it's: under the influence
by: bj
in sum: if you got something to explode.
label: hyde. hyde/eric.
rating: 14a. non-graphic oral sex.
sissies: i know you'll have no spoilers. set between "hyde moves in" and "kelso's serenade."
legalities: don't own, don't sue.
i say: as yet untitled. title/summary by matthew good band. album: "audio of being."
archive: ask and it (probably) shall be given.
datestamp: 10.02.03.
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.
under the influence
Hyde had been dreaming, but he wakes with his clothes on and leaves the radio off. He puts his fifth under the bed and swallows spearmint mouthwash. He opens the attic window, lights a cigarette and smokes it quickly to the filter. He drops it out the window just as somebody thumps up the stairs.
He turns and Eric is smiling on the landing. "What the hell are you doing?" he asks.
Hyde shrugs. "Nothing." He's up, it's seven o'clock, and he's dressed. It's a good day.
"Looks like you're standing on the cooler," Eric observes, and he starts to laugh.
Tugs the window closed and jumps to the floor. "Fuck off, man."
Eric stops laughing. "Well. Good morning to you too. Breakfast."
They both adjust their jeans and Eric goes back downstairs. Hyde sits on his bed and rolls one for school. No. Make it two.
So he's cutting, he's walking past the school and down the road, to the intersection that marks the difference between where he used to live and where he lives now. He looks south, the water tower rising among evergreens, and he looks north. Barren, frost-bitten, condemned. He doesn't live there anymore.
He crosses the street and walks west. The trail breaks north into the woods about a mile from school.
The shadows down here are cold, he hunches his shoulders and reminds himself that it's gotten late enough for sheepskin. There is the creek, water running under the ice, and the mossy footbridge that fords it.
Sitting on the bridge, the heels of his boots crack the ice, his ass is freezing. He remembers when he and Eric used to put string on twigs and pretend they were fishing from this bridge.
He pulls a joint from his breast pocket and lights it, inhales deeply enough for the smoke to burn.
In January all the snappable twigs are encased in the frozen mud of the trail. He hears hollow wooden footsteps and then there is a warm corduroy thigh against his. Skinny red-knuckled hand reaching for him, no, for the joint.
Everybody's setting down to lunch by now, crowding the cafeteria because it's too cold to be apathetic in the parking lot, but he and Eric are walking. They're going north, into trailer country, a house here and there, the house his mom used to rent with her body, the door falls off its hinges when Eric touches the knob.
"That's shoddy weather-proofing, right there," he says. Hyde shakes his head and goes inside.
They sit on the frozen couch, hearing the crunch of mice bodies. He ignores Eric's polite suburban disgust and lights the other joint.
They pass. Somehow in leaning towards Eric, he's on his knees and there it is, there it is.
His hand is a perfect holster around Eric's hip bone, he slings one leg over his shoulder, stiff upper lip. Running his thumb nail along the seam under Eric's ass. How many times did he listen to her do it on this very couch?
There you have it, there it is.
It's all settled in his stomach by the time he's sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a small pile of dirty cigarette butts, arms crossed. Red is leaning on the chair across from him, awaiting some stumbling explanation, remorse, heartfelt promises not to do it ever ever again. It's got so he doesn't even have to think about what a hypocrite he is.
Red looks over his shoulder at Kitty, she shrugs. His voice is gruff and burdened with disappointment. "So you have nothing at all to say for yourself?"
Before he can muster up his sad voice to answer, Kitty breaks in. "Oh, Steven, you know it's bad for your health, and the lawn." She's wringing her hands so hard he thinks they'll start to drip love. It's useless. He feels bad about fooling her.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm really sorry. I won't do it again." Red is still eyeing him, Kitty is wiping a tear away above her smile. For good measure, he adds a steely, "Ever."
