Fic: Circles
Jul. 2nd, 2009 01:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixTitle: Circles
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and, thank God, never actually took place.
Word Count: 2,758. It got a bit unexpectedly long.
Summary: Written for this prompt, but also incorporating various others, specifically one from a while back requesting the inadvisable presence of weed. You have been warned. Bill thinks it would be a great idea to take Leonard to a strip club. Leonard's not convinced that all of Bill's ideas are actually that great.
Everything is circular. Leonard knows this, just as everyone must realise, consciously or otherwise, that it's simply in the nature of things to meld smoothly from points of opposition into ungraduated sameness. Fascism and Communism, for instance, when sufficiently extreme, are indistinguishable from each other in all the ways that count. Likewise, where a map of the world will place Russia and the USA at opposing ends of the page, a globe will tell you that, if you just keep moving for long enough, they are actually right next to each other.
Knowing these things, though, doesn't make the concept any less of a mindwarp territory to Leonard. Knowing these things doesn't quite explain why it is that, with Bill, the difference between a very, very bad idea and a very, very good one seems to be a couple of rum-and-Cokes and a whisky on ice.
"Let's go out," Bill had said, voice half-muffled in the folds of Kirk's tunic as he wrestled it off over his head. "You like a good lap-dance as much as the next guy, right, Leonard?"
"Why, you offering?" Leonard retorted lightly, as he rummaged for his jeans. Bill bit back a laugh in his throat, eyes twinkling, and shrugged on his shirt.
"I'm proposing a gentlemen's outing, Len," he'd clarified, one eyebrow raised rather archly. "Club. Girls. Alcohol. Sound good?"
And it had sounded good, in the stuffy cramped heat of Bill's trailer, which smelled of dog and sweat and Bill's cologne and Spock's ear-glue; an evening On The Town sounded like the height of unSpockly laddishness and easy, caveman masculinity. Hell, yes, it had sounded good.
Which brings him back again, appropriately, to the strange circularity that seems to mark everything Bill does, the curious duality that never quite goes away. Nobody could question the rampant, manly heterosexuality, Leonard thinks, of an evening spent sitting awkwardly cross-legged in a bar with your best friend, watching a mostly-naked blonde rub her tits in his face, which is what he was doing ten minutes ago. Doubts might begin to intrude, however, if it were discovered that this situation had somehow morphed into Leonard splay-legged with his lower lip between his teeth, watching Bill's mouth as the girl leaned into him, and trying very hard not to stare at his (frankly gargantuan) erection.
It's odd, Leonard thinks, how two things can be so perilously close to identical, while simultaneously striking out for opposite ends of whatever scale would be appropriate in this situation.He only hopes it's not the Kinsey scale.
He should have known that Bill would be unable to behave himself in a strip club like any other married man - which is to say, by wearing an appropriately embarrassed expression and holding a beer conveniently around the crotch area. No, no, no. For Bill, it seems, the joy of a strip club lies in directing quite as much whorish charm at the dancers as they are levelling at him. He's leaning back in his chair, back slightly arched, knees unashamedly open; he runs his tongue over his lower lip, looking up at the blonde through long lashes over gold. Leonard can see she's amused, even charmed; he watches her sweep light-fingered over the ridge of Bill's collarbone, the point of his jaw. Only Bill, he thinks to himself frustratedly, would ever have the sheer bedevilled gall to behave like this, and expect to get away with it.
Only Bill and his sultry eyes, his ridiculous pout, the sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat, could make a clothed male body suddenly vastly more interesting than a naked female one gyrating six inches from his elbow.
Hell, thinks Leonard irritably, and crosses his legs again.
Unconventional though his attitude to strippers might be, Bill, it transpires, is a master at the old stick-your-dollar-bill-in-her-G-string routine. Leonard watches him deftly slipping neatly rolled banknotes between the blonde's smooth hipbone and the shred of elasticated lace covering the last of her modesty; and it's weird, in a way, because Bill's never before given evidence of any ability to neatly fold so much as a sock, but then again, on the other hand, it seems so absolutely typical of Bill that it could never have been otherwise. Hipbone, Leonard tells himself firmly, as his eyes track the motions of clever fingers. Tits. Ladythighs. But for some reason, he can't quite tear his gaze away from the flicker of a pulse at the base of Bill's throat; the capable largeness of his hands.
