Aubrey Rois & Briar Rose (pricked) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-16 00:17:00 |
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The cigarette half-burnt down between his fingers, Aubrey allowed himself a sideways glance at the man who sat to his right - with his broad smile in direct contrast to that coy expression. Just for now, Aubrey drank in the way that this randomly sort-of-happy guy scrubbed one hand over his black-and-blue face, and still he acknowledged the expression that spoke of biting sarcasm and a dry sense of humour in one. And he found himself appreciating those little details, in an intoxicated-musing sort of way that made him unconcerned about his glances that might linger a little longer than appropriate. “Are you fucking kidding me? ‘ I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man? ‘“ Aubrey recited with an expectant smile, half-sure that this guy was fucking with him and still not quite willing to believe otherwise. For humour’s sake, and all. Also the fact that he didn’t know if he could justify developing a drunken crush on a dude who didn’t have the required amount of respect for Jay-Z. One last subtly-suspicious glance in the man’s direction, and still Aubrey’s gaze was rearranged along with a very artificial frown that tugged at his wine-tinted mouth. If he’d had long hair, he would have flipped it in a typically Clueless manner. As if. “Okay, mysterious man who somehow doesn’t know or care about only the greatest rap genius of the decade. Act like a denialist Beyonce all you like, insult my beard if it makes you feel like a man - whatever.” There was another brief moment of hesitation, and then Aubrey was flashing his uneven smile in their stretch of narrow hall even while his new friend straightened up. “So,” he ventured, halfway to cautious despite himself, and near-quiet with canines pressing against the flesh of his bottom lip. “Who do you have though the fairy door, Oh He-of-the-Great-Mystery?” Okay, truth be told, Dylan did have a general pop culture awareness of who Jay-Z was. He didn't live under a fucking rock, just a circuitboard. Although with the recent explosion, the only thing that Dylan was living under these days was hotel room stucco ceilings. They might not have been rent-by-the-hour bad, but they weren't the Palazzo. Its not like the government was picking up the bill, at least not until Intelligence had its full sweep of the debris so that insurance could be claimed. Dylan gave the guy beside him a crooked, halfway annoyed smirk that ultimately evolved into a surprised laugh when the other accused him of being insulting if only to secure his own manhood. It was one of those raw in the throat sounds of the truly impressed. "Yeah, keep talking that shit and I'm not going to help your drunk ass get back down the stairs." "It's no mystery," he countered with a stretch, a pop, and a fresh grin. "I had a witch, but then the tuna can accident happened.. and now.. I don't know, but it's not her." Reflecting on what he did know of the man on the other side, Dylan screwed up an eyebrow while conceptualizing. "A guy, a soldier maybe?" There had been murmurs of war, of blood. Dylan shrugged while glancing up, just on the other side of his drunk company to the fairytale door, determining the kind of navigation required for actually getting off the floor and getting over there. "He lived in a castle, but I don't think he does anymore." Dylan got the feeling that the guy in his head, J., was glad to be away from the castle, even if he longed for it still. "Maybe he's nobody, you know?" Deep blue eyes shifted onto his company. Dylan's scuffed up, scratched up smile graduated just a bit. Just a degree, but the dimple bloomed. "Why does everybody in fairytales have to be a prince or a witch? Maybe he's the guy who cuts the fucking hay, I don't know." It sounded like a pleasant simplicity to fall into. Certainly better than the bruised muscles and burn marks that he had to endure here and now. If he went through the door, he had to at least feel better by the time he came back out. The idea was strongly motivating, and Dylan suddenly extended his broad hand to the stranger. "Want to help me up?" The wine was fading fast, and the pills were cloudy. While he could get up on his own, he wasn't entirely sure that he could do it without a boat load of embarrassment. And as much as he loved being perceived as a jackass, he wasn't in the mood to look like a crippled one. Not today. Aubrey registered a flicker of amusement on the other’s face as he made his impression of false offence and an (admittedly, somewhat flamboyant) comparison of the man to a pop diva. The words were fun as they spilled from his mouth on a sharp breath, managing to elicit a very surprised sort of laugh from this man, the sort of thing that started in the back of one’s throat and rolled into a low, pleasurable noise. Aubrey leaned in just that little bit closer and his glance served to eye this stranger, feeling a particular sense of pleasure as the unnamed other appeared more than a little amused (and maybe even delighted?) by Aubrey’s very snarky, matter-of-fact evaluation. No one could ever accuse Aubrey Rois of being an introverted sort of man, that much went without saying. Not to speak of his more obvious, immediate lack of sobriety and his undeniably dashing good looks. Duh. “I will have you know,” Aubrey enunciated, hazel eyes glittering with bright, shining hilarity as the other man’s lopsided smile played around the edges of his very dangerous lips. “My drunk ass is perfectly capable of finding its own way around, thank you. Not that I’m entirely adverse to your lovely self giving me a hand in that regard, but that’s probably too much info for polite company. Tell me, are you polite company?” With a rueful smile, Aubrey turned his attention onto the bottle that sat on the floor between them, reaching out to rock the mouth of the dark green glass against the heel of his hand. A few gulps of rich, red wine was still trapped within, and maroon stains lingered on the skin of his palm. “Nobody through the door is nobody,” he confirmed thoughtfully, tilting his head as he acknowledged what he knew to be true, if not exactly fair. Another glance at the man whose name he didn’t know and Aubrey’s features hinted at an incisive smile. Because he was the sort who could appreciate the twinkle of those blue eyes, even as he was distracted, thinking of the fact that most of the magic-door occupants were undoubtedly important, pompous assholes who did nothing so simple as cutting the hay or milking the cows or making up the silken bed sheets of nobility. And despite the lingering intrigue that he felt when faced with this man’s amused expression, despite the surprise that flashed through him when an expectant hand was extended in his direction, Aubrey could not check his