you do such a fine impression of one."
Bill opened his mouth to reply and tripped over his left foot. The box came down between them and hit the floor with a crash and the sound of breaking glass. Both men froze where they stood, their eyes going round like two lads caught in the candy jar—but there was no sound from upstairs, no call of what the devil is that racket? from Bernard or Miranda, and suddenly they were both sagging against the wall and shaking with stifled laughter. Dom set his cap aright on his head and put a finger to his lips, whispering in that ridiculous way only the inebriated think is actually quiet.
"Shhh, you'll wake the house with your drunken screeching."
"Would be your fault entirely—you caused me to lose my balance."
"Me?" They were struggling to re-lift the crate, winded and off-kilter. Dom grinned. "I would never think of disrupting your balance, my friend."
"You've been doing so since the day I met you," said Bill.
Dom stopped moving. Bill's eyes widened, but he could not unsay what he had said. Instead he turned back to the crate and pushed, trying to move them further down the hall. Dom wouldn't budge and Bill stumbled, tilting sideways, his side of the crate slipping down until he braced against the wall to stop it from crashing. Dom lurched forward at the change in angle—Bill could smell the whisky on his breath, sharp and acrid, dried sweat on his neck and moist warmth creeping up from the collar of his shirt. Bill had a moment of vertigo and closed his eyes, watched the lights spin across his vision until the wave began to pass. The corridor closed around them; he felt claustrophobic, suffocated, the light shrinking and blotted out by blue-gray eyes glittering far too close to his face.
"Dom, I—"
"Don't," said Dom, and his mouth was on Bill's before the crate could hit the floor.
Bill's eyes closed and his mouth opened. He was very, very drunk; the world tilted and swayed and ran together in a blur around him until he couldn't feel which way was up. Dom's tongue was bitter with ale and cigarettes, as hot as Bill had always known it would be, as he had imagined when he lay on his back at night and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom with one hand on his chest and the other buried beneath the sheets. Bill's face flushed at the memory and his eyes snapped open. He put his hands on Dom's shoulders to push away while he still could, to draw back and stop the fall, but Dom's eyes were closed and he gave a sigh into Bill's mouth, his hips lining up in one slow slide and Bill cracked like the glass crunching beneath their feet, fingers digging into Dom's shoulders, moving forward until Dom's back slammed into the opposite wall with a heavy smack.
They inhaled each other, grabbing and desperate, ungraceful and indelicate and uncoordinated in their frantic greed. Bill felt his shirttail being ripped from his trousers by fumbling, urgent fingers, cold on the flesh of his belly. He pulled once with both hands and heard the buttons of Dom's shirt hit the floor in a scatter of tiny sounds. His thumb caught in Dom's right brace at the same moment his knee pushed Dom's thighs apart. Dom's teeth closed on the skin behind Bill's ear, his breath harsh behind the sound of roaring blood. They pushed and pulled until Bill could no longer tell which limbs were his and which were Dom's, only sharp elbows and awkward angles and clumsy, mashing kisses. It wasn't enough, they needed more, faster, now, and then Dom's fingers curled into the waist of Bill's trousers and they both twisted and fell into a writhing tangle of limbs on the basement floor.
Bill landed on top; he yanked the halves of Dom's shirt open and groped for the fly of his trousers. Dom's cap had fallen off somewhere by the crate; his hair was mussed and sweaty along his forehead, sticking up in disheveled clumps from Bill's fingers. He sucked at Bill's tongue, fingers snaking into the hair on Bill's belly. Bill tugged at Dom's trousers, pulling at stubborn fabric until there was a ripping sound and Dom sprang out into his hands, impossibly hard beneath soft, slick skin and twitching with his racing pulse. Dom grunted and clutched at Bill's back, grabbing handfuls of his arse to pull him closer and Bill dropped his free hand between their bodies and got his own cock out, his hands shaking with impatience. Dom's legs were pinned beneath him, hips trying to push and roll upward, and Bill thrust forward and met him halfway, tight and sliding and perfect.
Dom rose up off the floor, one hand splayed on the concrete and the other clawing at Bill's back, at his arse, pulling for more as they ground against each other with increasing, brutal speed. They tore at each other with arrhythmic urgency, unable to get close enough no matter how hard they pushed or how fiercely they clung. Dom's hums and grunts vibrated on Bill's lips, in his throat, popping behind his eyes with the light that flashed and spun faster with each slide of their cocks now growing slippery against each other. It was skin and salt and heat, the thick smell of sex rising through the fog of whisky and smoke and Bill couldn't breathe, couldn't hear beyond the rush in his head, couldn't think beyond his need to feel, to touch and taste and move faster and harder until Dom made a choked sound and went taught beneath him, his belly growing wet with sudden, burning moisture. He grew pliant in Bill's arms, shuddering and gasping and Bill heard himself moan before his head dropped and his vision went opaque. He gave a final, spasming thrust, sticky skin squelching obscenely, and then Bill's arms gave out and he collapsed in a limp heap on top of Dom's chest.
Bill waited until the spinning in his brain began to slow, and then he lifted his head. Dom's lower lip was darkening with a purple bruise, swollen and wet with Bill's saliva; his sweaty hair stuck out at ridiculous angles all over his head. He watched Bill for a moment as they lay in tatters on the chilly basement floor—and then his eyes changed, glittering, and his mouth turned up into a smug, victorious grin.
Bill felt nauseous. He drew back and their bodies separated with a sticky, peeling sound. Dom's brow creased but Bill was already scrambling to his feet. His calves hit the crate and he tripped, skidding through broken glass before sitting down hard on the top. The bottles rattled in the frame, tinkling glass and creaking wood, and Bill heard the sigh of a high-pitched voice.
Dom...
Dom rose up onto his elbows, his grin vanishing, but before he could open his mouth Bill had already stumbled up the stairs and into the darkness, slamming the door shut behind him.