This may not be the kind of aesthetic appreciation usually encouraged by establishments like this one.
The blonde slips away into the milling crowd before Leonard is quite ready to deal with this aftermath, alone with Bill and a pretty impressive boner. Or, you know. Two boners. Bill grins at him, easy and golden and slow, ruffling the hair at his nape with the heel of his hand. He inclines his head slightly, indicating the girl's departing form, and quips, "Well, baby, I hate to see you go..."
"...but I love to watch you leave," Leonard finishes for him, promptly enough that he surprises himself. Bill's still lounging at his ease in his chair, completely undeterred by the straining crotch of his bluejeans, and Leonard, with one knee still primly shielding himself from view, registers a dart of envy.
They watch the crowd for a little while, not speaking. Then Bill leans over, touching his fingers to the inside of Leonard's wrist as if to be sure of his attention. "I guess we'd better be heading home about now, you think?" The music's loud enough that he practically has to shout to make himself heard, now; but Leonard's pretty sure he's got the gist of it, and he nods confirmation. Bill grins at him, and gets to his feet.
It's uncomfortable, to say the least; forcing a path for the two of them through the shifting, tight-pressed crowd, Bill clinging to his waist 'for safe-keeping!' as he yells into Leonard's ear, and little Leonard showing no inclination towards going back to sleep. When they get into the car again, it is worse. Leonard's reassured, at least, to see that the bulge in Bill's pants hasn't diminished any, either, but he suspects it might be bad form to keep checking it on the drive back to Bill's place. Or his place. Or -
"You want to crash at my place?" Bill offers, fiddling with the radio one-handed. "I doubt you'll be expected home, really; not by this time."
Leonard has to admit that Bill is right. He called dutifully home before they set out, giving the kind of vague explanation which always translates as 'and I might end up at Bill's.' But Bill's flat is awfully small, and Leonard really doesn't relish the idea of being caught jerking off like a schoolboy because Bill keeps his toothbrush/underwear/whatever in the minuscule guest bedroom. "I don't know..." he says, doubtfully.
Bill throws him a look, and pouts. "Aw, Leonard. Don't be an idiot. A., you'll be closer to work in the morning; B., your wife'll be pissed at you if you stumble in at this time of night, and C..." A grin creeps onto Bill's face - "I thought you might like to have a smoke with me."
And, see, this is another example of the way that all of Bill's ideas seem to hover along the invisible line that divides the horrendous from the inspired. Leonard cannot deny that points A and B are very, very good ones. As for point C...
"Oh, all right, then," he hears himself saying, before he's fully aware of having made up his mind. "It's the next turn-off, right?"
"After this one, yeah." There's a note of smug triumph in Bill's reply, and it should be gut-wrenchingly irritating, but for some reason, it sort of makes Leonard want to lean across the stickshift and squish Bill like a Tribble. He resists the urge, but he's still grinning when they pull into Bill's driveway. Under his hands, the steering-wheel feels curiously weightless, and Leonard suspects that there's probably a pretty sound reason D. in favour of pulling in here, rather than across town. If there's one thing Leonard really doesn't want to have to deal with at the moment, it's a DUI charge. Or, you know, a head-on collision. That, too, would be less than welcome. So, he tells himself, as he locks up the Buick, this is basically the only sensible option.
In many ways, Bill's apartment is pretty similar to Bill's dressing-room: small and kind of cluttered, with a vague smell of dog. There's another smell in the front room today, though: something that registers heavy and sweet in the back of Leonard's throat. He raises an eyebrow at Bill. "You were smoking on your own?"
"Oh, a bit," Bill says dismissively, throwing himself into the nearest chair. Leonard notes that his pants are still tented. "No fun without you, though."
"How touching," Leonard observes dryly, reaching for the cigarette papers on the coffee table. "Should I do one joint, or two?"
