p. crumb has strong feelings re: mandatory pudding (godofnofun) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-04-01 20:12:00 |
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Pollo preferred his showers hot to the point of near-scalding, the water burning off the day's worries, leaving no room for excess thought. His bathroom was small — but then, it had never needed to be anything else — just to the right of the stairs that led to his bedroom, and when he reentered the upstairs for the first time since checking, shortly after he woke up, to ensure Richard was still breathing in his bed, it was just barely dawn. He'd already had coffee, read the paper, eaten breakfast — had long since retrieved and put out food for Monsieur, the day before, and again when he rose — and he had, by this point, run out of excuses not to start his day. His bedroom remained dark, the curtains drawn, and he crept quietly through it, barely glancing at Richard's sleeping form on his way into the bathroom. The fact of the matter was, having spent so many hours alone, trying to busy himself and ignore the sudden presence of several hundred thoughts he'd never had to deal with before, Pollo needed a shower, the searing heat of it. He needed some relief from his own clenched jaw and busy mind — and from the painter, nearly naked, asleep in his bed. He didn't mean to wrap his hand around himself — because this was weird and this was wrong and it was beyond morally questionable to pull off to your sleep-deprived, drunken friend while he slept a binge off in the room next to you — but before long, it was, and he rested his head heavily against the tile, breathing in the steam that filled the room as he pumped himself, jaw still clenched, eyes squeezed shut. He did not have it in him to imagine any scenarios — his mind was still too terrified to concoct anything of more than a few seconds' duration, even as he felt the tension build in his belly — but the images came unbidden anyway, the map of colour across Richard's body, permanent and otherwise, the mess of his curls, the imagined feel of the stubble on his jaw against Pollo's skin — against his neck, his stomach, and god help him his thighs — his mouth, the wry twist of it, what it might look like wet and open (but then, Pollo had seen that, hadn't he, Richard drunk in pubs, at parties, someone or another in his lap, raising his mouth breathless from the heat of someone else's), his long, strong fingers and what it would feel like to have them on him, to hear the rasp of Richard's voice against his ear, spoken into the skin of his neck — It didn't take long for him to come, a curse aborted partway through his mouth as he sagged against the wall, just for a moment, the water still pouring over him, washing the evidence away. He got out shortly after, jaw set, wrapping a towel around his waist and tying it fast to reenter his room, to find clothing, to put that many more layers between his body and the world (and the man in his bed), barely glancing at Richard as he strode across to his closet. Richard had slept like the dead, as he usually did after a particular heavy few days of drinking and painting or just not sleeping. He woke up, his head pounding, vision blurry, hi muscles aching, and his mouth beginning to water up. He knew exactly what that meant, and though it pained just about every nerve in his body to do so, he jumped out of the bed and ran to the closest restroom, but the door was locked, and it seemed as if Pollo was taking a shower. He heard an expletive come from his friend, but still in dire need of a toilet or something else, Richard left his spot in front of the door before he had any time to question it. Luckily, he made it to the kitchen sink just in time, emptying the (solely liquid) contents of his stomach, making sure to clean up after himself before heading back upstairs quicky, to get back under the covers. He barely heard Pollo entering the room over the pounding of his head, but saw that there was movement in the room out of the corner of his eyes. He made an attempt to sit up, both hands and either side of his head once he did. Just as he was about to ask Pollo for some water, he lifted his gaze, noticing for the first time that not only was Pollo shirtless. No, of fucking course not. Pollo was shirtless, wet, and wearing only a fucking towel. Richard could have tried not to stare, but it probably wouldn’t have worked. Instead, his eyes followed drops of water as they slid down his chest, his stomach, his back. His eyes fixed on the muscle and bone that dipped and teased into that stupid fucking towel, and he couldn’t help it, no matter how hard he may have tried, as he grew harder at the sight. Thank God for the blankets. Words escaped him, and he shamelessly stared, not speaking a word. He was too hungover to think this shit out, and the object of his affection, his desire, was standing there, perfect as can be. No, Richard would say nothing, and only hold onto