Caution: Falling

By Kay

Disclaimer: I don't own EW. Yet. With all the fic I do, I think I SHOULD, though…

Author's Notes: It's finally updated! Whoo! Thank heavens. Don't worry, the fic is back on track. I've been really working on updating my older works-in-progress, too, if anyone even still gets into this fandom. Enjoy! OOC and fluffy abounds!

Christopher was not having a good night.

It had all started out very innocently. A free weekend night, devoid of any classes or joint study groups that just looked at him funny when he tried to joke about algebra and algorithms. ("You show me your algorithm, I'll show you mine, sweetcheeks.") He had taken the opportunity to convince a highly reluctant David Levin that yes, college students had to go outside of the dorms at least once a week. Because it wasn't healthy not to party and go clubbing. Not at all.

In the end, he improvised and bribed: Come along, and he wouldn't make them take Women Gender Studies Through the Ages next semester.

David was decked out in mesh, a trench coat, and ready to go within five minutes.

So that had been the easy part. The hard part came when they arrived at the club-- one of the newer places Christopher was enjoying, The Vicarious Wade, possibly the hottest and sexiest scene he'd found so far. Honestly, the amount of gyrating bodies and flashy lights? Awe-inspiring. It was like eating too many Pixie-Stixs and twirling around multiple times. He'd almost written a sonnet on the twisting beauties that were by the door, but decided against it when one turned around a flashed a very male chest at him. He may be a master of the lovin', but Christopher Hitchcock was very, very straight.

No, he really was.

So it had started well. Went better when he had a mug of good ol' beer in his hands. It must have begun going downhill after David left to sulk in a dark corner, however, because ever since then, the blonde had been accosted by the worst stuff. First, some woman had approached him... and drunkenly spilled some sickeningly fruity-scented drink all over his stylish, tight shirt. It was, like, pear or something. That had been the beginning of it, really.

It had to be the pear-scent thing. That was it. That was why every single frickin' girl he tried to flirt with was either A.) there with her very big, very intimidating boyfriend that liked to hover by her shoulder and glare at poor Christopher; or B.) liked to blow him off with a mocking laugh and, "You're kidding me, right?" He'd even run across option C.) about half an hour ago, in which the girl he tried to flirt with was there with her very small, very sharp-toothed girlfriend that liked to hover by her shoulder and look at Christopher like he was grilled chicken with blonde hair. All of these situations had ended in a hasty, well-planned retreat that involved, more or less, the act of running away and pretending he'd seen his aunt's cousin's brothers' second nephew (twice removed for no reason Christopher could remember) lurking around back.

It was getting depressing.

So there he was, sitting all alone, sulking, sipping his beer and getting more and more drunk... and maybe trying to jump a few pretty girls, if it weren't the for the fact they kept laughing in his face... when it happened.

No, that's not dramatic enough. When IT happened.

"Aaah--!"

Something fell into his lap. Fell. Into his lap.

Christopher shrieked like a girl and dunked his beer all over the guy sitting next to him.

"Jesus! What the fuck is the matter with--" the guy was quickly cut off by his girlfriend, who dragged him to the nearest bathroom and was yelling something about expensive fabrics. Christopher blinked dazedly after them, his hands automatically holding the heavy object that was now laying across his legs and partly on his chest.

He blinked again and looked down. Grinned.

'Oh yeah! Getting lucky toni-iiiight!'

"Well, well, well... what do we have here?"

The delectable creature that had landed in his lap blinked sluggishly, looking around as if she couldn't quite tell where she was. Christopher grinned even wider, his downcast spirits lifting with the gift the higher powers had seen fit to give him-- he'd known it was bad luck all along! The girl was a little bony, yeah... he could feel the sharp edge of her hipbone pressing into his ribcage, and it didn't take effort at all to wrap his arm around her waist to keep her from toppling. But too little was better than too much in many cases, as Christopher had always (obnoxiously) said, before being beaten (severely) by either April or David.