And that satisfies them, heavy hand clapping his shoulder. Eric stands in the kitchen, face distorted, pretending to try not to smile.
end.
by: bj
in sum: if you got something to explode.
label: hyde. hyde/eric.
rating: 14a. non-graphic oral sex.
sissies: i know you'll have no spoilers. set between "hyde moves in" and "kelso's serenade."
legalities: don't own, don't sue.
i say: as yet untitled. title/summary by matthew good band. album: "audio of being."
archive: ask and it (probably) shall be given.
datestamp: 10.02.03.
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.
under the influence
Hyde had been dreaming, but he wakes with his clothes on and leaves the radio off. He puts his fifth under the bed and swallows spearmint mouthwash. He opens the attic window, lights a cigarette and smokes it quickly to the filter. He drops it out the window just as somebody thumps up the stairs.
He turns and Eric is smiling on the landing. "What the hell are you doing?" he asks.
Hyde shrugs. "Nothing." He's up, it's seven o'clock, and he's dressed. It's a good day.
"Looks like you're standing on the cooler," Eric observes, and he starts to laugh.
Tugs the window closed and jumps to the floor. "Fuck off, man."
Eric stops laughing. "Well. Good morning to you too. Breakfast."
They both adjust their jeans and Eric goes back downstairs. Hyde sits on his bed and rolls one for school. No. Make it two.
So he's cutting, he's walking past the school and down the road, to the intersection that marks the difference between where he used to live and where he lives now. He looks south, the water tower rising among evergreens, and he looks north. Barren, frost-bitten, condemned. He doesn't live there anymore.
He crosses the street and walks west. The trail breaks north into the woods about a mile from school.
The shadows down here are cold, he hunches his shoulders and reminds himself that it's gotten late enough for sheepskin. There is the creek, water running under the ice, and the mossy footbridge that fords it.
Sitting on the bridge, the heels of his boots crack the ice, his ass is freezing. He remembers when he and Eric used to put string on twigs and pretend they were fishing from this bridge.
He pulls a joint from his breast pocket and lights it, inhales deeply enough for the smoke to burn.
In January all the snappable twigs are encased in the frozen mud of the trail. He hears hollow wooden footsteps and then there is a warm corduroy thigh against his. Skinny red-knuckled hand reaching for him, no, for the joint.
Everybody's setting down to lunch by now, crowding the cafeteria because it's too cold to be apathetic in the parking lot, but he and Eric are walking. They're going north, into trailer country, a house here and there, the house his mom used to rent with her body, the door falls off its hinges when Eric touches the knob.
"That's shoddy weather-proofing, right there," he says. Hyde shakes his head and goes inside.
They sit on the frozen couch, hearing the crunch of mice bodies. He ignores Eric's polite suburban disgust and lights the other joint.
They pass. Somehow in leaning towards Eric, he's on his knees and there it is, there it is.
His hand is a perfect holster around Eric's hip bone, he slings one leg over his shoulder, stiff upper lip. Running his thumb nail along the seam under Eric's ass. How many times did he listen to her do it on this very couch?
There you have it, there it is.
It's all settled in his stomach by the time he's sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a small pile of dirty cigarette butts, arms crossed. Red is leaning on the chair across from him, awaiting some stumbling explanation, remorse, heartfelt promises not to do it ever ever again. It's got so he doesn't even have to think about what a hypocrite he is.
Red looks over his shoulder at Kitty, she shrugs. His voice is gruff and burdened with disappointment. "So you have nothing at all to say for yourself?"
Before he can muster up his sad voice to answer, Kitty breaks in. "Oh, Steven, you know it's bad for your health, and the lawn." She's wringing her hands so hard he thinks they'll start to drip love. It's useless. He feels bad about fooling her.
"Yeah," he says. "I'm really sorry. I won't do it again." Red is still eyeing him, Kitty is wiping a tear away above her smile. For good measure, he adds a steely, "Ever."
And that satisfies them, heavy hand clapping his shoulder. Eric stands in the kitchen, face distorted, pretending to try not to smile.
end.