[Pete and Beaver belong to Stephen King, and original canon characters from Dreamcatcher, the book. Original characters have been added for filler. This is all AU. What if Beaver and Pete hadn't have been killed that year at Hole in the Wall? What if they married and tried to get on with their lives? Warning: this is slash. Pete/Beaver slash, in fact. If homosexual ideas offend you, do not read this.]
[Beaver parts written by Vitko. Pete is written by Vitko's partner in crime, who shall remain anonymous at this time.]
It's a tree stand and it's not very sturdy. Beaver's been sitting on it for over three hours, perched a good ten feet above the ground in one of the large oak trees. The creaking sound doesn't really freak him out when he shifts uncomfortably from one hip to the other, but he does think about what it would feel like if it were to buckle under his weight and make him fall to the ground. Would his back scrape against the tree? Would he miss it altogether? Or would he just fall flat on his ass and the whole goddamned stand just comes crashing down on his head. . .
Yeah, Beaver has a lot of time to think about nothing, because he hasn't seen a single fucking deer cross in his line of sight the whole day. "Fuckin' waste of time. Don't know why I even bother with this shit," he grumbles to himself, trying to slide his right foot from under his leg. He keeps his shotgun balanced perfectly on his lap as he leans back, tilting his head upward.
The canopy of the trees, overhead, are broken with grey, hazy light, and a few clouds of dust-like snow is disturbed from the bows as a squirrel jumps from one tree to another. The flurries scatter about before it even reaches Beaver. He sighs as he lets his eyes fall closed for a moment.
Suddenly, he hears a rustling over to his right. His ears pick it up immediately and his hand tightens on the barrel of the gun, making sure it's cocked and loaded. It is. Good. He slowly picks it up, turning his head toward the sound.
However, there is no deer. It's Pete who breaks through into the clearing, his gaze locking straight on Beaver. Still Pete's smiling crookedly, eyes widened and eyebrows raised, his hands are up in the air with his fingers spread in a typical surrender motion.
"Whoa, there. Careful where you point that thing. I give up, man," Pete says, still trying to find his voice. He hasn't spoken in a while. For most of the day, he supposes he's been like the Beaver, sitting around in silence. But Pete's gotten tired of waiting around for deer when he figures he could get a few beers and wait around for deer. No doubt Henry and Jonesy would laugh at him, maybe Beaver too, but that's what he's gone and done. Grabbed a few beers from the fridge in Hole in the Wall, and stuck them in a grocery bag from Gosselin market, which he's left hanging off his left arm as he trucked back out into the woods to find himself another good spot to sit and wait and waste a few hours.
However, it doesn't really beget the stealthy-ness that Pete figures one probably ought to have while hunting. But Pete kind of likes the noise anyhow, the way the beer bottles clink merrily like they're toasting the occasion. Pete lets the bag slip to his hand as he lowers his arms, the glass making a nice sharp clunk as it settles, and Pete pulls one out. He can't feel how cold the beer is through his gloves but he figures in this pretty much below freezing temperature, the whole outdoors act as a freezer and they must be chilled.
"How about it?" Pete offers, and he's half-apologetic for interrupting Beaver's hunting.
A look of extreme relief crosses over Beaver's face as he lowers his gun, breathing out a quick burst of warm air which clouds out before his mouth.
"Christ, Pete. Don't sneak up on a man like that. You're liable to get yourself fuckin killed." Adjusting himself on the tree stand, Beaver balances his gun against his shoulder, the barrels pointing up as he works his way off of the tree stand. He doesn't even bother using the pegs in the trunk of the tree, but instead jumps down, his feet immediately sinking and slipping a bit in the few inches of snow that layer the ground.
Beaver's grin is wide and he looks a bit silly in his camouflage hat, the flaps pulled down over his ears. The brim is buttoned to the top, and it's lined in orange, reflective plastic with fuzz-like cotton insulation underneath. He takes Pete's offer, clapping him on the shoulder as he bends down into the bag, retrieving one of the beers. The cap twists off easily, and there's a quiet hiss of air that escapes through the neck.
