124
to speed up truth
McFly (Danny/Harry)
1,875 words, r, third person. evolia was bored and told me to write fic, and so I did. It took me way too long to help at all with the boredom, probably, but I hope it suits, anyway! ♥
Sitting on the beach with his knees pulled up, Danny shivers and puts his cigarette butt out in the sand by his bare feet.
Sitting on the beach with his knees pulled up, Danny shivers and puts his cigarette butt out in the sand by his bare feet. The moon is out, heavy and full, and Danny can smell sea salt and green grass when he breathes in. The ocean is loud in his ears, the sound of waves breaking, rolling up onto the sand, but Danny’s too far away for the water to touch him. The moon glints against it, and Danny can only imagine how cold it is. He wonders how that would feel on his skin. He takes a swallow from the beer bottle next to him, sunk in to the sand, and then fumbles to get his lighter out of his pocket again - it’s shifted down to the bottom of his pocket, and he had to lift his hips up to get at it. The pack of cigarettes, at least, he’s left set down by his left thigh, and he sticks one in his mouth. He’s only got two left; he’s going to need another pack tomorrow.
Lighting up, the flare of the fire heats up his fingertips, dirt under his fingernails, callused skin. Night chill in the air and the smell of the ocean when he breathes in through his nose. He’s only wearing a black t-shirt, but it seemed too much effort to bother with a hoodie or a hat. Not when he’s just sitting on the beach, smoking. He’s on his third cigarette.
He’d left the other three asleep in their rented house, on the couch, and he’d patiently waited for the credits to roll before moving Dougie’s head from his shoulder, grabbing a few beers from the kitchen counter, and going outside. He should’ve stopped drinking a long time ago, he knows, he just doesn’t care.
He exhales smoke and reaches for the bottle, taking the last swig - he’s holding it with only three fingers, the other two occupied with his cigarette. He looks over at the other three empty bottles and doesn’t feel like going inside to grab another. Instead, he takes on last, long drag, puts out his cigarette, half-finished, and stands. He pulls his shirt over his head and lets it drop down onto the sand, popping the button on his jeans, and sliding them over his hips. The water is loud in his ears, and it sounds like cold - Danny’s already cold, and maybe a little unsteady on his feet, but he steps out of his jeans just fine.
The sand is soft under his feet, and he can just imagine how it will feel in the morning, sun warmed against his skin. The sand turns wet the closer he gets to the water, and he thinks, he thinks if he were brave, he’d have taken off his boxers, but. He’s not. He’s drunk and a little maudlin and the water smells of salt and wind.
He can’t help the sharp intake of breath when his feet hit the water, winter chill up through his veins, but he presses forward, wading until the ocean is up to his knees, his thighs, his hips. He’s shivering, but he doesn’t mind, he just takes a deep breath and dives in, submerged. If he opened his eyes, he knows, he could see the bubbles of air escaping from his mouth, but as it is, he just pushes forward, turns onto his back, surfacing.
He floats there, staring at the stars and the sky, the moon just to his right, and he can see the dunes, the beach. The lights from their house, illuminated just beyond. He’s shivering, but he never wants to leave, wants to stay here, afloat, until the sun starts to rise. He wants to watch the sky turn red and purple, the sun against the clouds, but he knows he can’t stay here that long. He closes his eyes and just floats, the water chilling his bones and lapping up over his chest. When he opens them again, he’s not sure how long he’s been drifting, but there’s a figure on the beach, just visible. Time to go home.
He swims back toward the shore, then, until he feels the sand and shell under his feet again, until he feels the night air all around him again, and the wind against his wet body again. He presses his teeth together to keep them from chattering, and Harry’s sitting on the beach, next to the pile of his clothes.
“Got a light?” Harry asks, backlit against the lights of the house, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes are wide against the dark, adjusting, but Danny can see him perfectly. His hair is mussed from sleeping on the couch, his shirt wrinkled. Danny thinks he looks warm.
“Long as you’re not bumming,” he says, shrugging. “Only got two left.” Harry shrugs, and Danny wraps his arms around himself, stooping onto his heels so he can grab his lighter from where he’d stuffed it back into his pocket. He holds it out, and Harry’s hand is dry and warm when he takes it; Danny was right. Warm.
“Thanks,” Harry says. Danny just nods and sits next to him. The sand clings to his feet and ankles and the back of his thighs, but he doesn’t care. It’s not often that he gets melancholy - there’s too much good in his life for that - but every once in awhile, after a hard day and a few too many beers, well. It’s not hard to guess. Danny pulls his legs up to chest, and tries to act like he’s not shivering. He’s not sure if Harry’s noticed yet. “Woke up and you were gone,” Harry says.
