Charlie’s Flat, Cantile
Bad Decision Hours on the 27th of Ophus, 2719
H
adn’t a damned clue what was going on. Not a single one. Not a single thought in his head, either, for a few moments. A precious flooding few, like he could lose himself in this qalqa as he’d done once – when he was whole, when there wasn’t so much else crowding into the space what he’d lost had left.
He broke away when Charlie laughed, breathing heavily. He grinned, just pleased to listen; he liked that sound. Funny how he’d never noticed. “Mm,” he grunted, “and I have it on good authority fixing problems is what mechanics do.”
He blinked, his eyes skittering down to the side, past Charlie’s arm and across the work table. The low lamplight still glinted off the edges of metal somethings he couldn’t’ve named, caught gleaming on the ink of recently-written notes, all in a hand he didn’t recognize. For a flicker of seconds, he focused on them riff-sharp – he wasn’t sure why. He traced the long sweep of a circle with something he couldn’t even begin to parse inside it. It reminded him strangely of prodigia, except all hard angles and coils and gears instead of spell circles, and no Monite written carefully along the curves.
No, it was all Estuan. His mouth twitched, smile tilting. It wasn’t toff handwriting, or leastways not the kind he saw Uptown. There was a funny crooked slant to it, like every letter was leaning into the next for dear life, the tails of gs and ps and qs hooked and too long.
Then those long fingers were curled, surprisingly strong, in the fabric of his shirt, and he was being pulled to his feet.
He laughed, clear and bright; he stumbled and had to catch himself on Charlie’s shoulder, the towel slipping off and falling in a heap on the floor. He held it, all fine bone and smooth skin and light muscle underneath his fingers, and it struck him something like a waltz. Except his fingertips were creeping up the back of Charlie’s neck, feeling the last ridges of his spine and then the silky tangles of his wet hair, and their feet were all muddled up.
He fumbled and they near fell together on the bed, him on top of the other man. One of his hands was on his chest; his breath was coming even harder, and he felt delirious on the smell of whisky and soap and skin.
He was almost straddling him; he could feel one bare leg between his thighs, pressed up close. There was just about no avoiding it, even through the baggy, roughspun cloth. He was suddenly fair aware of how hard he was, and he felt lightheaded with the rush of his pulse in his ears.
One of his hands was on Charlie’s chest, bare and very smooth. He looked down at it: it was shaking just a little, even here.
He was smiling, a wry dark twist of a thing: they were still close, and he could smell the whisky on Charlie’s breath mingling with the taste in his mouth. What the fuck am I doing? he asked himself, even as his fingertip traced over his chest, creeping down from his collarbone and further down. He found himself thinking of the pattern he’d traced through the polish on the banister.
He found himself thinking other things, too, like of the smooth skin up here and the soft dark hair on his legs, and where it might start and end.
He hadn’t even taken his shirt off yet; he felt oddly afraid that in the time it took him to undo the buttons, to wrestle off his trousers – to look at himself, all –
He kissed him again, even longer this time. What the fuck am I doing? Who the fuck–? he thought, his lips wandering down over those two freckles again, then along his jaw, then down his neck. “You’re, uh,” he grunted, “you’re going to have to help me, uh, if you want these clothes off me, ‘cause I’m liable to forget, being so, uh, occupied…”
adn’t a damned clue what was going on. Not a single one. Not a single thought in his head, either, for a few moments. A precious flooding few, like he could lose himself in this qalqa as he’d done once – when he was whole, when there wasn’t so much else crowding into the space what he’d lost had left.
He broke away when Charlie laughed, breathing heavily. He grinned, just pleased to listen; he liked that sound. Funny how he’d never noticed. “Mm,” he grunted, “and I have it on good authority fixing problems is what mechanics do.”
He blinked, his eyes skittering down to the side, past Charlie’s arm and across the work table. The low lamplight still glinted off the edges of metal somethings he couldn’t’ve named, caught gleaming on the ink of recently-written notes, all in a hand he didn’t recognize. For a flicker of seconds, he focused on them riff-sharp – he wasn’t sure why. He traced the long sweep of a circle with something he couldn’t even begin to parse inside it. It reminded him strangely of prodigia, except all hard angles and coils and gears instead of spell circles, and no Monite written carefully along the curves.
No, it was all Estuan. His mouth twitched, smile tilting. It wasn’t toff handwriting, or leastways not the kind he saw Uptown. There was a funny crooked slant to it, like every letter was leaning into the next for dear life, the tails of gs and ps and qs hooked and too long.
Then those long fingers were curled, surprisingly strong, in the fabric of his shirt, and he was being pulled to his feet.
He laughed, clear and bright; he stumbled and had to catch himself on Charlie’s shoulder, the towel slipping off and falling in a heap on the floor. He held it, all fine bone and smooth skin and light muscle underneath his fingers, and it struck him something like a waltz. Except his fingertips were creeping up the back of Charlie’s neck, feeling the last ridges of his spine and then the silky tangles of his wet hair, and their feet were all muddled up.
He fumbled and they near fell together on the bed, him on top of the other man. One of his hands was on his chest; his breath was coming even harder, and he felt delirious on the smell of whisky and soap and skin.
He was almost straddling him; he could feel one bare leg between his thighs, pressed up close. There was just about no avoiding it, even through the baggy, roughspun cloth. He was suddenly fair aware of how hard he was, and he felt lightheaded with the rush of his pulse in his ears.
One of his hands was on Charlie’s chest, bare and very smooth. He looked down at it: it was shaking just a little, even here.
He was smiling, a wry dark twist of a thing: they were still close, and he could smell the whisky on Charlie’s breath mingling with the taste in his mouth. What the fuck am I doing? he asked himself, even as his fingertip traced over his chest, creeping down from his collarbone and further down. He found himself thinking of the pattern he’d traced through the polish on the banister.
He found himself thinking other things, too, like of the smooth skin up here and the soft dark hair on his legs, and where it might start and end.
He hadn’t even taken his shirt off yet; he felt oddly afraid that in the time it took him to undo the buttons, to wrestle off his trousers – to look at himself, all –
He kissed him again, even longer this time. What the fuck am I doing? Who the fuck–? he thought, his lips wandering down over those two freckles again, then along his jaw, then down his neck. “You’re, uh,” he grunted, “you’re going to have to help me, uh, if you want these clothes off me, ‘cause I’m liable to forget, being so, uh, occupied…”