"Don't tell me old man Gosselin sold you these brews," Beaver says, taking a swig of the beer, grinning at Pete as he takes a step back, propping himself up against the tree.
"Aww, fuck no," Pete says, wrinkling his nose at the thought of old man Gosselin. "Although, you know it is now legal for me to get piss ass drunk. But hell, I just snuck a few from what Henry bought. And fuck man!" There is a loud slap as Pete smacks his thigh with a gloved hand. "Shit. I think I left my rifle by the door. Jesus fucking Christ, that's real bright Petesky." He's wearing a big ol' scowl now, although really Pete's just being overdramatic. He cares less about the rifle so long as he's got his beer, and Pete decides he may as well settle and have one right now.
"You mind, if I just keep you company for a bit?" Pete asks, not really waiting for Beav to answer. He just drops down, cross legged in the snow, the grocery bag beside him now half way down in the soft snow as Pete pulls out his own bottle and works the top off. "I can be quiet really, if you're still looking for some game. I can settle nice and easy and drink this old beer right here without so much as a peep if that's what you want."
Beaver just stares at Pete, the rim of the bottle resting against his bottom lip before he pulls it away, letting out a loud hoot and snort of laughter. He shakes his head and sets his gun down against the tree as he moves over to Pete, sitting himself down right in front of Pete, mimicking his posture. Hunching over, his forearms resting on his knees, Beaver rolls the bottle back and forth between his palms.
"I don't mind as long as you let me pull up a piece of ground with ya." Beaver pulls one gloved hand up to his mouth, and catching one of the fingers between his teeth, he yanks his hand out of the warmth. Spitting the glove into his lap, he digs into his coat pocket for his small tin. Without even pulling it out, he pops off the lid and slides out a toothpick. He's able to slide it into his mouth and take a swig of beer in what appears to be one fluid-like motion.
"Besides," he begins, sitting up as he looks at Pete, "I haven't seen hide or tail of a white flash all fuckin' day. Fuckers can probably smell I don't have deer piss on me, this time." And it's true. Jonesy insisted on taking the white tail urine with him because, hell... if anyone ever bags anything, it's usually the Beav. Jonesy wanted fair chances too. So Beaver let him have the piss, feeling quite confident that it still wouldn't help his friend's poor marksman abilities.
Pete is nodding, although he's only half listening to what Beaver's saying. Something about deer piss, and fuck, Pete doesn't really want to think so much about deer piss while he's drinking beer. Yet, somehow the topic makes him laugh anyhow, and he's staring dumbly at his beer bottle before he raises it towards the Beav, and splashes him with a good dousing of the contents. That, of course, only makes Pete laugh harder.
"If you ask me," Pete says with a grin, "a little au de beer might just help out a little. Fuck me if it ain't true that you don't seem a bit more fucking attractive to others with a little alcohol. Of course, fuck, usually it's them having the alcohol… But hell, maybe it'll work this way too." Pete's waving dramatically the hand holding his beer, before he returns it to its proper place - right in his mouth. He swallows a few gulps, letting the liquid burn and tingle as it slides straight down his throat. Pete gives a contented sigh as he smiles at the Beaver.
There is something magic about beer. Pete's known this from the first time he snuck one from he's father's stash. It makes all the little troubles of the world go away. It's his other escape. Hole in the Wall is of course the first, where he can get away from the monotony of his daily almost-grown-up life and play upon the nostalgia of old junior high friends. He falls back into the snow, beer bottle (which is now empty) held to his chest as he stares up at the branches of trees that weave overhead. Isn't this just like when they were kids?
Beaver flinches so badly, he almost falls over when Pete sloshes beer onto his face and coat. He's just about to say something when he's caught just staring… There's something about the way Pete grins and it makes Beaver smile in turn, watching his friend go on about his theories on How-to Beautify the Beav, gesturing wildly with his beer. Beaver chuckles quietly, shaking his head and wiping at his face with the arm of his coat, one of the only dry spots on him.
