Anderson/Keith - (NC-17) - (Part 1/2)
anonymous
February 9 2009, 20:37:06 UTC
I hope it's all right, sweetheart. :)
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Drinking was the only way that Anderson could seem to get close to Keith. God forbid that it be through a shared passion for the news or something more practical.
It was easier to go to foreign countries, terrain, villages, than it was to sit down, talk face to face with Keith Olbermann, which meant that he was in trouble. Not being able to take this man head-on, in the least lewd meaning of those words, meant that he was foolishly afraid of what might be rejection, being shot down before he had a chance to get closer and gather more facts.
It wasn’t as though Keith made it exceptionally easy, owning an ego the size of Manhattan, though he had never done anything bad with it, and hurting Bill O’Reilly’s feelings didn’t count. Anderson was certain that O’Reilly was in possession of some, in the deepest recesses of his possibly-existent soul.
It wasn’t as though Anderson couldn’t stand toe-to-toe with Keith. He, too, was tall, muscled, and in much better health, when all things were accounted for. He, too, did his news research, was handsome. But for the life of him, Olbermann was a different breed: loud, obnoxious (though skillfully so, as far as rating were concerned,) he liked drawing attention to himself, whereas Anderson could do without.
A restaurant was the perfect place for he and Keith to begin to meet off-camera, nestled safely with a few colleagues and dim lighting. Within a few weeks of regular life interspersed with casual drinking, they had begun to swap drinks, a little vodka in the place of wine and vice versa. It had been a little silly but irresistibly entertaining.
The drink combinations were right off the menu, but one drink might be too strong for the dinner that it accompanied or ridiculously “girly” for the man that was intended to drink it.
It had been a bit embarrassing, the looks they had gotten, when they’d been found out.
The next trip to the restaurant, he and Keith hadn’t swapped beverages.
The next trip to the restaurant had actually been to Keith’s apartment, where Anderson had discovered that beer still tasted like horse piss. He had tried, so help him. Anderson had been polite, drank the entire thing as they sat there, watching sports on an overly indulgent high-definition television.
Only to have Keith laugh at him, nearly slap him on the back - his hand had been so close, the smile right on the older man’s face, like he’d forgotten, for a moment, who had been sitting next to him, watching week-end sports late at night.
Anderson hadn’t meant to stay so late but had wanted to anyway, did. He wanted to blame what happened next on the alcohol, but he wouldn’t. Excuses never helped anyone.
And he wasn’t sure how sitting on the couch, watching sports, had become such a tiring activity, with the exception that he’d been bored half-to-death, to sleep. Keith, had, in all probability, tired himself out from yelling at the screen in victory.
Anderson woke to an ache in his leg and his back, his sleep-hazed brain telling him that he was sprawled out on Keith Olbermann’s couch, partially under a man that was using him as a pillow.
_____________________________
Drinking was the only way that Anderson could seem to get close to Keith. God forbid that it be through a shared passion for the news or something more practical.
It was easier to go to foreign countries, terrain, villages, than it was to sit down, talk face to face with Keith Olbermann, which meant that he was in trouble. Not being able to take this man head-on, in the least lewd meaning of those words, meant that he was foolishly afraid of what might be rejection, being shot down before he had a chance to get closer and gather more facts.
It wasn’t as though Keith made it exceptionally easy, owning an ego the size of Manhattan, though he had never done anything bad with it, and hurting Bill O’Reilly’s feelings didn’t count. Anderson was certain that O’Reilly was in possession of some, in the deepest recesses of his possibly-existent soul.
It wasn’t as though Anderson couldn’t stand toe-to-toe with Keith. He, too, was tall, muscled, and in much better health, when all things were accounted for. He, too, did his news research, was handsome. But for the life of him, Olbermann was a different breed: loud, obnoxious (though skillfully so, as far as rating were concerned,) he liked drawing attention to himself, whereas Anderson could do without.
A restaurant was the perfect place for he and Keith to begin to meet off-camera, nestled safely with a few colleagues and dim lighting. Within a few weeks of regular life interspersed with casual drinking, they had begun to swap drinks, a little vodka in the place of wine and vice versa. It had been a little silly but irresistibly entertaining.
The drink combinations were right off the menu, but one drink might be too strong for the dinner that it accompanied or ridiculously “girly” for the man that was intended to drink it.
It had been a bit embarrassing, the looks they had gotten, when they’d been found out.
The next trip to the restaurant, he and Keith hadn’t swapped beverages.
The next trip to the restaurant had actually been to Keith’s apartment, where Anderson had discovered that beer still tasted like horse piss. He had tried, so help him. Anderson had been polite, drank the entire thing as they sat there, watching sports on an overly indulgent high-definition television.
Only to have Keith laugh at him, nearly slap him on the back - his hand had been so close, the smile right on the older man’s face, like he’d forgotten, for a moment, who had been sitting next to him, watching week-end sports late at night.
Anderson hadn’t meant to stay so late but had wanted to anyway, did. He wanted to blame what happened next on the alcohol, but he wouldn’t. Excuses never helped anyone.
And he wasn’t sure how sitting on the couch, watching sports, had become such a tiring activity, with the exception that he’d been bored half-to-death, to sleep. Keith, had, in all probability, tired himself out from yelling at the screen in victory.
Anderson woke to an ache in his leg and his back, his sleep-hazed brain telling him that he was sprawled out on Keith Olbermann’s couch, partially under a man that was using him as a pillow.
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