"Oh, one," Bill says, with a smirk, as if it were the world's most obvious answer to the world's most redundant question. "If you're gonna share a joint, Leonard, you really have to share a joint. You know?"
They haven't often done this together - truth be told, Leonard hasn't often done it at all. But he likes the earthy taste of it, the resultant looseness of his limbs; the way Bill's hair falls into his face just that little bit more pointedly than usual. He likes it better than lapdancing clubs, and throat-numbing, meth-tasting whiskey-with-an-e; he likes it a whole lot better. Bill's carpet is soft beneath him, like a cloud. Bill's elbow is pressing into his side, warm and smooth as he passes the joint, and Leonard slides his hand into the crook of it and grips, just because it seems, at this moment, like a very good idea. Bill laughs at him, his face very close, and holds up his hand, the fingers loosely curled. Leonard watches smoke spiralling blue towards the ceiling.
"You want this?" Bill asks, lazily, proffering the joint. Leonard makes a non-committal sound, and takes hold of Bill's wrist with his free hand. Bill's eyes, he thinks suddenly - with the profundity of the increasingly stoned - are positively leonine, wide and liquid and golden.
"Want to share your smoke," he says. In his ears, the words ring a little hollow and strange, but inside, inside, he knows they mean something reasonable. Bill obviously knows, too, because he laughs again and takes another long draw from the joint, and cups a hand around the nape of Leonard's neck to pull him closer.
It's not particularly nice, really, drinking secondhand smoke from Bill's lips like this, but it's what Leonard wanted; it's what he meant to ask for. And, after Leonard's pulled away to exhale, Bill pulls him back again just as promptly, sliding a hand up into his hair and licking at the seam of his lips until they part. Leonard's cock is throbbing again, but this has, somewhere along the way, ceased to be a problem, because maybe it's always throbbed like that; maybe it's meant to be throbbing. Maybe he's never known quite so much truth before as he knows right now, with Bill's mouth breathless under his own, and Bill's fingers creeping up his thigh.
At some indeterminate point between kisses, Bill pulls away. The part of Leonard that might normally be inclined to protest at this seems to be asleep; he takes the opportunity to take another pull at the smouldering joint, and looks at Bill darkly through his lashes.
Bill says, "Watch closely, Nimoy." And his fingers creep, creep, creep, creep to the buttons of his shirt, slipping them free one by one, deft and measured and just that little bit smug. Leonard smiles, tipping his head back slightly against the edge of the couch, and watches Bill undress himself, shirt-shoes-socks-jeans-underwear. Naked, Bill is all over honey-coloured, and Leonard wants to lick him in his secret places. He keeps thinking things, and then finding that they've come out of his mouth without his knowledge. Bill's touching himself, where he's hard and leaking just a little, and Leonard doesn't mean to say God, you're so hot, but from the quirk of Bill's mouth he guesses he must have done.
Not that it matters, really.
By mutual consent, Bill is the stripper, here; so it's only logical that he should strip Leonard as well as himself. Their nakedness together is hot and sharp, and the joint has gone out but the whole room reeks of it, so that any time he smells weed again, Leonard knows he'll think of Bill pressing him hard into the carpet; of the point of Bill's jaw where he tastes of musky cinnamon. Leonard wants fucking; he wants to fuck and be fucked, but that would involve stopping and that just won't do at all, so they rock and rock together till the sweat pools at the base of Bill's spine and Leonard comes all over Bill's abdomen with an inchoate cry. Afterwards, he rolls Bill over and takes him in his mouth; and he chokes a little when he comes unannounced, but he's still alive, isn't he, and Bill's warm against him, so he doesn't think it's really worth complaining.
In the little space of silence that comes before sleep, he floats for a moment, holding Bill against him; hearing him breathe. Something must have happened to time: the clock says 3.30 - 3.50 - 4.10 -
*
Leonard wakes up at seven, with a splitting headache and a ringing in his ears. When Bill leans stiffly over him and picks up the telephone, the ringing stops, which is, at least, one small mercy. The headache, however, shows no signs of disappearing.