"If you ask me," Beaver says, putting his beer down into the snow as he quickly moves to his knees, sliding along in the snow, "I think you're just lookin' for me to kick your ass." He grins as he sits down on his knees, beside Pete's chest, the snow starting to make his pants cold, and he's pretty sure they're starting to soak through into his long johns. "Lord knows that you're awful pretty when I'm drunk." At that, Beaver grabs Pete's chin and gives it a good squeeze, causing Pete's lips to pucker up in the process.
Beaver's eyes happen to catch the empty beer, and he looks at Pete's face, and then back at his own beer which is a good foot away. "How much beer did you bring with you? Because I will be fucked in the ass with a stick before I'm carryin' your drunk ass back to the Hole." Beaver's chin is still damp with beer, but he doesn't seem to notice. He just leans back, grabbing his beer before he settles himself down beside Pete, again, taking a long drink of the cold beverage, a droplet of beer trailing down his throat and over the 5 o'clock shadow that doesn't wait for 5.
"Fucking cocksucker, I ain't some pussy girl you should be calling pretty," Pete says grumpily, and he makes sure to give Beaver a nice hard slap on his forearm, even though he's not really very angry. It's hard to be too angry when beer is doing strangely pleasant things to your head. "And some best friend you are. If I were the sober one, and you were drunk, you'd bet your ass I'd sure as hell help you out. You better believe it. Anyhow, I ain't gettin' drunk over a few beers. I've only had two so far, and there's only two left in the bag anyhow."
Pete is staring up at the sky again, which is mostly blocked by the thickness of branches, still he can make out pale wisps of clouds, and he doesn't even bother to look as he gets another beer out of the bag beside him. He can feel the smooth bottle in his hand, and takes the top off in complete auto-drive. However, drinking it proves to be slightly more problematic when he's lying down, and he spills more than a little on himself as he tilts his head up to take a swig. He laughs at himself before turning his head toward Beaver, so he can look at the other man properly.
"So you'd rather be fucked with a stick up your ass, huh? I never figured you swung that way," Pete says, feigning seriousness.
A hard punch to Pete's side with the back of his fist, and Beaver's scowling, balancing the beer on his knee before he brings it up to his lips, taking a swig.
"Oh, go fuck your mom, Pete. You know I don't swing your way, you fucking ass licker. I don't care how many beers you feed me, I'll never let you drive a stick into my ass." And there's a sour look on Beaver's face as his eyes glance down at the younger man, trying not to grin at the feinted look of solemnity on Pete's face. "And Jesus Christ, Pete, you know I'd carry your fat ass anywhere you needed to go. You think I'd leave you out here to fend for yourself? Shit. You'd get eaten by a fuckin' grizzly or something. I might even actually feel kinda bad if something like that happened to you."
And now the Beav's grinning as he situates himself to lay down on his stomach beside Pete. He grins, raising his eyebrows as if to ask, "What?" as he plants his beer into a little self-made cooler in the snow. He looks back over at Pete, whose chin is wet with beer, and without even thinking twice, Beaver dips in and presses his lips against Pete's chin. The area is dripping with beer, and he slides his tongue along the slightly stubbled skin, Pete's chin tasting like Budweiser.
He pulls back, his own chin damp again from the "kiss" and he reaches up with a hand, wiping at his own skin.
"Someone needs to give you a fuckin' bib, man," he says cooly, grinning at Pete.
"Jesus, man, I wasn't offering to put sticks up your ass. Do you think I want to look at your bare bottom?" Pete is mumbling in response with faked annoyance. Still, he is genuinely surprised when Beaver practically licks his chin like a cat cleaning its kittens. Pete's whole body freezes, arms locked, eyes wide, and his mouth falling halfway open. It isn't that this is the first time Beaver has done this. No, they used to do it a lot more when they were kids, but it's been a long time since. Pete hasn't even seen Beaver all year, except for when he visited his parents in Derry for a week in the summer, and neither of them tried anything then. Maybe because they'd gone to see Duddits for the most of it.