the (very slim) hope that Pollo didn’t notice his staring. As Pollo turned from the closet, a shirt in hand, he started slightly as he caught sight of Richard, suddenly awake. He froze in place, staring at Richard, who was staring at him as he clutched the shirt in front of him, hoping to god the towel would stay in place. “Hi,” he said finally, after swallowing again. At the sound of Pollo’s voice, Richard snapped his head up to look at his face, rather than his exposed body. The quick movement caused sharp pains to shoot through several points in his head, his skull feeling like it was about to crack open any second. He cringed and gave Pollo a somewhat apologetic smile, though the true apology was that he was mostly just sorry that he couldn’t catch a few more glimpses. “Hi?” Richard said, though it came out as more of a question. He really needed his brain to start waking up soon. “You’re awake,” said Pollo, still frozen in place. Richard adjusted the blanket over his lap, eyes still on Pollo’s face, terrified of them wandering anymore south, otherwise he had the feeling that Pollo would ask him to leave. Maybe he should leave. Too many decisions. “Um, yeah,” Richard geniusly replied. “I’m awake. And. Yeah.” Pollo cleared his throat, nodding slightly, lowering his hands so he held the shirt strung between them, in front of the towel. It did not occur to him to look anywhere save Richard’s face, barring a nervous glance to the chest of drawers where his trousers and underwear were kept. “Good,” he said, meeting Richard’s eyes again, uncomfortably aware of his state of undress but unwilling, as yet, to remedy it. “Feeling better?” “I feel like I’ve run head first straight into a stone wall,” Richard admit, wrapping himself in the blanket before standing up, mostly in an attempt to hide his situation, as the fabric of his boxers wouldn’t be hiding any secrets. “But, that’s not new. How was your shower?” “Right,” said Pollo, eyes widening some and then, when Richard continued, widening some more. He looked, briefly, not unlike a small woodland creature confronted suddenly with an infuriated dragon, before the look disappeared as he tossed his shirt at the bed, a hand keeping the towel in place as he made for the bathroom, filling a glass with water from the tap. “It was fine,” he replied, thankfully out of sight at the sink. And approaching Richard again, one hand holding out the water while the other stayed at his hip, clutching the towel in place, did nothing for the renewed sense of panic boiling beneath Pollo’s skin — and the shower should have taken care of it, really, but even sated and much too terrified to find much of anything sexy at the moment, it was impossible not to be acutely aware of the strangeness of this, of how little they were wearing, of how easy it would be to — “I’m going to go for a run,” he said, retreating to the chest of drawers at the first opportunity, taking a breath before he knelt to retrieve the rest of the day’s outfit, careful with the way he moved to make sure the towel didn’t slip. “You’re free to keep sleeping it off, if you need to.” Richard tossed the blanket back onto the bed, moving as quickly as a hungover, aroused man could to go grab his pants from the floor, pulling them on, hopefully before Pollo could notice anything. He seemed distracted. Running a hand through his hair and standing at the front of the bed, looking around and searching for his shirt, Richard shook his head. “No, you go on your run. I should probably try and sleep this off at home. Or something.” Pollo straightened, turning just in time to catch Richard doing up his jeans, the curve of his back, the tattoos etched across his torso, and it was difficult, then, to breathe around the pressure in his chest. He swallowed again, concealing his briefs within the fabric of his trousers as he pressed his lips together, wetting them briefly. “Richard,” he started, eyes intent on the other man (his face now, again, thankfully). “Please eat something before you go.” Richard finally found his shirt, but it seemed that Monsieur had left a nice little fuck-you-and-your-forgetting-to-bring-th Though Pollo didn’t know why Richard was laughing, he was wound tight enough that after the initial moment of confusion, he started laughing too, the sound somewhere between rueful and bewildered, though he stopped before Richard did. Still smiling slightly, he moved back towards the bed (and Richard), reaching for his shirt. An awkward pause and then, “Do you want to shower? There’s still hot water left. And I can start making something.” Another pause. “I need to get dressed.” With no shirt to wear, Richard just shrugged it off and tossed the soiled one of the trash. He would just apparate home, anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal. When Pollo proposed a shower, Richard just smirked. “I would take a shower, but it sounded like maybe I should wait a bit before hopping in there after you,” he winked, his usual joking