"Godawful 'flu," he hears Bill saying, through the throbbing in his temple. His voice is certainly thick; it's not the most unconvincing lie he's ever heard, and he spares a moment to admire Bill's ability to think up anything in this state. Something tells him, though, that Gene might just know Bill well enough to suspect an untruth.
"Oh, God," says Leonard, when Bill puts the phone back down. He presses his hands to his face. His face aches. Hell, his hands ache. And he's - sticky. And naked. And so is Bill.
"Oh, God," says Leonard again, with renewed emphasis. Bill gives him a sort of half-grin through his headache face.
"Uh. Yeah. That about sums it up."
"Did we - ?" Leonard ventures.
"I think - " Bill confirms, dubiously.
They look at each other for a moment. The whole room reeks of sex and weed. Denial, at this juncture, is kind of impossible.
"Oh, to hell with it," Leonard says, struggling stiffly to his feet. "We went out, we got drunk, we somehow thought it would be a good idea to get stoned; we fooled around. No big deal, right?" He scrubs at the mess on his stomach, and tries to act as if he isn't blushing the approximate colour of a cherry tomato.
To his great relief, Bill grins up at him, and flops back down onto the carpet. "On the contrary, Leonard. We got a day off work. I'd call that a pretty big deal."
For a brutal series of seconds, Leonard stands there in the middle of Bill's living room with his jeans in his hand, wondering how the hell to best proceed without turning this into the awkward scene to end all awkward scenes. Part of him thinks they'd probably be best off never mentioning this again. Part of him kind of wants to lie back down and pull Bill into a kiss before the interlude's quite over with. All of him is torn. And then, impossibly, typically, Bill holds out an arm.
"I'm going back to sleep," Bill says. "You gonna join me?"
It is either the best or the worst idea Bill has ever had, and Leonard finds, as he grins back at Bill and renews his acquaintance with the floor, that he doesn't actually care which. Bill slips an arm under his head; turns his face and kisses the corner of Leonard's mouth. These little things, like everything he does, are ridiculous and inadvisable, and perfect, and absolutely Bill.
"You're an idiot," Leonard tells Bill, and kisses him back.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and, thank God, never actually took place.
Word Count: 2,758. It got a bit unexpectedly long.
Summary: Written for this prompt, but also incorporating various others, specifically one from a while back requesting the inadvisable presence of weed. You have been warned. Bill thinks it would be a great idea to take Leonard to a strip club. Leonard's not convinced that all of Bill's ideas are actually that great.
Everything is circular. Leonard knows this, just as everyone must realise, consciously or otherwise, that it's simply in the nature of things to meld smoothly from points of opposition into ungraduated sameness. Fascism and Communism, for instance, when sufficiently extreme, are indistinguishable from each other in all the ways that count. Likewise, where a map of the world will place Russia and the USA at opposing ends of the page, a globe will tell you that, if you just keep moving for long enough, they are actually right next to each other.
Knowing these things, though, doesn't make the concept any less of a mindwarp territory to Leonard. Knowing these things doesn't quite explain why it is that, with Bill, the difference between a very, very bad idea and a very, very good one seems to be a couple of rum-and-Cokes and a whisky on ice.
"Let's go out," Bill had said, voice half-muffled in the folds of Kirk's tunic as he wrestled it off over his head. "You like a good lap-dance as much as the next guy, right, Leonard?"
"Why, you offering?" Leonard retorted lightly, as he rummaged for his jeans. Bill bit back a laugh in his throat, eyes twinkling, and shrugged on his shirt.
"I'm proposing a gentlemen's outing, Len," he'd clarified, one eyebrow raised rather archly. "Club. Girls. Alcohol. Sound good?"
And it had sounded good, in the stuffy cramped heat of Bill's trailer, which smelled of dog and sweat and Bill's cologne and Spock's ear-glue; an evening On The Town sounded like the height of unSpockly laddishness and easy, caveman masculinity. Hell, yes, it had sounded good.