But they're alone now. Pete wasn't aware how alone until now, somewhere out in the woods, faraway from everyone. The problem is Pete doesn't know if he's bothered by that or grateful for it, because some part of him feels that childish thrill again. Reckless hopefulness when Beaver's that close to him, but Pete has grown up a little - not much - but a little, and that's enough to make him already bitter at the world. Still, this isn't the rest of the world. It's the Hole in the Wall. Everything is still possible there, out where Pete still sometimes believes that dreams can be reached.
"Fuck, it's been a while," he says, because it's the only thing he can think of to say. Pete needs another drink of beer now, more than ever, and he takes one, ducking his head to the side and slamming a swallow down quick. Beer still gives him that warm fuzzy tingle as it hits his stomach, even if his back is beginning to feel the chill of snow. "Can't say I quite expected that." He looks at the Beav, and slips his arm around Beaver's neck, leaning up as he kisses him back. Pete doesn't know why he does it. Maybe to say, "fuck, this is still kind of okay." Because somehow at the Hole in the Wall, Pete becomes a kid again, and fooling around with Beaver has always been part of that. But it is just fooling around, and perhaps that's why Pete tackles Beaver, and shoves a handful of snow into his mouth, to push back those more "grown-up feelings" that have begun to emerge with their old games.
Maybe it's because Beaver's still a bit drunk on the kiss, or that particular half of beer is really fucking with his reflexes, but it's practically impossible to stop Pete from shoving a whole fistful of dirty snow into his mouth. Beaver sputters and tries to spit it out, the taste of dirt and ice filling his mouth as his glasses become skewed on his face, adopting (again) that sour expression. His face is red and he's breathing hard, trying to bring his hands up to his face to clear away the dirt and snow.
"Ya fuckin' douche bag! Why'd you go and do a thing like that?!" And it's not really anger in his voice, but merely just surprise at having practically been pounced and accosted right there in the snow. He's fallen over onto his back, Pete still on top of him as he sputters, bits of snow dribbling down his chin. "That tastes like fuckin' shit, you know? How'd you like if I came and shoved a handful of dirt in your mouth?" Beaver thinks for a moment about trying to get Pete back, but he's at a bit of a disadvantage here, what with a grown man practically pinning him to the ground.
He finally catches his breath, still wiping snow away from his mouth as he attempts to glare up at Pete. He moves his fingers over his glasses and tries to right them. But they just want to keep falling up the bridge of his nose, annoyingly hitting his brow. Beaver frowns and throws down his hand, which lands on Pete's thigh. He doesn't move it, but instead grasps onto Pete's thigh as he watches the younger man's face.
"Remind me to never do that again," he says in reference to the "kiss", a grin spreading on his mouth. And there's just something about that wild glint in Pete's eye and fuck me Freddy if he hasn't missed that. It feels like it's been fucking ages since he's last seen Pete. And hell, maybe it has been. Close to a year and he always feared they'd lose touch. But they always seem to come back together at Hole in the Wall... even when shit's lower than a dumbwaiter on the sub-basement level, everything seems to fit like nothing's ever changed when they're able to come back here.
Beaver doesn't even realize the way his thumb brushes back and forth over the material of Pete's pants, playing lightly with the inside of the younger man's thigh.
Pete for once is thankful for the several layers of clothing that have previously annoyed him with their constrictions of his movement and general uncomfortable-ness. But it dulls the sensation of Beaver's hand on his leg and the gentle stroking patterns of Beaver's fingers. Still the touches still seep through in the most subtle brushes of pressure across his skin, and somehow the thought of what Beaver's doing brings a steady blush to Pete's otherwise pale face. He can feel it send that familiar tingle over his flesh that creeps up from the point of contact and spreads to every inch of skin. He shudders, breath escaping from between his lips, turning white in the air.