Besides, anything that looked that good in leather and silk? Surely it was a crime to not accept the sacrifice given to him. Wow. Even her face was rather lovely. A little lost and confused, but the features were elegant if a little abrupt, and the clouded brown eyes were even darker than the coffee-sheen of her skin. Black hair fell over her face and trickled down to a short cut near her neck.

And the leather. Had he mentioned the leather?

He could deal with the flat chest later. That was what Wonder-bras were for. Well, that and slingshots, but he wasn't twelve anymore.

The heaven-sent gift looked at him.

Christopher beamed back.

It was true love. It had to be. Between the loud, pulsing music and the sparkling lights, they were fixated on each others' gazes, swept up in the overwhelming chemistry that sizzled between them like so many fireworks on a hot July night. Filled to the brim with passion and pear-scented stains, they were connected. Their minds were connected. They could feel each other's desires, their mad lust soothed by the magic in each others' eyes, and Christopher could feel it in his chest-- true love at last... or at least a week long affair instead of a night stand.

Then the magic broke.

"I'm going to clobber your skull with something blunt and heavy if you don't let go of me in exactly three seconds," the dream growled.

Growled. Deeply. Very deeply.

Christopher frowned. Tilted his head. Thought something over in his head. Looked down at the creature's suspiciously flat chest. Looked at the sharp features of the face. Tilted his head to the other side. Thought something else over in his head. Looked back down at the suspiciously flat chest.

"FUCK!" He shoved him-- him! him!-- off of his lap, sending the man sprawling on the floor and cursing at him, and frantically attempted to vault himself backwards out of the chair. It did not work. The entire thing tipped over, sending him flying into another table, which also fell over, along with several drinks still half-full, which landed either nearby or directly on his chest, followed by the outraged shrieks of said drinks' owners.

Meanwhile, as the blonde was being trampled by several strangers in creepily painful footwear such as heels and spikes, the "delectable creature" struggled to his feet, swearing profusely the entire time and with a definite intention to dish out some violence even if he couldn't exactly (well, at all) see straight.

If David had seen the massive chaos, he would have been proud and felt fairly justified after the incident in the garage. As it was, he had his own hands full. Literally.

David was inwardly cursing every single bad thing that had ever happened to him in his life.

First, he'd been born. That must have sucked. Right? Yes. Being torn from the warmth of his mother (although it must be said, he might have had to worry about swimming in alcohol for the rest of his life in her innards had he stayed) must have been a terrifying, traumatic experience, and just not a very good way to start his life. He probably screamed the hospital down. They probably dropped him several times on his head just for spite.

Secondly, he'd been born male. This was not technically something David wanted to change, naturally-- he was quite happy being male, thankyouverymuchit'snoneofyourfuckingbusiness, and the idea of actually being a girl made him feel a tad bit queasy inside. But really, most of his life would have been a lot easier if his father hadn't been so happy to have a son. Because while he loved his father, it had gotten old really fast. His father hadn't been able to tell little boys from men. His father liked to give him speeches on doing manly things in manly ways, even going so far as to instruct him how to brush his teeth in a manly way, or how to tie his shoes in the manly way ("None of those sissy bunny ears!"). His father had also liked to shove him in ugly orange lifejackets and take him on boats. Well, okay, so that was good.

He could have done without the speeches, though.

Thirdly, and now his list was getting really heated up, he hated Senna Wales. Because Senna in some way or another was the cause for everything. She was the Reason. No matter how far away or how much she ignored him, anything bad that happened to him was ultimately her fault. That was all. For every bad thing that had happened to him in college so far, she'd been the instigator. If it hadn't been for Christopher, he might not have survived her at all.

So that was how David Levin knew, somehow, without a doubt, that Ganymede Ryle must be working for Senna Wales in some fashion.