Which brings him back again, appropriately, to the strange circularity that seems to mark everything Bill does, the curious duality that never quite goes away. Nobody could question the rampant, manly heterosexuality, Leonard thinks, of an evening spent sitting awkwardly cross-legged in a bar with your best friend, watching a mostly-naked blonde rub her tits in his face, which is what he was doing ten minutes ago. Doubts might begin to intrude, however, if it were discovered that this situation had somehow morphed into Leonard splay-legged with his lower lip between his teeth, watching Bill's mouth as the girl leaned into him, and trying very hard not to stare at his (frankly gargantuan) erection.
It's odd, Leonard thinks, how two things can be so perilously close to identical, while simultaneously striking out for opposite ends of whatever scale would be appropriate in this situation.He only hopes it's not the Kinsey scale.
He should have known that Bill would be unable to behave himself in a strip club like any other married man - which is to say, by wearing an appropriately embarrassed expression and holding a beer conveniently around the crotch area. No, no, no. For Bill, it seems, the joy of a strip club lies in directing quite as much whorish charm at the dancers as they are levelling at him. He's leaning back in his chair, back slightly arched, knees unashamedly open; he runs his tongue over his lower lip, looking up at the blonde through long lashes over gold. Leonard can see she's amused, even charmed; he watches her sweep light-fingered over the ridge of Bill's collarbone, the point of his jaw. Only Bill, he thinks to himself frustratedly, would ever have the sheer bedevilled gall to behave like this, and expect to get away with it.
Only Bill and his sultry eyes, his ridiculous pout, the sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat, could make a clothed male body suddenly vastly more interesting than a naked female one gyrating six inches from his elbow.
Hell, thinks Leonard irritably, and crosses his legs again.
Unconventional though his attitude to strippers might be, Bill, it transpires, is a master at the old stick-your-dollar-bill-in-her-G-string routine. Leonard watches him deftly slipping neatly rolled banknotes between the blonde's smooth hipbone and the shred of elasticated lace covering the last of her modesty; and it's weird, in a way, because Bill's never before given evidence of any ability to neatly fold so much as a sock, but then again, on the other hand, it seems so absolutely typical of Bill that it could never have been otherwise. Hipbone, Leonard tells himself firmly, as his eyes track the motions of clever fingers. Tits. Ladythighs. But for some reason, he can't quite tear his gaze away from the flicker of a pulse at the base of Bill's throat; the capable largeness of his hands.
This may not be the kind of aesthetic appreciation usually encouraged by establishments like this one.
The blonde slips away into the milling crowd before Leonard is quite ready to deal with this aftermath, alone with Bill and a pretty impressive boner. Or, you know. Two boners. Bill grins at him, easy and golden and slow, ruffling the hair at his nape with the heel of his hand. He inclines his head slightly, indicating the girl's departing form, and quips, "Well, baby, I hate to see you go..."
"...but I love to watch you leave," Leonard finishes for him, promptly enough that he surprises himself. Bill's still lounging at his ease in his chair, completely undeterred by the straining crotch of his bluejeans, and Leonard, with one knee still primly shielding himself from view, registers a dart of envy.
They watch the crowd for a little while, not speaking. Then Bill leans over, touching his fingers to the inside of Leonard's wrist as if to be sure of his attention. "I guess we'd better be heading home about now, you think?" The music's loud enough that he practically has to shout to make himself heard, now; but Leonard's pretty sure he's got the gist of it, and he nods confirmation. Bill grins at him, and gets to his feet.
It's uncomfortable, to say the least; forcing a path for the two of them through the shifting, tight-pressed crowd, Bill clinging to his waist 'for safe-keeping!' as he yells into Leonard's ear, and little Leonard showing no inclination towards going back to sleep. When they get into the car again, it is worse. Leonard's reassured, at least, to see that the bulge in Bill's pants hasn't diminished any, either, but he suspects it might be bad form to keep checking it on the drive back to Bill's place. Or his place. Or -
"You want to crash at my place?" Bill offers, fiddling with the radio one-handed. "I doubt you'll be expected home, really; not by this time."
Leonard has to admit that Bill is right. He called dutifully home before they set out, giving the kind of vague explanation which always translates as 'and I might end up at Bill's.' But Bill's flat is awfully small, and Leonard really doesn't relish the idea of being caught jerking off like a schoolboy because Bill keeps his toothbrush/underwear/whatever in the minuscule guest bedroom. "I don't know..." he says, doubtfully.