tone returning now that his pants were on. He was still catching glimpses of Pollo’s naked chest, back, and arms whenever he could, but he tried to keep those glances minimal. “Get dressed then.” At Richard’s first comment, the colour drained out of Pollo’s face, though thankfully the room was still dim enough that it didn’t show as it would have done downstairs. When he went on, Pollo thought he could feel his brain actually grind to a halt. After a long moment and a careful breath, he nodded, moving past Richard (keeping his eyes decidedly directed away from his still shirtless friend), clothing clutched in his arms as he made for the bathroom. He felt the towel beginning to slip slightly down his hip, and shifted his burden to one arm so the other hand could prevent this from getting even more embarrassing, just barely. The door was closed behind him before he saw Monsieur, embodying housepet evil in all its malicious glory, crouched in a corner. A moment later, the door opened again, and Pollo’s arm (freshly scratched) emerged briefly to eject Monsieur unceremoniously from the premises. Richard went quiet as Pollo walked away, the towel slipping just slightly, revealing the top of Pollo’s ass, the sight of which was gone much too soon, as Pollo entered the bathroom. He was glad that Pollo had gone back into the bathroom, as otherwise, he would have definitely noticed the way Richard’s pale skin flushed up at the sight. Once Monsieur was ejected, Richard walked over to the bathroom door and knocked lightly. “Look, I’m actually not quite that hungry anymore. I think I may just head home and shower.” “Richard,” came Pollo’s voice, exasperated, a moment before he opened the door again, the light from the bathroom showing the flush to his cheeks as he looked Richard in the eye, now thankfully about as dressed as Richard was, his t-shirt still draped over the sink. He hadn’t thought this through, clearly, as it was much harder to stay focused with light properly shed on Richard (and he still looked tired), and his natural impulse to lean towards Richard to look him square in the eye had the unforeseen consequence of his being face to face with Richard, both of them shirtless, and rather closer than they’d been since Pollo had woken up. “You haven’t eaten in four days. Don’t be daft.” Richard looked right back into Pollo’s eyes in silence, both because it took all of his self-restraint to keep from saying or doing something inappropriate, and because he really was thinking through what his response should be. It was an intense moment for Richard standing there, both shirtless, both looking straight into the other’s eyes. The truth was, Pollo could have asked Richard to assassinate the Queen of England in that second, and Richard would have agreed to it. He sighed and nod his head in response. Pollo swallowed, again, his body feeling very tense as he held it into the position it had naturally assumed when he’d opened the door, one hand on the doorframe and the other stretched behind him, wrapped loosely around the doorknob. “Thank you,” he said, stepping back (and suddenly it was that much easier to breathe again), reaching for the t-shirt and pulling it over his head. When he met Richard’s eyes again it wasn’t with the intensity of a moment before, but he could feel his heart beating again. “What do you want for breakfast?” he asked finally, moving past Richard and switching off the bathroom light as he made for the stairs, not looking at the other man save a glance back (and if this one flicked down to his chest and back, he barely realized he was doing it), when his hand rested on the railing. “Hey, Pollo,” Richard called after him, reaching out to grab his arm gently before he headed down the stairs. “Before I turn into too much of a git, I just wanted to say thanks. For last night. You know.” And this was ridiculous, the way Pollo could feel what seemed to be every nerve in his body straining towards the point where Richard’s skin was touching his, and it was much more difficult not to pay attention to Richard’s state of undress when they were touching, though the only sign of this he gave was his breath slightly more audible, for a second, the flicker of his eyes from Richard’s down to his mouth and back again. He wet his lips, briefly, and nodded, aware of a faint heat under his skin again. “Any time,” he said simply. “It was nice to talk.” A beat passed and then, “You know, two years ago this month.” He swallowed. “I never really thanked you for it. I should have.” Richard didn’t have to strain his poor mind to try and remember what it was Pollo was referring to, as he had replayed the events of that evening over and over in his head countless times over the past two years. He often felt a little guilty for thinking it to be one of the best nights of his life, when his friend was suffering so terribly. Still, he focused on the way he and Pollo held each other, the sound of Pollo’s heartbeat when he leaned his head against