K (karanguni) wrote in 1931, @ 2008-04-20 00:49:00 |
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Entry tags: | claire, luck, short fic |
Drabble: Red Red Red (Luck/(Claire))
Picking up on white_aster's prompt: Luck, masturbation, "fantasy or reality". Mm, it feels good to take a break and do something other than translate.
Red Red Red
Luck/(Claire), R.
If he closes his eyes he can cast his mind back to those summers that they spent out in Jersey country.
640 words
It shouldn't be anything like this; it shouldn't be on his mind; it shouldn't be done; all of these questions of should-be-should-not-should-I---
Luck shifts; the cotton of his sheets seems too damned rough, the air in the room too damned still. New York is never quiet, but the heat muddles everything, muffles even the sirens as they blare down the street, the pitch going from high to low, the sound piercing and oh, oh--
Shouldn't feel this good; shouldn't feel this wrong; shouldn't --
If he closes his eyes he can cast his mind back to those summers that they spent out in Jersey country; they'd go out and run amok like real children, getting sunburnt and collecting scrapes and bruises and, and if it were just Claire and him, competing to see how quiet the other could be at night in that double-decker bed of theirs --
The thin fabric of his undershirt is soaked through with sweat; Luck stops long enough to peel it over his head and toss it aside, and then his hand drops low again and god--
Shouldn't have let those days pass so quickly; he looks back on them like they're some sort of surreal dream --
Claire always took the top bunk: he liked the thrill of scrambling up the rickety wooden ladder, of vaulting down in the mornings, of hanging upside down by his legs. They'd play games to amuse themselves when they couldn't sleep at night: Luck'd kick the deck above him just to irritate his brother, and Claire'd retaliate by pushing him into the mud the next morning or something -- The summer would drip by around them, time swirling around in circles as if it didn't want to move on. Then at night, at night-- he'd listen to Claire's breathing go shallow, hear the creaks of the bed above his own, wait for the silent gasp for breath before he, at the same time, just then, right--
Luck groans, quiet as he always is. Even his breath seems too warm tonight; he pants, pants some more.
When they grew too old to head out during the holidays, when Claire finally left home to follow his own heart -- Luck'd hated, for the first few months or so, sleeping alone. He visited the circus whenever he could; updated Claire on how things were back home via the static-ridden telephone lines whenever he couldn't. The year he turned eighteen he killed his first man - it was no surprise to him to learn that Claire'd beaten him to it, that Claire'd already got quite good at it. One year the prodigal Stanfield returned to Manhattan and they did a job together; free from Keith's watching gaze, Claire'd shown him exactly how good it could feel to run his fingers through warm, warm red bl--
-- but nothing ever quite compared to the feeling of running his fingers through the shock of Claire's red hair, of pulling Claire in and tasting copper and tongue, of sliding clean hands against a vest soaked through with someone else's blood, of tracing the living muscle underneath, of wondering what it'd be like to be helpless underneath those strong, lethal fingers, of wondering if he already was helpless, of - of --
Luck's breath stutters; he feels hot all over; afterwards he plays with the mess on his chest, dragging his fingers through it in a sort of dazed fog of pleasure.
Somebody claps. Luck's eyes snap open, and he sees his curtains fluttering in the wind coming through his newly opened window.
'Quite a show there, brother,' Claire says, stepping into the light. Luck wonders whether he's real, or if -- 'Thinking of me again?'
Luck closes his eyes, and lets himself fall upwards into that red, red haze.