"Jesus," Pete hisses, and he wonders if Beaver has not gotten a little bolder with age. Or perhaps it's merely the alcohol. Pete had gotten his first fuck when he was drunk as shit from some sorority girl, because the beer had filtered out all his inhibitions and had only kept a singular, almost instinctual thought driving his brain. He wonders maybe if Beaver's getting to that point, where it's all touch and go and find out whatever pleases your dick in the end and run with it. Hell, Pete suspects maybe he's getting to that point too, and maybe to drive him faster there, Pete takes another quick gulp of his beer. The bottle is still half full, and Pete eyes it appraisingly. He draws in a quick breath, tips back his head, and then, drains it.
"Fuck this," he says, tossing the empty bottle out somewhere beyond the trees and he pulls off his gloves and tosses them aside as well. Pete dives down straight for Beaver's mouth, slamming down hard, kissing him in a mix of lips, teeth, and tongue with a touch of beer, and it's strange how kissing can kind of burn your mouth like the bite of alcohol, all tingling and pleasant. His hands have made their way for Beaver's collar, fumbling with zippers, pushing past the thickness of coats and clothing, and searching for nothing but the heat of bare skin.
Beaver's taken a bit by surprise by Pete's sudden movements. He hadn't even realized that his fingers were even moving, his mind trudging along as if going through mud. But now everything's heightened -- his senses of taste, touch, smell, and fuck, he can't see anything because his eyes have fallen shut in the sudden upheaval of Pete's hands, ripping away at his coat.
He can feel his whole body tingling and shaking and before he can stop himself, his hands are shooting up for Pete's jacket, tugging down the zipper and trying to push it down Pete's shoulders, realizing only too late that it constrains the other man's movements. So he pulls it back up, but tries to keep it open. And quick like a flash bulb, his hands are shooting down to the hem of Pete's shirts, hands pushing the material up as his fingers slide in and against the warm skin, covered in gooseflesh. He groans loudly, licking his lips as he pulls Pete down on him, aching to feel the searing warmth of flesh on flesh, Pete's bare stomach and part of his chest pressing against Beaver's. He shudders hard and mutters a "fuck" before hungrily capturing Pete's mouth with his own, tearing away at it with a sudden heated desperateness that wasn't there a few moments ago.
Shaking and trembling with sudden rushes of lust and need, Beaver's hands slide around through the inside of Pete's coat, and he settles them on the younger man's back, letting his fingers furiously map over the smooth muscles lining Pete's shoulders. He can feel himself becoming short of breath, and he feels extremely light-headed, even though he's lying down. And it's a euphoric feeling that pushes him on even more, and he doesn't even want to stop to think of what's happening. Just tasting Pete -- the beer, the flesh, the warmth, the wetness, and Beaver's tongue dips into Pete's mouth, each sharp breath punctuated with small, throaty moans.
It's such a change from the cold, from the icy winds that seem to creep in through his clothing and graze over his skin. This is different. Beaver's hands are warm, almost burning as they glide in and under Pete's clothing. Pete's breathing hard between his kisses, the occasional gasp when Beaver's fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. His mouth's still moving against Beaver's, bruising kisses that leave his lips throbbing slightly as he pulls away. He's teasing Beaver's jaw-line with his tongue, the roughness of stubble somehow strangely pleasant, although a distinct reminder that he's not making out with some cute girl.
His kisses are rougher for one, his hands larger and more powerful, his chest - well that's far too flat. It feels funny when Pete draws his hands over it, little skimming touches across the surface, the hair that covers it unfamiliar and yet somehow intriguing. Pete's mouth is drawing down Beaver's neck, his collar pulled out of the way, and Pete licks and nips and sucks in turn. He teases the line of Beaver's collarbone with his tongue, but right about then is when Pete usually goes for a girl's breast, cupping the swell of it, licking the nipple. However, Beaver is of course lacking in that area, and when Pete's hand slides over the right of his chest, it's a strange change in expected terrain.