"I can't believe I had to drive you home," he growled lowly, shoving the keys into the car ignition and twisting them sharply. The beat-up Toyota rumbled to life-- his black and green dice hanging from the rear-view mirror (courtesy of Christopher's generous contribution to his car-buying plans) danced a bit with movement. "Where do you live?"

"The apartments," the blonde boy mumbled, shooting him another strange glance that made something David either tingle or shudder in abject terror.

"Fine." He pulled out of the club's parking lot, shooting it a dark glare in the rear-view mirror. At least he was out of that place, even if he had to deal with the human octopus to do it. David wondered bleakly if those were still hand prints he could feel all over his chest, or if he was just imagining it. God, he was still embarrassed. How was it possible that it could take over fifteen minutes to get a perfectly sober, disgustingly tall pretty-boy off of his struggling body?

There was no longer any doubt. Ganymede Ryle, as April had finally introduced him, was trying to kill him or get into his pants. And that did not make David Levin happy at all.

This was all Senna's doing. Somehow.

"I really am sorry about falling on you," the blonde offered. He didn't sound sorry at all. David hunched down lower behind the steering wheel, glancing at the tall boy suspiciously.

"Whatever. Forget about it. Really."

"You make a fantastic cushion."

Oh God, resist the urge to jerk the wheel and veer into that concrete building there, David. He balanced the car out smoothly, plastering a fake and not-at-all-really polite smile on his face. "Is that so?"

Ganymede was still looking at him with that hungry, wicked expression that wasn't helping David's nerves one bit. He swallowed a bit, clenching clammy hands on the wheel. "You look stressed," the blonde observed.

"What? Oh. I guess."

"You know what I do when I'm stressed?"

"No," David said, quite sure he didn't want to know. He was right.

"I make out with blonde, curly guys with green eyes," Ganymede said seriously. "I really think you should give it a try. It's very therapeutic."

He was going to kill April. No, scratch that. He was going to kill Ganymede and hide his body somewhere in a forested mountain, probably buried in the hillside and covered with leaves to hide the freshly dug earth. And then he was going to kill April. And then he was going to kill Christopher, just for the hell of it.

After that, he was going to take a shower. All that killing would probably wreck hell on his cleanliness.

"No," was what he finally said, very firm.

"Why?" Was the boy actually pouting? David sneaked a peek to confirm it. Yes, the boy was actually pouting.

"I'm not gay." That should do it; very blunt, but not completely insensitive. For David. However, if anything, Ganymede only brightened and threw off the sulking shadow he'd been threatening to loom with.

"Oh, that sort of condition can be cured."

David's knuckles turned white. "No. It can't."

"Want to give that theory a try?"

"No."

There was a pause. "... not even if I give you something you really, really want?"

"What on earth," David asked slowly, in what he assumed was either a very patient or very psychotic voice, "could you possibly give me that I could really, really want?"

Silence filled the car.

"Sex?"

He was going to kill him. "If you don't shut up right now--"

"Kinky sex," Ganymede pointed out emphatically.

"I don't want sex. I don't want kinky sex. I don't want anything to do with you!" Resisting the urge to rip out his hair (which Ganymede was actually admiring at the moment for its dark mahogany color), David let out a near-cry of relief as the apartments came into view outside of the windshield. "We're here! We're here-- get out of the car."

"But what about if--"

"No!"

This argument actually lasted approximately eighteen minutes and thirty-three seconds longer before Ganymede was finally shoved bodily out of the car, and onto his ass in the mud puddle right outside of his apartment.

Hair mussed, jacket disposed and revealing the now-skewed mesh shirt underneath, his eyes slightly wild and what seemed to be a bite on his left shoulder, David Levin shouted, "And if you even think about it again, I'll cure you of a condition-- your life!"

With that, he slammed the door. And drove away rather erratically, nearly hitting three mailboxes and a black cat that thought the entire matter very unpleasant.

Sitting in the mud, a silly grin on his face, Ganymede announced, "I'm so fucking in love right now."


End of Part 6