his chest, and it made this current moment a little more unbearable, now knowing what was under that shirt that covered him when they were so close a whole two years ago. He didn’t remove his hand from Pollo’s arm, wanting to keep the connection, and smiled crookedly. “A God is saying thank you to a drunk. What has the world come to?” Thankfully, the absurdity of the moment — being called a god, with the way his mind was crowded up with too many thoughts to hold, none of them productive; with the memory of what he’d done in the shower fresh in Pollo’s mind, and Jesus, had Richard heard him? — was enough to make Pollo move his arm, exasperated with himself. He took a step back onto the stairs, gaze veering off to the side, down towards the floor. “I’m not a god, Richard. And you’re not a drunk.” He turned, starting the path down the stairs, letting each step down take him out of the breathless limbo of the bedroom and into the growing light of day, back into the person he thought he was, capable and productive and confident. “What do you want for breakfast?” he asked again, though his voice had not yet regained its usual crisp tone. Richard’s smile faded as Pollo pulled his arm away, and he knew he should have pulled it away himself sooner to not make Pollo feel uncomfortable. He followed down the stairs as he mentally kicked himself. When Pollo asked him a question, it took a second for Richard to snap out of his thoughts and answer. “I don’t care,” he replied, walking into the kitchen, already beginning to wonder where Pollo kept his stash. Pollo had expected it to be easier down here, but the early morning light put Richard’s features — the tired, distracted look of his eyes and, equally notable, the shapes of and on his body, above his jeans — into sharper relief than before, and Pollo rapidly discovered it was still hard to breathe, when he turned to look at the other man. “Porridge?” he prompted, his mouth strangely dry, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the counter, watching Richard. “Cereal? Toast? Eggs?” He moved to pour two glasses of water, taking a sip from one and holding the other out to Richard. Normally, he would have offered to make fresh coffee, but he really didn’t think Richard needed extra dehydration just then. “Cereal is fine,” Richard grumbled before slamming down his entire water, always forgetting just how thirsty he was in the mornings, even if his stomach wasn’t happy, and he could actually feel the cold water his the bottom of his empty stomach. “I can make it.” “Richard —” Pollo started, his hand going to his friend’s shoulder, grazing the skin there before he withdrew it, reluctantly. “Let me.” And he offered a small smile. “You’re my guest. I’m not a total prick.” “Yes you are,” he teased, both of them knowing it wasn’t true. His breath caught in his throat a bit as Pollo touched him, however briefly, and he stepped away to jump up and take his usual seat on the kitchen counter. “Fine. Make me my breakfast, silly mortal.” Pollo suppressed a smile at the sight of Richard on the counter again — which was completely ridiculous, because god knew he needed a shower, and the counter bloody well wasn’t for sitting — moving to pour a bowl of cereal and, hoping Richard wouldn’t notice or at least wouldn’t object, began an attempt to slice strawberries on top of it before adding milk. “So now you’re the god?” he prompted, a corner of his mouth hitched up in amusement and a giddiness he didn’t have the wherewithal to question. “You may call me Dionysus,” Richard informed Pollo, sitting up a little straighter, you know, as a god would. He lifted his arms to over his head to stretch, and it both was the best feeling in the world and the most painful, but there was more pleasure. “Do you feel threatened with another deity in the flat?” “If you are, you’re the only one here,” Pollo said, tone neutral as he handed Richard the cereal, leaning against the back of the couch, opposite the counter, arms crossing over his chest again as he watched Richard. His eyes flitted over the other man’s torso, again, before he asked with a nod at Richard’s tattoos, “Which is the newest?” Richard dug into his cereal, even eating the strawberries that Pollo had sliced into the bowl, not much in the mood to be his usual picky self. He wasn’t sober, but it’s the most sober he ever is. He continued eating as Pollo asked him about his newest tattoo, trying to remember the answer. Once he finished little over half of the cereal, he placed it down on the counter beside him, full. He turned a little to the side and lifted his left arm up to reveal several tattoos, but he pointed to one toward the top. “Um, that one. I think. About... three months ago?” Now that Pollo had no busywork to attend to — he, after all, had had breakfast well before his shower, and with the cereal, milk, and strawberries put away there was nothing to do in here until he could clean the bowl and spoon and put them away — it was slightly more