"Fuck, this is strange," Pete murmurs, and thinking about it begins to weird him out a little, he gets as far as sliding his mouth over it, scraping his teeth across the flesh, feeling it against his tongue. His hands have already moved their way down Beaver's sides, whispered touches grazing the skin as they come to rest on the flat of Beaver's stomach, and unhook the fly of his pants. But he hesitates to slide his hand any further down, knowing quite distinctly what he'll find, and not entirely sure he's ready for it. Pete just pauses, uncertain, not sure of where to go and how to proceed.
Beaver's body uncontrollably arches into every single touch that Pete delivers, whether they be accidental or on purpose, and his head tilts back against his hat, a thready groan passing from his lips as Pete's searingly warm mouth glides over his chest. He gasps quietly at the feeling of teeth, the simple motion sending quick shocks down to his hips, which arch up in sporadic jumps.
Clenching his hands against Pete's back, Beaver can feel himself trembling even more. And- oh, fuck, Pete's hand is starting to undo his pants and Beaver knows he can't take this. This is far beyond fucking around, and if Pete even realizes what he's doing, hell. This could be it. This could fuck things up for good, and he'll be fucking damned for the rest of his life if he lets something as simple as his own petty needs and wanton desires get in the way of years of friendship. And before he can even give it a second though, his left hand is slipping out from under Pete's coat, grasping hard at Pete's wrist.
"Don't--" he begins, gasping for air and practically choking on it. He swallows, trying to find his voice and push back the large lump that's settled in his throat.
"Y-You can't, Pete. Gotta stop."
Pete blinks dumbly at Beaver when he speaks, as if the words don't quite register in his head, and perhaps they don't fully. A blur of syllables meant to convey some meaning that barely clicks in his head which is muddled by the message being sent from his lower half up. But Pete does understand and he does stopped, hands sliding off the warmth of Beaver's body and into the numbing chill of snow which cuts into his ungloved fingers in an almost painful contrast. Pete, however, is barely aware of it.
He has after all been thrown completely off equilibrium, thoughts blurred by arousal and too much alcohol. But he's got Beaver's words drumming in his head, "Gotta Stop." As if someone's hit the red button and in his mind, he can see flashing in red text, "Abort mission. Abort." Pete pushes off, so he's sitting beside the Beaver, and he draws his hands up to his mouth to blow on them, they tingle and burn with the remainder of the cold snow barely more than a thin sheen of water.
Pete glances at Beaver, but he drops his head quickly, "Fuck. Sorry. I didn't mean to..." To what? Almost go down your pants? Pete isn't sure. He can't think that far so he doesn't. He just leaves his voice trailing, the thought lingering, like the way his breath dissipates as a white wisp when it hits the air.
Beaver quickly buttons the fly of his pants and works at buttoning his shirt as he sits up, scooting himself around in the snow so that his back is facing Pete. He shakes his head, and he doubts his friend can see it, but it doesn't matter. His face burns with embarrassment, because now Pete's going to blame himself for this, and there's no way in Hell that the Beav could think of anything to say to change Pete's mind. So he says the only thing he can.
"Don't worry about it."
He glances over his shoulder, but that's all it is. It's not even long enough to see what Pete's doing or where he's looking... just to acknowledge to Pete that yeah, he can still look at him. Sorta. But he feels sick. Fucking sick to his stomach, because maybe he should have let Pete go on. Maybe he should have encouraged each touch and begged for more. Because, fuck, he's wishing he'd done that now. But you can't go back in time and you just can't fucking do that with your best friend.
Beaver quickly pushes himself to his feet, and without turning around, walks over to the tree and grabs his gun. He swallows hard as he tries to put his gloves back on, balancing the rifle between his shoulder and his left arm.
"Look Pete," Beaver says, turning around to face the younger man. "What happened... shit. It was an accident. I didn't mean for things to get like that. It's just. Jesus Christ Bananas. Was just fuckin' around, man. That's all. That's all."
