Welcome Stranger
A/N: entirely inspired by Elisabeth Harker's 'Tavern'. My god, this pairing just gripped me and this spilled itself out. Verse and title belong to Megan Washington – it seemed to fit. Characters are of course, L.M.A's.
But this is just a business, and I don't feel any pain
Just as long as no one says your name.
He feels the bite of brick against his skull, his hair catching on the tiny fragmented texture of concrete. His tongue traces Fred's tongue and it's like nothing he's ever experienced. The shorter man has his unbuttoned collar gripped tightly in his fists as he presses Laurie to the wall. It's every inch the passion he's desired so long, only Fred doesn't wear her face or taste like bread and honey.
There's a moan deep inside of him that tries to escape but he swallows it whole. His lips feel raw as they press and pry and part with Fred's. He won't move them to the smooth paleness of the man's neck. He simply grips Fred closer, his hands firmly on his hips, the texture of wool, rough and dyed imbedded, sinking deeper into his skin.
He thinks of unbuttoning his trousers. Of Fred's mouth dropping lower. Laurie thinks of a great deal of things but says nothing. There's something to all of this, something that might be too much and so he holds Fred closer, trying to consume everything this kiss can give him.
A part of him revels in knowing she would hate all of this. The idea of anyone touching him this way has always turned her as stiff as stone. He used to think it was because she loved him. Laurie can recall her frowns without a second thought, even as Fred's fingers press into the skin of his jaw. The man is persistent in ways she could never be.
She might even hate him for it. Laurie pushes his hips roughly against Fred's, listening for the man's responding groan above the roar of liquor between his senses. Everything is so clear to him now. He can't tell if he's still standing, or if the brick wall of the laneway is holding him up but he is thinking clearer than he ever has before.
It is silent in the strange dark London laneway and the two never speak. Laurie can only hear the sudden intake and exhale of breath, the soft wet sound of two pairs of lips, the crumple of linen and scratch of wool. There is the scuffed shuffle of their feet against the dirt as they fight each other, bodies pushing for dominance.
Fred's quaint little bottle lies in pieces at the opening of the alley and Laurie languidly thinks that it must have made some noise, shown some sign that two living souls were waking, killing themselves in this haze.
He likes the London fog.
Fred's hands never travel lower than his shoulders and Laurie wonders if he should feel guilty for pressing his hands into the other man's trouser pockets. Fred doesn't seem to mind though and he leans into the touch. Just another way he is everything he will never get from her.
He's destroying everything with this kiss, he knows it best now that his jaw aches, that he can't keep his eyes open long enough to look into the late night and see Fred's equally glazed half-lidded gaze. Besides, it would make this all too real and tonight – tonight he has decided is about feeling things he was never allowed to feel before.
Something in his chest shudders hard and he leans back, his head falling against the brick once more. He blinks lazily now and folds his hands to the shape of Fred's thighs. Fred's mouth is hot, like a furnace, like the burning of hell behind those iron gates. Laurie can't compare the Englishman's lips to hers for he has never tasted, never touched.
Weakness; that is what it is. It settles across his limbs, blankets his mind in a way the liquor never could. Fred is stretching over his body, keeping his fumbling lips to his. Was the man always so nervous? Laurie notices now how the dark-haired man's hands shake between the material of his jacket and waistcoat. He wonders when it began. If it is a sign.
He is a damn fool to look for signs. Every moment he thinks he has this beaten, has himself pinned to a tree of regret where the roots of change can take hold, he is a damn fool. Laurie knows well how to make mistakes and the weight of them.
This will feel so much heavier later in the morning.
Laurie removes his hands from Fred's pockets and recaptures his lips, his cheeks twitching with some Herculean effort to suppress the beat of his true heart. If he acts quick enough it will seem like a dream.
The world continues to tip and fall with his every movement and he knows the alcohol that courses through his veins will win. He's on its side after all, the team captain, he thinks as he manoeuvres them both so that Fred is now pressed against the wall.
Into the wall.
It feels a little like shaking down a man for coins. He's done that before.
Fred's skin is like warm brandy. It burns him just a little. Only a little less than his burning hot mouth. Laurie's hands move to cup the shorter man's face. He cradles those soft English cheeks, feels the hard length of him between his legs and thinks yes, he can do this. It is simple enough to shut his eyes and pretend that all this hurt between them will be gone come morning.
He can feel Fred's fingers on his trouser-button.