Bill throws him a look, and pouts. "Aw, Leonard. Don't be an idiot. A., you'll be closer to work in the morning; B., your wife'll be pissed at you if you stumble in at this time of night, and C..." A grin creeps onto Bill's face - "I thought you might like to have a smoke with me."
And, see, this is another example of the way that all of Bill's ideas seem to hover along the invisible line that divides the horrendous from the inspired. Leonard cannot deny that points A and B are very, very good ones. As for point C...
"Oh, all right, then," he hears himself saying, before he's fully aware of having made up his mind. "It's the next turn-off, right?"
"After this one, yeah." There's a note of smug triumph in Bill's reply, and it should be gut-wrenchingly irritating, but for some reason, it sort of makes Leonard want to lean across the stickshift and squish Bill like a Tribble. He resists the urge, but he's still grinning when they pull into Bill's driveway. Under his hands, the steering-wheel feels curiously weightless, and Leonard suspects that there's probably a pretty sound reason D. in favour of pulling in here, rather than across town. If there's one thing Leonard really doesn't want to have to deal with at the moment, it's a DUI charge. Or, you know, a head-on collision. That, too, would be less than welcome. So, he tells himself, as he locks up the Buick, this is basically the only sensible option.
In many ways, Bill's apartment is pretty similar to Bill's dressing-room: small and kind of cluttered, with a vague smell of dog. There's another smell in the front room today, though: something that registers heavy and sweet in the back of Leonard's throat. He raises an eyebrow at Bill. "You were smoking on your own?"
"Oh, a bit," Bill says dismissively, throwing himself into the nearest chair. Leonard notes that his pants are still tented. "No fun without you, though."
"How touching," Leonard observes dryly, reaching for the cigarette papers on the coffee table. "Should I do one joint, or two?"
"Oh, one," Bill says, with a smirk, as if it were the world's most obvious answer to the world's most redundant question. "If you're gonna share a joint, Leonard, you really have to share a joint. You know?"
They haven't often done this together - truth be told, Leonard hasn't often done it at all. But he likes the earthy taste of it, the resultant looseness of his limbs; the way Bill's hair falls into his face just that little bit more pointedly than usual. He likes it better than lapdancing clubs, and throat-numbing, meth-tasting whiskey-with-an-e; he likes it a whole lot better. Bill's carpet is soft beneath him, like a cloud. Bill's elbow is pressing into his side, warm and smooth as he passes the joint, and Leonard slides his hand into the crook of it and grips, just because it seems, at this moment, like a very good idea. Bill laughs at him, his face very close, and holds up his hand, the fingers loosely curled. Leonard watches smoke spiralling blue towards the ceiling.
"You want this?" Bill asks, lazily, proffering the joint. Leonard makes a non-committal sound, and takes hold of Bill's wrist with his free hand. Bill's eyes, he thinks suddenly - with the profundity of the increasingly stoned - are positively leonine, wide and liquid and golden.
"Want to share your smoke," he says. In his ears, the words ring a little hollow and strange, but inside, inside, he knows they mean something reasonable. Bill obviously knows, too, because he laughs again and takes another long draw from the joint, and cups a hand around the nape of Leonard's neck to pull him closer.
It's not particularly nice, really, drinking secondhand smoke from Bill's lips like this, but it's what Leonard wanted; it's what he meant to ask for. And, after Leonard's pulled away to exhale, Bill pulls him back again just as promptly, sliding a hand up into his hair and licking at the seam of his lips until they part. Leonard's cock is throbbing again, but this has, somewhere along the way, ceased to be a problem, because maybe it's always throbbed like that; maybe it's meant to be throbbing. Maybe he's never known quite so much truth before as he knows right now, with Bill's mouth breathless under his own, and Bill's fingers creeping up his thigh.
At some indeterminate point between kisses, Bill pulls away. The part of Leonard that might normally be inclined to protest at this seems to be asleep; he takes the opportunity to take another pull at the smouldering joint, and looks at Bill darkly through his lashes.