Danny shrugs, and thinks about having another cigarette. “Didn’t want to disturb anyone. You all looked so peaceful.” Harry snorts. Danny wants to kiss him, watching the smoke curl around his face, but he’s drunk, and wet, and they said they wouldn’t do that anymore. Danny turns his head so he can watch Harry ash his cigarette against the sand, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. Danny wishes he had another beer, but instead he grabs his shirt from the sand and wipes the worst of the water off of his chest. “Why’re you out here?” Harry asks, and Danny stares out over the water.
“Restless, I guess,” he says. It’s not the truth, precisely. It’s not a lie, either. A breeze blows past them, and a shudder runs down Danny’s spine. He should go inside and dry off, but Tom will fuss, and he’s not ready for that, yet.
“You’re an idiot,” Harry says, in that way where he sugarcoats nothing, where he’s a little angry and a little worried. Danny looks away.
“I do know how to swim, you know. I’m not that dumb,” Danny says, and there’s bitterness on his tongue. He knows, he knows he’s not the brightest bulb, but - he could do without the teasing, sometimes. He could.
“And now you can’t stop shivering,” Harry says. His voice is quieter, and when Danny glances over, he’s looking at the curve of Danny’s stomach, the way it trembles with the rest of him. Danny wants to push close and steal his warmth, get Harry’s shirt and pants wet with the ocean water still clinging to his skin. He wants to straddle Harry’s thighs so he can’t get away. Even with the world a bit hazy at the edges, it doesn’t sound quite like a good idea. He’s not certain whether he cares - he wants to push.
“Wanna warm me up, Romeo?” Danny says, and it doesn’t come out quite as biting as he means it to. Harry looks away, this time, and Danny sighs.
“Danny,” Harry starts, and trails off.
“I thought not.” He looks back out over the water, focusing on the feel of water droplets trickling down his back, collecting in the waistband of his boxers. This is why he’s surprised at Harry’s breath, humid against his cheek and smelling like smoke. Harry’s nose presses warm against the curve of his jaw, and Harry says,
“Fuck, Danny.” He says, “You’re so -” and he pushes Danny down against the sand, both hands firm and hot against the curve of Danny’s collarbones, his shoulders. Danny can feel the sand stick to his back, but he doesn’t care, because he looks up and Harry’s leaning over him, eyes dark in the night, lips slightly parted. “You’re so,” he tries again, but Danny lunges up and kisses him. He wraps one hand around the back of Harry’s neck, holding on, the warmth from Harry’s skin burning into his palm, and he tastes nicotine and salt, leftover Chinese food. He’s still shivering, trembling slightly, and he pulls away, pressing his forehead against the side of Harry’s neck.
“Why’d you stop? Why’d you want to?” he asks, voice muffled, and feels exposed, more naked than he already is.
“Didn’t want to,” Harry says, fingers slip-sliding down Danny’s chest until they’re pressed to his ribs - Danny can feel the pressure there when he breathes, ten spots of heat as his lungs expand. He feels trapped, and safe - held down, secured, and it’s not that he couldn’t get away if he wanted to, it’s that he doesn’t want to. “Is that - why the swim?”
“Bad day, it’s not -” Danny says, and he can taste Harry’s skin when he speaks, can feel Harry shiver at the feel of it. “Bad day.” He pulls back at bit, enough so that he can see Harry’s face. “I’m so fucking tired of being here.” There’s sand sticking to him all down his back and legs, and he’s still freezing, shaking with it, and Harry’s warm everywhere they’re pressed together. He doesn’t want to need this, but sometimes he does.
He kisses Harry again, then, and Harry presses one hand up his spine, sand harsh against his skin, probably leaving scratches. Danny want to curl up inside him, wants to steal his warmth and keep it, but instead he just slides both hands up the back of Harry’s t-shirt, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades, and Harry makes a soft noise against his mouth. Danny’s fingers fit perfectly, curled there, and he arches closer before he can think about it, the rush of the ocean in his ears, and hot skin under his palms. Harry tenses, and Danny thinks he’s going to pull away, and so he digs in deeper, says,
“Don’t make me stop, please.” Harry shakes his head, and leans back enough to pull his shirt over his head, letting it fall on top of Danny’s. Danny licks down the side of his neck, bites into the beat of his pulse and sucks - he wants to mark, he wants to have this tomorrow, he wants Harry to not deny it. Harry swallows, and Danny can feel it against his lips.
“Even your lips are cold,” Harry says, sucking in a gasp when Danny bites him again, when neck and shoulder meet.
“Warm me up,” Danny says, and doesn’t care how it sounds. “Take me home with you.”
“Okay,” Harry says, pressing two fingers under Danny’s chin, kissing him briefly, chastely, on the lips. “Okay.”