pleased little grin. For just a moment, there he stood, basking in the knowledge that some random guy could simultaneously make him smile like that and ask for his help in a very simple, endearing sort of way. God, but it was always more fun to meet people when they were remarkably fucked up. No quicker way to reveal one’s true nature, right? And if this guy’s nature was written in bruises and mystery and long, dark eyelashes, hell, all the more justification for the butterflies that did the backstroke through Aubrey’s stomachful of merlot. “It would be my pleasure,” he practically purred, grin still fixed firmly in place on his burgundy-painted mouth. With a lot of help from the railing that spanned the hallway, Aubrey hauled himself into his feet until he was sort-of steady, finding that he cared more about his successful lack of vomit than the fact that he was currently the farthest thing from graceful. He staggered upright and stuck out a hand in return to the other man where he sat on the floor, still propped against the wall. He made little effort to hide the path of his flickering gaze that lingered against purple-mottled cheek and the soft, tender column of a neck (and probably his total lack of subtlety was also to blame on his consumption of wine - but again, whatever), even as he reached out and clasped his own fingers around the other’s strong hand. And there it was, a moment of deliberate consideration as he helped to haul this attractive stranger-man upright, with the pads of his fingers pressed against the meat of an unfamiliar palm and their careful balance-exchange of weight feeling like something altogether more intimate than the slowest of dances. There was an unexpected warmth there, something that rushed to Aubrey’s head and threatened to send him spinning. Even as he helped this man to his feet and played at being an anchor, a tether against which to hold tight, he could not quite help the wobble in his knees that sent him stumbling against the exquisitely tall, broad expanse of the other man’s body. Chest to chest, hip to hip, his head brain swam with a deliberate sort of dizziness that he could only partially assign to the poison in his veins. In fact, his footing against the rough-hewn floor beneath them was so precarious that only the existence of their shared door pressed up against the other’s back kept them both from tumbling over. And in that moment Aubrey found himself curious, far from cautious as he pressed into the heat of another man’s body, laughing softly at himself and at the absurdity of his situation. A circumstance of breath-catching, romance-novel intimacy thrust upon them. The fall had been an accident, but what came next was deliberate. Aubrey stumbled, and then he kissed him - the seconds between each moment viscous and warm, drawn-out, seemingly endless. And there it was. Mouth pressed against mouth in a very raw sort of truth. It was a sweet kiss, one that had as much to do with Aubrey’s romanticism and ego, placing itself squarely against the flush of the other man’s lips, as it did with the serendipity of the moment. This man without a name, he tasted sweet like berries. “I like you, Mystery Man” he murmured breathlessly when he finally pulled away, cheeks flushing with the realization of what he’d done and the knowledge that he wasn’t sorry. “My name’s Aubrey.” The stranger had a smooth way of talking, the hypnotic spin of a cement mixer preparing to bury and level him beneath the granite of a good argument. Dylan was a contender on good days, but the hospital drugs currently slowed him to the point of atrophy. He wasn't entirely sure that he was following whatever conversation they'd slid into, but that hardly seemed to matter. His grin remained steadfast, unhindered by things like train of thought. "Polite company?" Those weren't exactly words that he was familiar with being labeled as. Not that he was a complete jackass or anything, but the title felt regal for some reason in his current haze, and it made his sloppy grin all the more pronounced. "God no," he corrected with a stubborn laugh. Maybe it was because of his parents, but Dylan thought of polite company in ledgers of cucumber tea sandwiches and conversational piano playing, and fuck that. Although he kind of blew that inquiry off with a little shrug. He didn't know who he had through the door anymore, but he wasn't worried. Nothing could be as bad as the witch. She'd never caused him any problems directly, but Dylan always had the discomforting sense of responsibility when he went through the door. Every reemergence was noted with creeping dread, and he never could quite shake the feeling that something horrible had happened on the other side. He had no evidence of anything specific, but her magic caused rifts in that world. The witch had always been setting things in motions that destroyed lives, crumbled kingdoms, and ultimately couldn't be controlled. Whatever idiot prince or toothless pauper Dylan was rocking through the door was going to be a vacation by contrast. Getting off the ground wasn't as difficult as it would have been if he'd been operating solo.. but a partnership always brought bumps in the road. Or, in this case, the carpet. That was really the only explaination as the pair twisted, shuffled, Texas two-stepped, and ultimately stumbled. How they'd managed to turn something as simple as standing up into an intricate and drunken game of twister was bemusing. One of his hands caught like a fisherman's snare on part of the other man's clothes, and there was a gun there. His brain would later confirm it, but in the moment it was just something hard against the frush of his fingertips. Besides, there was other sensory distraction occurring in their drugstore-meets-liquorstore moment. Aubrey fell on him like fireworks. The door was at his back, suddenly there. It should have hurt, and if it had been any other door in any other bullshit half-rigged hotel, they might have crashed right through it. But they didn't, and that felt like a weird victory in his head. It made him smile, and there was a half-formed chuckle brought on by the embarrassment that came with losing footing. It was cut short by the kiss, which was as surprising as it was confusing. Difficult to follow, like he'd slid into a separate plain from where they -- or he, at least -- had once been standing. Before he could even completely figure out what had happened or why, Aubrey was drawing back a few degrees to introduce himself. Dylan's hand slapped back against the door behind him, not entirely sure of how to proceed in the split second that followed. Not that he had to worry about it for long, because through instinct or just blackcat luck, his palm found the knob with the key still lodged. The shift and disruption sent the door bucking wide open, and down onto his back he went. Right on through to the other side. |