Pete says nothing, not at first anyway. He's half crouched in the snow, picking out his gloves from where he'd thrown them and slapping them gently against his thigh to shake off the snow before he slips them on. They're as cold as the snow they've been lying in, and most likely they'll be soaked through once Pete's hands begin to warm them up. However, it doesn't matter much. He's got his head cocked up, regarding Beaver as he speaks.
There was nothing about this that was remotely like "just fuckin' around," Pete thinks, but he doesn't say it. Some thoughts are best kept to yourself because saying them out loud makes them too real. Pete just shrugs his shoulders as if Beaver is right and all they have done is wrestled in the snow like they'd done far too many times as kids. He scuffs his toe against the frozen ground, snow flaring up briefly before it falls softly over to cover some of the indentation where their bodies had formerly lain.
Pete hooks the handles of the grocery bag nearby, peering inside. One bottle left. Hasn't he had enough? Fuck no, Pete decides, and he pops off the top for a quick drink. Maybe it's too wash the taste of Beaver off his mouth, which is still too much of a reminder of what he's done. Besides, alcohol still gives him that warm fuzzy feeling as it burns down his throat. His breath is sharp when he finally swallows the first drink, half-gasped, and he finds he's still breathing hard, probably has been since they pulled apart.
Pete clicks his tongue against his teeth, and looks up at the Beaver. "You gonna stick around and do more hunting?"
Beaver continues to look down at Pete, blinking slowly, and practically able to read his friend's signals, which seem to come in clearer than Skinemax with a descrambler. But there's just something inside of him that makes him want to throw up his lunch at the way Pete's acting. Like he's cold and this wasn't fucking around and hell, Beaver knows just as well as anyone that this wasn't fucking around. This was far past fucking around. This was taking things to different places and potentially fucking things up, that's what this was. But after knowing all that, Beaver can't seem to pull his eyes away from Pete's throat... the red, blushed spots having formed from the premature halt. ...Or was it a blush? Beaver swallows.
"Nah, I don't think I am. It's gonna be getting dark soon, and I don't want to be out here after the bears start coming out."
He bounces his rifle on his shoulder, standing there in the awkward silence. Beaver watches Pete as he just nods his head, watching the bottle of beer tip back and most certainly flooding Pete's mouth with that beautiful, drowning drink. Who knew anyone could be so fucking jealous of a fucking beer. Beaver can feel his face redden at the thought, feeling embarrassed and ashamed for himself.
But suddenly, Beaver's kneeling down beside Pete, quickly grabbing the bottle as he mutters, "Stop it," the liquid sloshing around inside as he leans forward a bit too unsteadily and too fast, and captures Pete's mouth with his own. He can feel Pete's mouth cool and warm at the same time, wet with beer and the bitter taste of the drink seeping into his own mouth. Beaver kisses Pete like that, his right hand reaching up to slide fingers along Pete's face and to the nape of his neck, his left hand still holding Pete's beer.
And slowly, as if pulling away seems painful, Beaver releases Pete's mouth, his lips wanting to stay and just lingering feather-light against Pete's as he sucks in a quick breath.
"You're. Drinking that beer. Too fast," Beaver gasps, licking his lips as he brushes the tip of his nose against the bridge of Pete's.
Pete's face has once again fallen away to a look of surprised confusion, one of his eyebrows half raises, his mouth slack, and his eyes wide. He's blinking dazedly at Beaver, searching his face, and then his gaze falling away to Beaver's hand where the beer - his beer - is now. His head is angled so their mouths are more than a few inches apart, but their foreheads are touching. Pete can hear Beaver's breathing in his ears as well as feel it across his skin.
