Author's Notes: And…
Warnings: Yaoi, slash, shounen-ai, etc. Inexplicit substance abuse and sex. Weird writing style. Un-beta'd.
Pairing: Ike/Marth.
Disclaimer: I don't own Super Smash Brothers.
Summary: Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
Ambient
By SSBBSwords
He can tolerate the insomnia with sufficient dignity to a certain point. He can lie there in faux meditation or alternate sides like a seasoned sleeper. Thirty minutes of staring wide-eyed into the dark is fine and, frankly, expected. He starts getting upset around ninety minutes in.
Tonight seems especially unpleasant. He is so sleep-deprived that there is no comfortable position. His eyes feel tight and his head even tighter. He has a pounding headache, which is stemming from the twin pulse-points above his ears. The tendons running parallel down his neck ache fierce enough to start an internal debate on taking some pain relievers.
His fingers dig into the tender areas and accomplish more distraction than relief. He doesn't know what makes him feel worse: the physical pain or the mental anguish. Then again, he is just so fortunate that one fuels the other in an endless cycle.
He wants to break something when he remembers pain medications should not be used if alcohol is regularly consumed.
It is 11:48 PM and he parks in the spot farthest from the only car present in the small five-vehicle lot in front of the liquor store. He doesn't know if he is trembling because it has come to this or because he imagines the shop interior to be as seedy as the exterior.
When he enters with the trepidation of a guilty party, the cashier's gaze not only automatically falls on his lonesome figure but sharpens with focused suspicion. He wants to duck into an aisle to hide but the shelves of alcohol remain at chest-height so there is no refuge. As he slowly wanders an adjacent wall of refrigerated beverages, he is overly-aware that the young man behind the front counter straightens from a slouch. He has zero interest in this section of beer that he stands before and his thoughts instead curl possessively around the cashier.
He glances toward the guy, who stares back unabashedly. The cashier's eyes are bright and appearance boyish, and he almost evaluates the guy as some part-timing teenager before he realizes this is a liquor store and employees must be at least 21 to sell alcohol.
He is meandering from the wall into the aisles when his attention is abruptly pulled away from contemplating purchasing scotch by the young man's even statement. "You look tired."
The store is so compact that there is no potential for misdirected or misheard words, and with no cards to play, he matches the other's conversational tone perfectly and replies, "I am." His hand closes around a dark container and he cradles it in his hands to absently read the label just so he doesn't have to maintain polite eye contact.
"Can I help you find anything?" The employee asks.
He immediately wants to say no, but he has been feeling like a deer in the headlights this entire time so he says, "Yes," and then berates himself for the reckless answer. He doesn't know what he wants and he is hesitant to admit that aloud. "I need," he pauses (to sleep. forget. disappear), "something to help me relax."
His warped description gets him a raised eyebrow and amused smirk from the young man at the counter. "Well, you aren't too lost then."
He realizes belatedly that he rather likes this guy because he sort of finds that smile sexy and that quip charming so he replaces what he was holding onto the shelf and returns the other's stare. "Recommend me something."
The change in the young man's body language is terribly conspicuous and he bears witness to the classic Christmas-came-early reaction. "My shift ends in about ten minutes."
He nearly smiles himself, but his facial muscles just don't cooperate. He isn't sure how this works, so he shrugs and responds just as vaguely, "Fine." His conscience has yet to catch up with his mouth, so he goes outside to wait amongst more forgiving shadows.
He ends up at the young man's apartment and he can't help but investigate the layout a bit because the last thing he wants is to run into roommates when he leaves. He peers around each corner and tries to gauge doorways as closets or second bedrooms.
The other's casual baritone rescinds down the opposite hallway and he pays no attention in lieu of trying an ambiguous knob. Closet. No roommates then?
Seconds tick by before he realizes the guy had said something about changing.
He walks into the bedroom just as the taller man pulls on a T-shirt. The drab uniform drapes lopsidedly off a chair.
"Why did you," put clothes back on, "change?" He asks with genuine curiosity as he approaches and toys with the hem of the shirt in question.
"I thought we agreed the polo was an atrocity," the guy replies with faint amusement. Larger, warmer hands close around his fingers that are entwined in the fabric. His grip remains immobile as if he waits for permission to continue.
They are pressed vertically against each other and he looks up at that handsome face and thinks if this is what real couples do, he has been missing out. He almost feels ashamed for wanting to strip the guy and get on with what he came here for. Almost.
He gives a firm tug like a reminder, to which the young man responds by sliding hands along his forearms before backing up slightly and gently undoing his hold. There is a horrifying moment as rejection courses sharply through his entire body, but then the guy simply removes the T-shirt a heartbeat later.
Tousled head reappearing from beneath the cloth, the man plainly states, "So we're doing this."
He hears nothing but a green light in that and quickly closes the distance between them. "Please."
-tbc-