Author's Notes: Where am I? What is this?
Warnings: The Usual©, plus additional plot, pace, and style discrepancies and redundancies because this was written 4.5 years after the last update.
I had to bull-in-china-shop this, and though I don't love it, I also don't have any better ideas at the moment.
Pairing: Ike/Marth.
Summary: Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
Ambient
By SSBBSwords
Slotted between his legs, Ike has pushed halfway into him when he's struck with mistimed appreciation for the muted glow of flavescent streetlights through the curtains across the other's bare form. His bemusement translates aloud only as a hitched exhale, head falling back against the pillow, view trained on the ceiling for a brief recess from the other's studious gaze.
The young man above him presses lips against his inner calf, the curve of his ankle resting just beyond the other's broad shoulder. Like he weighs nothing, Ike grasps his hips and lifts, rocks inward with control, and takes measured breaths that sound nothing like the watery drumming in his ears.
This is nice, his mind supplies unhelpfully, and he manages a soft moan in echo, grasping for purchase, distraction, gravity.
"You okay?" the other asks in the din of calescent sensation and he's melting.
fine good great amazing stay right there. In summary, "Yes," and after a beat, he adds absently, "thank you."
He discovers the disadvantage of their position when his hamstring protests his efforts to pick up the pace. Ike reads the sign of tension immediately, releasing his lifted leg. "Switch?" Eyes flit over him to assess how he's faring.
He can't sit up completely without either losing their connection or bending something that shouldn't, so he says, "Sit back."
In a swift and dutiful response, the younger man methodically withdraws to convert from kneeling to sitting, and he arranges himself carefully across the other's lap, reaching behind with his dominant hand to find what he needs back in him. His heavy sigh is swallowed by Ike's sharp inhale, and they're ineluctably locked until he decides otherwise. "Better," he murmurs, mostly to himself, and this feels even closer together, just two parallel lines, mouths threads apart.
"Oh," the other mumbles, "this works," and draws him into a kiss that blurs the smile off his mouth. It's mainly curiosity that parts his lips to allow Ike in; the young man below him certainly doesn't have the same—if any—leverage as earlier, but this tongue work is another story. He unravels at the wet heat, body light and numb and tingly and his mind heavy and dark and dumb. "I could do this all night," Ike confesses, low and reverent, before brushing sin along the curve of his ear.
Despite being tempted by the bleeding earnestness of the other's declaration, he sets a bracing palm beneath the younger man's collarbone, fingers gripping the shoulder opposite to the forearm circling his waist. "Next time," he says, both a phatic brush-off and a wishful vow, as he rises on his knees to get what he came for.
He falls asleep without remembering the process. He knows this much because he wakes mystified beneath covers that still register as unfamiliar in texture and weight. He freezes in place, an unintelligible mantra not unlike desperate prayer flooding his consciousness, and the lull of dreamless sleep shatters.
An unexpected dose of déjà vu follows, and as darkness slides away from his view, the intensity of sunlight fighting the thin seam between curtain and window frame causes his eyes to avert in search of blissful dimness. If history repeats, he expects to be alone in this room. His heart beats steady as he cautiously disentangles himself from the bed components to survey the bedroom, which hasn't changed since the night before, minus the absence of carelessly strewn clothes.
Renascent alarm punctuates this newfound tidiness until he recalls the other man grabbing the closest material last night to wipe ejaculate off their skin, off-handedly claiming cleaning responsibility by assuring him with a flippant remark about the apartment's exceptional washing machines.
He doesn't know what he likes about the guy, not exactly. For all intents and purposes, the liquor store clerk is a nondescript individual. A little on the younger side, maybe, but to him, anyone who walks without bone-deep fatigue for life seems young. The thing about him—Ike, that is—is the preternatural seriousness that weighs in the other's stare even amidst their scarce banter. Yes, they depend on non-verbal cues due to their dearth of extensive dialogue, but the resolve of Ike's gaze seems unusual.
He finds a note about laundry on a stack of spare clothes, an unopened toothbrush by the sink, and a set of clean towels next to the shower. He steps beneath the spray of hot water on autopilot but pauses in confounded abeyance when confronted with new bottles of shampoo, conditioner, the works, like the man decided to try a new brand of everything at the drugstore, despite already owning perfectly functioning body care items.
So he doesn't know exactly why he likes this guy, but he does like the guy, and that's something.
He trips on the hem of borrowed sweatpants when he exits the bedroom, swimming in the other's clothes. There's a sticky note marked "CAFFEINE" on the cabinet to the right of the fridge, those gratuitous block letters to no one's benefit but a guest like himself. An unopened variety pack of tea is shoved front and center among a litany of coffee products and scattered filters. He shuts the panel to hide the overwhelming sight and opts for water.
The free manner in which he meanders about makes the whole situation a stiver unbearable in its hospitality. It's not like the guy's given him a key and full reign of the place, but the underlying open invitation to stay as long as he wants arrests him.
The front door swings open and he jumps, turning to witness the recognition in the other's expression soften to something he can't name. "Hey," Ike greets, setting down the basket of freshly laundered clothes.
He takes a glacial sip of water, eyes tracking the other's reaction, and realizes Ike stares like he's going to dissipate into thin air. Perhaps this now explains why the young man sometimes doesn't do much (or try much anyway) other than wrap one hand around his wrist or waist or whatever is closest at the moment. He's not sure what he's done to warrant that sort of restraint, but he's oddly more enthralled than perturbed.
"You hungry?" Ike asks, tone circumspect as if anticipating him to up and leave, borrowed clothes and all.
In utmost truth, he is because he really should have some proper sustenance, but at the same time, it's more important to erase the uneasiness in the other's posture. "Later," he decides, abandoning his glass on the counter. He shuffles across the room and swaps the laundry basket out of the other's hands with himself. "Your clothes are comfortable," he informs, fingers tracing the too long sleeves before emerging to cup the other's face. "Thank you," for everything, it's a long list, "for having me," he settles in a whisper, a hair's width away from the other's mouth, chin tilted up expectantly.
"You're," Ike begins but pulls back to rephrase, "I," and decidedly gives up. "You're going to kill me."
He laughs quietly at the other's faux suffering and entertains the chimeric notion that they have a good thing going.
-tbc(?)-