difficult not to be unsettled by Richard’s continued half-nudity, and in retrospect, asking a question that would prompt movement of the aforementioned problematic half-naked body in his kitchen and demand open scrutiny of it had not been Pollo’s most thoroughly thought-out move. His face remained inscrutable as he moved to sit on the back of the couch, grabbing a pillow from behind him and placing it in his lap, leaning his elbow into it as he leaned forward to study the tattoo in question. (And really, this was unfair, because this didn’t happen to Pollo.) “Cheery,” he remarked immediately, contrite a second later as he added, “Sorry. It’s nice.” He gave the other tattoos another brief glance before meeting Richard’s eyes again, pressing a small smile. “I don’t remember getting it or picking it out,” Richard shrugged, bringing his arm back down and bringing his legs up to sit with them crossed. He noticed the movement to grab the pillow, but thought nothing of it. This was Pollo, after all. “I’m full, do you have coffee?” Or wine, he wanted to ask. For a few heartbeats, Pollo focused intently on the memories of various murders and other horrors he’d seen in the last several years, trying to ignore the pang of guilt and self-disgust that came along with using the victims of atrocities to distract himself from this. (But wasn’t that the way his brain normally worked? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to be thinking about, anyway?) After that moment, he nodded, pressing his lips together before he popped off the couch, tossing the pillow behind him and keeping his body angled away from Richard as much as possible as he began to go through the familiar motions of making coffee. If nothing else, he was eternally glad he wore briefs (and it worked, as he got his mind going, thinking of everything he had to do, of the cases he had at work, of upcoming meetings and the next rally and the chaotic state of his country, even if he remained uncomfortably aware of where Richard was in relation to him, wondered if Richard was cold). “Best guess, what’s the ratio of tattoos you remember getting to tattoos you don’t remember getting?” “Last count I did,” Richard started, trying to remember, eyes closing as remembering was easier when you weren’t hungover and surrounded by white walls and bright windows. “I believe there were 16 premeditated ones, 7 accidental. I could double check in case I missed any, but that seems like a lot of work.” “Two more and you’ll be at one for every year,” Pollo remarked, smiling slightly as the coffee began to brew. A pause and then, “What do you want for your birthday this year? I’m betting on you still having whatever towel you purchase next by then, so...” Richard just gave Pollo a strange look, not really knowing what to give as an answer. Richard didn’t usually celebrate his birthday, and though he had received gifts here and there over the years, he never asked for or expected them. “I don’t want anything.” “Everyone wants something.” “I don’t want any gifts,” Richard said again, trying to remember what day or month it was to try and figure out how far off his birthday was. “Why not?” Pollo prompted, now thankfully in a better state to face his friend, arms crossed again. Richard looked down and started picking at some of the dried paint off of his fingers, though he knew how pointless it would be. “I never give anyone else any gifts. Why should they get me any?” Pollo’s jaw tightened again as he fought the urge to place his hands over Richard’s, to still his restless fingers, moving to grab a mug and fill it with coffee instead. He did, however, allow himself the motion of stopping before Richard and of carefully placing the mug in his friend’s hands, staring at the other man’s face intently, albeit with less of the quiet fire than he usually had when looking at, well, most everything. “I fulfill the basic tenets of a good friend rarely enough,” he said, voice not quite soft. He was probably standing closer to the counter than he needed to be, but that couldn’t be helped. “Humour me.” “You are a quite shit friend,” Richard joked, smiling to make sure Pollo caught onto it. It was always difficult with Pollo, to tell if he could read through a joke or not. He held his coffee in his hands, but didn’t drink it yet, too busy staring just as intently back. “I can’t think of a single thing I want.” “You must be joking. Or lying.” Pollo rested his hands on the edge of the counter, fingers inches from Richard’s crossed legs. “Neither,” he said plainly, truthfully. Pollo’s brow furrowed slightly as he scrutinized Richard’s face, trying to discern where the lie was, frown deepening for a moment when he couldn’t find it. “Richard, you’re not nearly dull enough to have no desires. A book. A record. A ruthless excoriation of your enemies written with a good quill. A jacket. New shoes. Nothing?” “Not that I can think of, no,” he said, his eyes flicked down to Pollo’s lips, but quickly returned his