McFly (Danny/Harry)
1,875 words, r, third person. evolia was bored and told me to write fic, and so I did. It took me way too long to help at all with the boredom, probably, but I hope it suits, anyway! ♥
Sitting on the beach with his knees pulled up, Danny shivers and puts his cigarette butt out in the sand by his bare feet.
Sitting on the beach with his knees pulled up, Danny shivers and puts his cigarette butt out in the sand by his bare feet. The moon is out, heavy and full, and Danny can smell sea salt and green grass when he breathes in. The ocean is loud in his ears, the sound of waves breaking, rolling up onto the sand, but Danny’s too far away for the water to touch him. The moon glints against it, and Danny can only imagine how cold it is. He wonders how that would feel on his skin. He takes a swallow from the beer bottle next to him, sunk in to the sand, and then fumbles to get his lighter out of his pocket again - it’s shifted down to the bottom of his pocket, and he had to lift his hips up to get at it. The pack of cigarettes, at least, he’s left set down by his left thigh, and he sticks one in his mouth. He’s only got two left; he’s going to need another pack tomorrow.
Lighting up, the flare of the fire heats up his fingertips, dirt under his fingernails, callused skin. Night chill in the air and the smell of the ocean when he breathes in through his nose. He’s only wearing a black t-shirt, but it seemed too much effort to bother with a hoodie or a hat. Not when he’s just sitting on the beach, smoking. He’s on his third cigarette.
He’d left the other three asleep in their rented house, on the couch, and he’d patiently waited for the credits to roll before moving Dougie’s head from his shoulder, grabbing a few beers from the kitchen counter, and going outside. He should’ve stopped drinking a long time ago, he knows, he just doesn’t care.
He exhales smoke and reaches for the bottle, taking the last swig - he’s holding it with only three fingers, the other two occupied with his cigarette. He looks over at the other three empty bottles and doesn’t feel like going inside to grab another. Instead, he takes on last, long drag, puts out his cigarette, half-finished, and stands. He pulls his shirt over his head and lets it drop down onto the sand, popping the button on his jeans, and sliding them over his hips. The water is loud in his ears, and it sounds like cold - Danny’s already cold, and maybe a little unsteady on his feet, but he steps out of his jeans just fine.
The sand is soft under his feet, and he can just imagine how it will feel in the morning, sun warmed against his skin. The sand turns wet the closer he gets to the water, and he thinks, he thinks if he were brave, he’d have taken off his boxers, but. He’s not. He’s drunk and a little maudlin and the water smells of salt and wind.
He can’t help the sharp intake of breath when his feet hit the water, winter chill up through his veins, but he presses forward, wading until the ocean is up to his knees, his thighs, his hips. He’s shivering, but he doesn’t mind, he just takes a deep breath and dives in, submerged. If he opened his eyes, he knows, he could see the bubbles of air escaping from his mouth, but as it is, he just pushes forward, turns onto his back, surfacing.
He floats there, staring at the stars and the sky, the moon just to his right, and he can see the dunes, the beach. The lights from their house, illuminated just beyond. He’s shivering, but he never wants to leave, wants to stay here, afloat, until the sun starts to rise. He wants to watch the sky turn red and purple, the sun against the clouds, but he knows he can’t stay here that long. He closes his eyes and just floats, the water chilling his bones and lapping up over his chest. When he opens them again, he’s not sure how long he’s been drifting, but there’s a figure on the beach, just visible. Time to go home.
He swims back toward the shore, then, until he feels the sand and shell under his feet again, until he feels the night air all around him again, and the wind against his wet body again. He presses his teeth together to keep them from chattering, and Harry’s sitting on the beach, next to the pile of his clothes.
“Got a light?” Harry asks, backlit against the lights of the house, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes are wide against the dark, adjusting, but Danny can see him perfectly. His hair is mussed from sleeping on the couch, his shirt wrinkled. Danny thinks he looks warm.
“Long as you’re not bumming,” he says, shrugging. “Only got two left.” Harry shrugs, and Danny wraps his arms around himself, stooping onto his heels so he can grab his lighter from where he’d stuffed it back into his pocket. He holds it out, and Harry’s hand is dry and warm when he takes it; Danny was right. Warm.
“Thanks,” Harry says. Danny just nods and sits next to him. The sand clings to his feet and ankles and the back of his thighs, but he doesn’t care. It’s not often that he gets melancholy - there’s too much good in his life for that - but every once in awhile, after a hard day and a few too many beers, well. It’s not hard to guess. Danny pulls his legs up to chest, and tries to act like he’s not shivering. He’s not sure if Harry’s noticed yet. “Woke up and you were gone,” Harry says.
