Fill for the DGM KM (prompt below title). Tentatively based upon the song 'Call Me When You're Sober' by Evanescence.
Warnings: you're reading a fic which contains Cross and alcohol, the hell do you think is going to happen?
Rating: M
Summary: Not even a Bookman's memory can stand up to tequila.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Cross, Your Heart?
Cross/author's choice- something based off the song Call Me When You're Sober by Evanescence ( watch?v=_RrA-R5VHQs). Any kinks at all, some angsty content would be awesome.
He had only himself to blame. He knew Cross' reputation when he threw back that first shot, and if he'd had any uncertainty, that wandering hand should have cleared it away.
But no, he'd shyly returned that lusty gaze, as genuinely curious as someone who'd pounded several shots too many could be as to the truth in the rumours of the Order's infamous hedonist.
("So, squirt, let's have a chat. Redhead to redhead."
Lavi had leaned over towards the General's beckoning finger. As he neared that crimson spill, his progress was halted by a pair of insistent lips, damp with tequila and stubborn against his own.)
Really, he should have known better.
Hindsight was every bit as cruel a master as Cross, Lavi mused.
. . .
Long fingers raked his back, nails just a little too long trailed fire through Lavi's nerves. He moaned quietly as Cross' tongue traced his collarbone, grinding down onto the bare shaft that sat flush against his own.
He moved a hand under the General's stubbly chin, jabbing gracelessly to raise his head. Once he was able to reach, Lavi pressed a liquor soaked kiss to his partner's lips, allowing Cross' tongue to slip through his lips.
If he'd been asked in that moment, or indeed any moment after, the future Bookman wouldn't have been able to explain how they'd gotten from the bar to the bed.
In fact, even the location of the bed, either exact or ballpark, wasn't apparent to Lavi, the inebriation and later on, the hangover, clouding his usually infallible memory.
He never had been able to hold his liquor well.
The one thing he did know, the single distinct memory from those muddled hours, was the thorn of disappointment that twisted in his side when he woke to a bed occupied only by himself.
All that remained on the other side of the bed were a few bright hairs too long to be his own and the mutual evidence of their tryst.
. . .
With his infallible memory, Lavi occasionally mistook something that was actually happening for a particularly strong daydream.
The slosh of tequila in the bottle could be today, could be last week, could be last month.
Because it's always tequila, or some liquid that Lavi doesn't know the name of – if it burns hotter than his hair, Cross drinks it.
Without the alcohol there wouldn't be anything to remember. Cross wouldn't be anything more than an arduous chore that had sent the redhead scampering across the world and his virginity would still be partially intact.
A/N: I've been meaning to extend this for months, but I haven't had the inspiration. If I write a subsequent chapter, then the song will hopefully feature more prominently.