eyes. There were, of course, many things that Richard wanted, or at least one, but he knew birthday gifts didn’t work in that way. The returning flicker of Pollo’s eyes between Richard’s and his lips was given unconsciously, and he continued to frown up at his friend, one finger tensing against the counter. “Is there nothing you hope for?” he pressed, quiet. Richard’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his coffee mug still in hand. If he leaned forward a few centimeters, it was completely unintentional. “I don’t know.” “You must.” “Give me time to think about it?” And, with that, Pollo withdrew, nodding and letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as he stepped back from the counter, going back to lean against the couch again. Finally — because this was troubling enough, the possibility that Richard was so far gone he didn’t even want anything, not that Pollo was in any place to criticize because, had their places been reversed, he wouldn’t have had any idea what to ask for; they both lived simply enough, albeit in vastly different ways — he asked the question which had occurred to him in the bedroom, for half a second. It was easier to force himself into, now that the morning light was full and he had a problem to mull over. “Do you need a shirt?” “Why, am I too indecent for you right now?” Richard asked, his smirk back in place. “You’re a little distracting right now, yes,” Pollo admitted before he had time to realize what he was admitting, a grin flashing then disappearing as he moved, suddenly, back to the stairs. “I’ll get one.” Richard certainly wasn’t expecting that answer from Pollo, and the shocked look his face was still there when Pollo returned down the stairs. It wasn’t anything crude or even overly flirtatious, but Richard was trying to figure out if it was a bit of the latter. It sounded it, but that couldn’t have been right. As soon as Pollo had realized what he’d said, his face had taken on a deliberate stoniness that looked more like he was particularly taken up trying to parse out some complex problem than anything. It was about as close to a poker face as he could manage, under the circumstances, though there was a hint of embarrassment and something akin to fear when he made himself meet Richard’s eyes again, holding out a shirt. “So, I’m going to go for a run,” he repeated finally, after what seemed like an inordinately long time. “Okay,” Richard said, jumping down from the counter and throwing the shirt on, more amused than he should have been at how it was loose on him, more aroused than he should have been at how it smelled so clean, of Pollo. “I’ll be leaving now, anyway.” “Right,” said Pollo, watching Richard cautiously. A beat and then, “Will you be at the rally Saturday?” “Perhaps,” Richard shrugged. “I will definitely be out for drinks afterward, though.” At this — because despite the lingering sense of panic, Pollo was still Pollo, and even if he was aware of the fact that Richard had apparently not had anything to drink all morning, which may have been a first as far as voluntary actions in the last several years went, his responses to statements like that were automatic by now — Pollo rolled his eyes quickly, pressing a thin smile to Richard after. “I’d appreciate it if you made it to both events,” he said, tone a little dry as he moved to grab his running jacket from its spot on his wall. “Also,” he added, turning to face Richard again as he slid the material over his shoulders, “if I find your cat here after you’ve left, I reserve the right to act accordingly.” Richard just smiled at Pollo, saluting him to show him that he heard and recognized both requests. It had been a thought, Richard wouldn’t lie, to leave Monsieur here and see what happened. But then he remembered something more important. “Monsieur is coming with me. I need him for a painting anyway.” And that was all Richard would share on the matter. He made his way up the stairs, grabbing his shoes and Monsieur, who had been sleeping on Pollo’s pillow and none too happy to be moved, before heading back downstairs. “Well, Apollo, it has been a wonderful time. We can discuss it some time over tea and biscuits, but I really must be getting back to the real world. The MacDougals and I have a most prestigious engagement that I just cannot cancel.” “If you turn into a purist twat I’m going to start lobbying for you for Araminta Meliflua’s next husband,” Pollo threatened, smiling slightly, even though the mention of the MacDougals prompted a familiar wave of hatred. “That Araminta is such a sex kitten, though,” Richard purred, winking at Pollo. “Actually, perhaps I will skip the MacDougals and just head straight over to her place.” Richard considered thanking Pollo again for his hospitality, but he had done so earlier, and Richard wasn’t really the type to gush over anything, nevertheless twice. He just smiled broadly at Pollo and said, “By the way, I puked in your sink.” And with that, Richard apparated home. |