Danny shrugs, and thinks about having another cigarette. “Didn’t want to disturb anyone. You all looked so peaceful.” Harry snorts. Danny wants to kiss him, watching the smoke curl around his face, but he’s drunk, and wet, and they said they wouldn’t do that anymore. Danny turns his head so he can watch Harry ash his cigarette against the sand, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. Danny wishes he had another beer, but instead he grabs his shirt from the sand and wipes the worst of the water off of his chest. “Why’re you out here?” Harry asks, and Danny stares out over the water.
“Restless, I guess,” he says. It’s not the truth, precisely. It’s not a lie, either. A breeze blows past them, and a shudder runs down Danny’s spine. He should go inside and dry off, but Tom will fuss, and he’s not ready for that, yet.
“You’re an idiot,” Harry says, in that way where he sugarcoats nothing, where he’s a little angry and a little worried. Danny looks away.
“I do know how to swim, you know. I’m not that dumb,” Danny says, and there’s bitterness on his tongue. He knows, he knows he’s not the brightest bulb, but - he could do without the teasing, sometimes. He could.
“And now you can’t stop shivering,” Harry says. His voice is quieter, and when Danny glances over, he’s looking at the curve of Danny’s stomach, the way it trembles with the rest of him. Danny wants to push close and steal his warmth, get Harry’s shirt and pants wet with the ocean water still clinging to his skin. He wants to straddle Harry’s thighs so he can’t get away. Even with the world a bit hazy at the edges, it doesn’t sound quite like a good idea. He’s not certain whether he cares - he wants to push.
“Wanna warm me up, Romeo?” Danny says, and it doesn’t come out quite as biting as he means it to. Harry looks away, this time, and Danny sighs.
“Danny,” Harry starts, and trails off.
“I thought not.” He looks back out over the water, focusing on the feel of water droplets trickling down his back, collecting in the waistband of his boxers. This is why he’s surprised at Harry’s breath, humid against his cheek and smelling like smoke. Harry’s nose presses warm against the curve of his jaw, and Harry says,
“Fuck, Danny.” He says, “You’re so -” and he pushes Danny down against the sand, both hands firm and hot against the curve of Danny’s collarbones, his shoulders. Danny can feel the sand stick to his back, but he doesn’t care, because he looks up and Harry’s leaning over him, eyes dark in the night, lips slightly parted. “You’re so,” he tries again, but Danny lunges up and kisses him. He wraps one hand around the back of Harry’s neck, holding on, the warmth from Harry’s skin burning into his palm, and he tastes nicotine and salt, leftover Chinese food. He’s still shivering, trembling slightly, and he pulls away, pressing his forehead against the side of Harry’s neck.
“Why’d you stop? Why’d you want to?” he asks, voice muffled, and feels exposed, more naked than he already is.
“Didn’t want to,” Harry says, fingers slip-sliding down Danny’s chest until they’re pressed to his ribs - Danny can feel the pressure there when he breathes, ten spots of heat as his lungs expand. He feels trapped, and safe - held down, secured, and it’s not that he couldn’t get away if he wanted to, it’s that he doesn’t want to. “Is that - why the swim?”
“Bad day, it’s not -” Danny says, and he can taste Harry’s skin when he speaks, can feel Harry shiver at the feel of it. “Bad day.” He pulls back at bit, enough so that he can see Harry’s face. “I’m so fucking tired of being here.” There’s sand sticking to him all down his back and legs, and he’s still freezing, shaking with it, and Harry’s warm everywhere they’re pressed together. He doesn’t want to need this, but sometimes he does.
He kisses Harry again, then, and Harry presses one hand up his spine, sand harsh against his skin, probably leaving scratches. Danny want to curl up inside him, wants to steal his warmth and keep it, but instead he just slides both hands up the back of Harry’s t-shirt, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades, and Harry makes a soft noise against his mouth. Danny’s fingers fit perfectly, curled there, and he arches closer before he can think about it, the rush of the ocean in his ears, and hot skin under his palms. Harry tenses, and Danny thinks he’s going to pull away, and so he digs in deeper, says,
“Don’t make me stop, please.” Harry shakes his head, and leans back enough to pull his shirt over his head, letting it fall on top of Danny’s. Danny licks down the side of his neck, bites into the beat of his pulse and sucks - he wants to mark, he wants to have this tomorrow, he wants Harry to not deny it. Harry swallows, and Danny can feel it against his lips.
“Even your lips are cold,” Harry says, sucking in a gasp when Danny bites him again, when neck and shoulder meet.
“Warm me up,” Danny says, and doesn’t care how it sounds. “Take me home with you.”
“Okay,” Harry says, pressing two fingers under Danny’s chin, kissing him briefly, chastely, on the lips. “Okay.”