"Fuck," Pete says as he lets out a shaky exhale, his eyes glimpsing back up at Beaver. His friend's glasses are so close to his line of sight that they've blurred into vague impressions of dark lines. "Didn't know you cared," Pete says with a laugh as he pulls back, a roguish smile is half-tilting the line of his mouth, and he raises one hand, while placing the other on his chest. "I'll drink more slowly. I promise." He reaches out to take the beer, but he gets as far as curling his fingers around Beaver's own before his arm seems to lose all it's strength. It just lays there resting over Beaver's, and Pete is staring at the way their hands have fallen together.
"Hey Beav," Pete says and he's trying to search for something to say but his throat somehow feels thick, as if it's closing up on him. He chances a glance up in Beaver's direction. "Do you want me," and his voice catches in his throat making him pause. "Do you want me to walk back with you?" It's a stupid question, because really, what choice do they have. Beaver isn't planning to hunt any longer and Pete certainly isn't about to sit around in the snow alone. But Pete doesn't even realize it, because he barely knows what he's asking. He just knows his hands still covering Beaver's, and he can imagine the warmth of it even though he can't feel it through their gloves.
Beaver takes in a shaky breath, his throat working slowly as he swallows, his eyes glancing from Pete's face to their hands. He slowly turns his wrist in, handing over the bottle of beer to Pete as he nods his head, looking back to meet Pete's eyes.
"Yeah," he says quietly, the word coming out in an almost whispered tone. And he almost feels like he wants to tell Pete that he'd like for his friend to walk with him back to the cabin, as well, but not only is that a stupid thing to think, but he's already answered that question. No need to answer it twice. Fuck you sir, thank you kindly.
Pushing himself back up to his feet, Beaver tucks his rifle in against his shoulder as he turns around, taking a step in the direction of Hole in the Wall. He can feel the back of his neck burning in embarrassment, and he thinks to himself that he really needs to learn how to have some fucking control over himself, or one of these days, Pete's going to get tired of all this shit and punch him in the face. But maybe it's something inside of him that tells the Beaver that an outcome like that isn't likely to happen. He may not be smart, but he's no idiot when it comes to noticing the way his friend's eyes darken every time they push the limits of fucking around.
He just wonders how much closer he can get before Pete finally reaches that breaking point and calls the whole fucking thing off.
By the time Pete realizes the beer is back in his hand and he's been staring at it like a fucking retard (no offense, Duds, Pete adds mentally) the Beav is already a good few steps ahead of him. Pete jogs up beside him, although not really quite ever breaking into a run, and gives his friend a good hard punch in the arm, grinning as he does so. He doesn't see whether or not Beaver looks at him because Pete has turned face-forward after that, catching a few swigs of his beer here and there as they walk.
The journey back to Hole in the Wall is shorter than Pete expects it to be and perhaps that is because he's buzzed on too much alcohol or maybe walks like those are always shorter when you have company. Pete isn't quite sure, except that in no time they've almost reached the clearing. Pete can see the cabin through where the trees have begun to thin and out front Jonesy and Henry have already returned. Henry apparently having bagged himself a good sized deer.
However, they've got about two yards left before Pete stops Beaver, jabs his arm right out in front of the other man so he can't walk past. It's one of those moments where Pete does something crazy after drinking too much - although, really, if Pete thinks about it, this more or less counts for the second time. But he's not thinking, everything's too muddled and too quick. He grabs Beaver by his shoulder and slams him back into the nearest tree, and everything seems pulled by that momentum, even the way their lips meet, hard and fast and tasting the heat of Beaver's mouth burn his own, which only seems to make the air that much colder when he pulls back. Pete presses his lips together in order to smother a grin as he backs away.
"Race you to the front door," Pete yells suddenly, and he's gone just as quick, down through the trees, still shouting as he clears the woods, a jumbled mess of: "Fuck, Jonesy, you smell like deer piss." and "Hey, Henry, introduce me to your girlfriend." But he saves his smile for when he reaches the doorway and ducks inside the cabin, and it's the same one he's been suppressing since he snuck that last kiss in the woods. The ones he always reserves just for him and the Beav.
~fin