Downward Spiral - Lost - Boone/Charlie
Title: Downward Spiral
Pairing: Boone/Charlie
Word Count: 3007
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Consent issues, mentions of drug abuse
A/N: For her day at the lostsquee Luau, janie_tangerine asked for anything Boone-related. This is an AU fic in which Boone was the drummer for DriveShaft.
Summary: Boone started drumming when he was thirteen, after Shannon had laughed and said there was no way he could do it.
"Charlie, your brother really is an idiot," Boone observes as they both sit watching as Liam tries - and, annoyingly, succeeds - at picking up girls with slurred-out pick-up lines.
If I could rearrange the alphabet I'd put U and I together.
It's the kind of thing that makes Boone hang his head in shame. Maybe what everyone says about singers getting all the action is true. As the drummer and the bassist, the attention is rarely focused on Boone or Charlie. Doesn't matter that a band isn't a band without a beat. Doesn't matter that DriveShaft wouldn't have any music to begin with if it wasn't for Charlie. All that matters, it would appear, is Liam's swagger, his grin, and his so-so voice.
Figures.
"You're telling me that?" Charlie snorts, picking at the label on the side of his empty beer bottle. Instead of coming off in one smooth motion it has ripped and is coming off in paper-thin lines that stick to Charlie's fingers. He doesn't look up: at this point, he doesn't even need to see Liam to know that he's being a prat. There are times, Boone thinks, when 'close' becomes 'too close'. Working, travelling and living with your sibling when you're in your twenties... That has to be enfringing on 'too close' territory. He's pretty certain that if he'd stayed near to Shannon for that long that she would have destroyed him by now. She would have eaten him up from the inside out and he would have smiled, willingly, while she did it. "Liam's a wanker. What's he doing now?"
"The usual," Boone answers, even though for Liam that could mean a whole host of things. "How do you put up with him?"
Charlie shrugs, glancing up from his bottle for only a moment. "He's my brother," he answers, before he hops off of the bar stool and leaves Boone's side. He's given himself the role of Liam's caretaker, always there to steer him out of trouble and to make sure he turns up for rehersals on time. Charlie doesn't seem like the younger brother at all, and there are times when Boone wishes that he and Charlie had been the set of siblings: screw Liam, screw Shannon, screw everybody. They could have been happy, growing up together. Boone would have liked Charlie to have grown up in the luxury that his family could have offered.
There are other times - times like right this second, when his eyes linger in places they shouldn't as he watches Charlie winding through the crowded bar - when the way he feels towards Charlie isn't brotherly, not at all: when what he would like to do most of all is to lead Charlie into his room and worship him slowly, in just the way that he deserves. Both of them would get something out of that, and some days Boone has to fight fucking hard to remind himself why screwing his bandmates would be a very, very bad idea.
He drags his attention away once Charlie reaches his brother, because the multi-faceted interactions of the Pace Brothers is something that lost its appeal a long while again. Turning back to the bar, Boone looks down at the pile of ripped label that Charlie has left behind. He's ready to smile brightly when he's approached by a tall, dark stranger: one night stands, he thinks, are emotionally a lot safer than anything more meaningful.
*
"You should stop hassling him like that," Boone says to Liam when they're parked in a petrol station, waiting for Charlie to come back from paying for their fuel and nipping in to the bathroom. "If it wasn't for Charlie we wouldn't even be here right now."
"Piss off, mate," Liam laughs, leaning back more thoroughly in his seat. His boot kicks the back of Boone's seat to make him jerk. "What are you, his bodyguard? He's my baby brother: he can take it."
"He shouldn't have to," Boone snaps, but it just makes Roderick and Liam laugh even more. God knows he loves them most of the time, but there's a whole heap of hate creeping in there at the same time. "Never mind."
Charlie comes outside a few moments later and hops behind the wheel once more: the two in the backseat are still H, and they don't stop even when Charlie glances over his shoulder at them. "What is it?" he asks.
"Your girlfriend's been standing up for you, Charlie," Liam says. He leans forward to reach through the front seats and clamp his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "If you've got a problem, grow some balls and say it yourself."
"Fuck you," Charlie grumbles good-naturedly. "If I've got a problem you'll know about it, alright?"
They fall easily into happy threats and debating who could beat the other up in a fight. Boone's legs are angled away from the rest of them, his body language defensive. He wants to tell Charlie that he doesn't need to put up with his brother's bullshit; but something tells him that Charlie would argue with him and say that they stick together, thick and thin. Boone doesn't understand it. He can't, not when the only experience he has with it is with Shannon, who wants nothing to do with him any more.
