(no subject)
Title: crash
Author: fairandfey
Rating: This part? Probably Pg-13, for language and...ah. Suggestive content?
Pairing: Rook/Thom
Summary: Rooks confronts his brother. Third part of the Motorbikes AU.
Note: Another cliffhanger of sorts. I'm sorry! But this thing seems to have grown a plot, and the next bit requires a Mssrs. Royston and Hal, both of whom are proving difficult to write.
Rook ends up driving home anyway. Either the shock’s sobered him up or his lady has a mind of her own, because Havemercy is steady under him as he speeds through the night-dark city streets. He nearly runs over an old lady a few blocks from the apartment. She curses at him, and he nearly loses control of the bike when he flips her the bird.
Thom walks home.
Any thought of avoiding Rook in the morning is instantly thwarted when he enters the kitchen, frayed hems of his pajama bottoms scuffing on the floor. Rook is leaning casually against the counter, a carton of milk in one hand, confident and sly as a predator in his natural habitat. Of course, he hasn’t got a hangover. Thom stifles a groan and watches as Rook downs the rest of the milk in one go, Adam’s apple bobbing.
Right then. So much for cereal. He edges past his brother to their creaky fridge and peers into a series of containers for something resembling breakfast. They may not have a real mother to hover over them, but they do have the guy upstairs with the weird eye, who calls them “my dears” just as much and keeps bringing them leftovers. There’s Italian sausage, which is practically breakfast food anyway, and someone’s eaten the rest of the cold pizza. He takes out the Tupperware container of sausage and a fork and sits down at their would-be wood kitchen table. He can feel Rook’s gaze on him, hears the crumpling of cardboard as Rook tightens his grip. There is a tense silence as Thom fiddles with his fork, head down, giving his food far more attention than it deserves. After all, any minute now-
“So you’re a cocksucker.”
Ah. There it is.
Thom doesn’t look up, cutting one of the sausages into tiny and tinier pieces. The lack of reaction only seems to make things worse, and Rook is fuming, he can sense it. The floorboards creak as he moves to stand behind Thom, hovering, his body heat against Thom’s back like a coat. “A faggot.” He says, low and fierce, and Thom swallows. Rook keeps talking. “Never mind telling your own fucking brother about it, neither, but you’ll blow some shitfaced stranger in the toilets ‘cause you’re drunk. Yeah, real, fucking classy, good to know that fucking education is doin’ something-“
“Shut the fuck up.”
Thom tells it to the table, hands clenching tight, jaw set. He can practically feel Rook’s indignation. He clears his throat. “Maybe I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be an asshole.” His brother is prowling, now, pacing like his anger is only so much energy. He stalks around to the other side of the table and plants his hands on its surface, glaring down at Thom.
And Thom, well, Thom has had enough. He’s sick of his brother and all his posturing and it is too damn early for this bullshit. He’s got a hangover and the beginnings of a stress-fueled breakdown. So he says, fuck it. He looks at Rook, looks him right in the eye as he reaches down and picks up a sausage he hasn’t touched yet. He brings it to his mouth, licks his lips, stares Rook down and begins to thoroughly enjoy his breakfast. Moaning low in satisfaction he slides it in, tastes, pulls it back out gleaming and obscene. There is grease on his fingers. Rook looks like he might actually explode. Thom, now having taken complete and total leave of his senses, winks.
Rook punches him in the face and runs out the door.
Well, Thom thinks to himself as he nurses a bloody nose and stares at the remains of his sausage on the floor, That could’ve gone better.