Bill says, "Watch closely, Nimoy." And his fingers creep, creep, creep, creep to the buttons of his shirt, slipping them free one by one, deft and measured and just that little bit smug. Leonard smiles, tipping his head back slightly against the edge of the couch, and watches Bill undress himself, shirt-shoes-socks-jeans-underwear. Naked, Bill is all over honey-coloured, and Leonard wants to lick him in his secret places. He keeps thinking things, and then finding that they've come out of his mouth without his knowledge. Bill's touching himself, where he's hard and leaking just a little, and Leonard doesn't mean to say God, you're so hot, but from the quirk of Bill's mouth he guesses he must have done.
Not that it matters, really.
By mutual consent, Bill is the stripper, here; so it's only logical that he should strip Leonard as well as himself. Their nakedness together is hot and sharp, and the joint has gone out but the whole room reeks of it, so that any time he smells weed again, Leonard knows he'll think of Bill pressing him hard into the carpet; of the point of Bill's jaw where he tastes of musky cinnamon. Leonard wants fucking; he wants to fuck and be fucked, but that would involve stopping and that just won't do at all, so they rock and rock together till the sweat pools at the base of Bill's spine and Leonard comes all over Bill's abdomen with an inchoate cry. Afterwards, he rolls Bill over and takes him in his mouth; and he chokes a little when he comes unannounced, but he's still alive, isn't he, and Bill's warm against him, so he doesn't think it's really worth complaining.
In the little space of silence that comes before sleep, he floats for a moment, holding Bill against him; hearing him breathe. Something must have happened to time: the clock says 3.30 - 3.50 - 4.10 -
*
Leonard wakes up at seven, with a splitting headache and a ringing in his ears. When Bill leans stiffly over him and picks up the telephone, the ringing stops, which is, at least, one small mercy. The headache, however, shows no signs of disappearing.
"Godawful 'flu," he hears Bill saying, through the throbbing in his temple. His voice is certainly thick; it's not the most unconvincing lie he's ever heard, and he spares a moment to admire Bill's ability to think up anything in this state. Something tells him, though, that Gene might just know Bill well enough to suspect an untruth.
"Oh, God," says Leonard, when Bill puts the phone back down. He presses his hands to his face. His face aches. Hell, his hands ache. And he's - sticky. And naked. And so is Bill.
"Oh, God," says Leonard again, with renewed emphasis. Bill gives him a sort of half-grin through his headache face.
"Uh. Yeah. That about sums it up."
"Did we - ?" Leonard ventures.
"I think - " Bill confirms, dubiously.
They look at each other for a moment. The whole room reeks of sex and weed. Denial, at this juncture, is kind of impossible.
"Oh, to hell with it," Leonard says, struggling stiffly to his feet. "We went out, we got drunk, we somehow thought it would be a good idea to get stoned; we fooled around. No big deal, right?" He scrubs at the mess on his stomach, and tries to act as if he isn't blushing the approximate colour of a cherry tomato.
To his great relief, Bill grins up at him, and flops back down onto the carpet. "On the contrary, Leonard. We got a day off work. I'd call that a pretty big deal."
For a brutal series of seconds, Leonard stands there in the middle of Bill's living room with his jeans in his hand, wondering how the hell to best proceed without turning this into the awkward scene to end all awkward scenes. Part of him thinks they'd probably be best off never mentioning this again. Part of him kind of wants to lie back down and pull Bill into a kiss before the interlude's quite over with. All of him is torn. And then, impossibly, typically, Bill holds out an arm.
"I'm going back to sleep," Bill says. "You gonna join me?"
It is either the best or the worst idea Bill has ever had, and Leonard finds, as he grins back at Bill and renews his acquaintance with the floor, that he doesn't actually care which. Bill slips an arm under his head; turns his face and kisses the corner of Leonard's mouth. These little things, like everything he does, are ridiculous and inadvisable, and perfect, and absolutely Bill.
"You're an idiot," Leonard tells Bill, and kisses him back.
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Date: 2009-07-02 04:02 pm (UTC):D Thank you!