Disclaimer: Yes, I admit it - none of these characters are mine. I know, I
was shocked too! I'll promise to return them relatively unharmed to their
rightful owners ;)
Rating: PG-13. M/S in a J/S kind of way.
You slip into his apartment, closing the door softly. He's already groping for the light switch with one hand as the deadbolt clicks into place.
"Let me take that." His hands, your coat, your scarf; within the minute you're standing in his living room in a thin white shirt and your favorite jeans.
"Finally got a TV, huh?" You motion towards the 20-something inch screen and bob your head. He nods.
You remember visiting him on your first trip out of the hospital. Entering the same room unsteadily on crutches; he was hovering and you couldn't believe he didn't have a TV.
"Have a seat," he glances at the couch in case you were confused. Maybe he's remembering what you are : the awkward cup of coffee shared, the timid kiss interrupted by your phone ringing. "How's your leg now, still sore?"
"Yeah. No. I mean, not much." You tuck your hair behind your ear. Last time you were here his concern made you want to smack him with a crutch. "I'm fine, it just cramps a bit. I should sit down though." Now you don't know whether to kick him or to kiss him. Maybe both.
He sits down next to you and you study him in profile, almost surreptitiously. He looks innocent, he looks sweet, and you want to touch him. You want something and right now he'll do.
It feels like 8th grade - you leaning back on someone's parents' bed, stolen tastes of wine cooler on your lips and a high school boy running his fingers through your hair.
This time, though, it was six shots of tequila in the bar around the corner and you're sitting stiffly on a couch in a room that looks like page 74 from last year's Pottery Barn catalogue.
"Thanks for being here tonight, Martin." His hair feels foreign between your fingers. You press on and glance at him, quickly averting your eyes. "I appreciate it."
"Anytime." He pauses, you can tell he's unsure of what's happening. "Anytime you need to -"
You'll never really find out what he was offering; his sentence is left unfinished as you press your lips against his. He doesn't push you away, you're relieved and not surprised. He still tastes like vodka, his drink of the night, and you close your eyes and pretend you're anywhere but here.
"We shouldn't do this, you..." You made the mistake of letting him up for air and he's talking again.
Suddenly, you laugh. Giggle, really - just once, before telling him, "It's okay. I want to."
And that says it all. Maybe he'll get the hint that it's not about him, it's about you - it's about proving you're fine and that you want what you're supposed to want.
He stares straight into your eyes, searching for something that he must find - he leans forward to kiss you.
You're just a little bit frenzied. Impatient and dead set on keeping your eyes closed. You whisper something to him, eyes closed against the reality of his identity. It's not the same but it's something.
At least it's something.
Rating: PG-13. M/S in a J/S kind of way.
You slip into his apartment, closing the door softly. He's already groping for the light switch with one hand as the deadbolt clicks into place.
"Let me take that." His hands, your coat, your scarf; within the minute you're standing in his living room in a thin white shirt and your favorite jeans.
"Finally got a TV, huh?" You motion towards the 20-something inch screen and bob your head. He nods.
You remember visiting him on your first trip out of the hospital. Entering the same room unsteadily on crutches; he was hovering and you couldn't believe he didn't have a TV.
"Have a seat," he glances at the couch in case you were confused. Maybe he's remembering what you are : the awkward cup of coffee shared, the timid kiss interrupted by your phone ringing. "How's your leg now, still sore?"
"Yeah. No. I mean, not much." You tuck your hair behind your ear. Last time you were here his concern made you want to smack him with a crutch. "I'm fine, it just cramps a bit. I should sit down though." Now you don't know whether to kick him or to kiss him. Maybe both.
He sits down next to you and you study him in profile, almost surreptitiously. He looks innocent, he looks sweet, and you want to touch him. You want something and right now he'll do.
It feels like 8th grade - you leaning back on someone's parents' bed, stolen tastes of wine cooler on your lips and a high school boy running his fingers through your hair.
This time, though, it was six shots of tequila in the bar around the corner and you're sitting stiffly on a couch in a room that looks like page 74 from last year's Pottery Barn catalogue.
"Thanks for being here tonight, Martin." His hair feels foreign between your fingers. You press on and glance at him, quickly averting your eyes. "I appreciate it."
"Anytime." He pauses, you can tell he's unsure of what's happening. "Anytime you need to -"
You'll never really find out what he was offering; his sentence is left unfinished as you press your lips against his. He doesn't push you away, you're relieved and not surprised. He still tastes like vodka, his drink of the night, and you close your eyes and pretend you're anywhere but here.
"We shouldn't do this, you..." You made the mistake of letting him up for air and he's talking again.
Suddenly, you laugh. Giggle, really - just once, before telling him, "It's okay. I want to."
And that says it all. Maybe he'll get the hint that it's not about him, it's about you - it's about proving you're fine and that you want what you're supposed to want.
He stares straight into your eyes, searching for something that he must find - he leans forward to kiss you.
You're just a little bit frenzied. Impatient and dead set on keeping your eyes closed. You whisper something to him, eyes closed against the reality of his identity. It's not the same but it's something.
At least it's something.