When they stop at a hotel for a night, he corners Charlie and tries to explain himself. "Listen, about what Liam was saying in the car..."
"Don't worry about it, mate," Charlie says, clapping a hand against his back. "Liam's a twat. You don't need to explain that to me, alright?"
Boone thinks that maybe he should: if he could loosen his tongue he could tell Charlie how he plans on taking him out of this mess one day. They can form a new band where their talents will actually be appreciated and they'll leave Liam in the dust with his girls and his drugs and his long, downward spiral.
I want to save you, Boone could whisper, and every word would be the truth.
Instead he twitches a smile like he doesn't really care. If he's a little harsher on the drums when they're on stage later that night, if he beats down hard enough that he feels the impact all through his arms, nobody asks him if there's anything wrong.
*
"Just screw him," Shannon tells him when he makes the mistake of confiding in her over the phone. "Get him out of your system."
"And that's what you would do, is it?"
Stupid question. This is Shannon. Of course it's what she would do.
She snorts laughter at him in a way that is far from ladylike. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Boone. Stop mooning around after this guy. Fuck him, get over him, get the hell out of that band, and get on with your life."
Get, get, get. He can feel a headache coming on.
"I'll think about it," he mutters.
It's a relief when he finally gets to put the phone down.
*
And, yeah, he does think about it. A lot. Near constantly. He's driven to distraction to the point that he isn't as on the ball as he should be when he's drumming, and he can't even enjoy spending time with Charlie as much as he usually would because he's so busy imagining what else they could be spending their time doing. It's not fair: he's not usually 'that guy'. Boone usually likes to pride himself on being better than that, above it all. He doesn't think with his prick, he respects woman as people not objects, and he's not just interested in sex.
No, really.
He's not.
But just try telling that particular fact to his cock. He doubts it'll be in any mood to listen.
It's getting to the point where he's just too far gone, where it's hardly worth sticking around. He could quit the band and move on to find something else, somewhere else, someone else. It would help him get his mind clear again, and maybe once he's away from Charlie he'll be able to start thinking objectively again.
His mind is made up, in fact, the time that they go on stage for the final time as a band - and he sits at the back, hidden behind his drum kit, and he watches as Liam steals Charlie's few seconds of limelight, stealing his one chorus. Damn it, Boone thinks. Charlie deserves that applause, that adoration. He deserves the world and yet Liam keeps on stealing it.
He spends over an hour after the show psyching himself up to go and tell Charlie that he can't do this any more; he can't sit here and watch as Charlie allows his brother to steam-roll over him again and again and again. "He's in there," Roderick tells him, hiking a thumb towards the dressing room. The faintly amused smile on the guitarist's face makes a spike of nerves shoot through Boone unbidden.
Inside the room, Charlie is sat in front of the brightly-lit mirrors. His head is hanging down so that he isn't looking at his reflection; Boone doesn't think that he's ever seen him looking so miserable. It makes his heart ache and his fist curl and the heat that rushes through him reminds him of why he's here. Can't do this any more. Can't be that guy any more.
"Charlie?" he asks. He barely recognises the sound of his own voice, hesitant and unsure. He doesn't usually sound like that, and after this he doesn't even want to do so again. Boone wants to be the kind of man that can make decisions and stay in charge no matter what. He wants to be like Liam, but he has the uncomfortable feeling that he falls into Charlie's push-over catagory far too often. Charlie raises his head to glance over his shoulder at him. It's the free, easy smile that pings onto his face that makes Boone's skin crawl as he realises why Roderick had been smiling like that. "What did you do?"
Charlie makes an open gesture with his hand. Boone doesn't even know what the hell that is supposed to mean. "Nah, nothing. Nothing - don't worry about it, Boone."
"Did you get into Liam's stash?" They've known. They've all known; the only person that has been kept in the dark has been Charlie, willfully ignorant. Now Liam has managed to pierce that veil and Boone has never - ever - wanted to punch anyone as much as he does now. He's usually a pacifist. "Christ, Charlie, how much did you take?"
"Just a little. Stop worrying. C'mon, stop worrying. Just - come over here, Boone. Please."
Charlie holds out his hand for him, waiting, and even though Boone ought to roll his eyes at him, utterly disgusted, he can't. He steps across the room and takes Charlie's hand, their palms sliding together. Charlie's hand is soft and his grip is gentle; it makes Boone's heart race, especially when Charlie is holding his gaze steadily. "You think I'm hot," Charlie states, more bluntly than Boone could have imagined.
He nearly snorts and chokes in reply. "What?" he squeaks.
"Liam says you think I'm hot." Charlie looks down at his hand, reaching up with his other hand to play with the rings on Boone's fingers. Boone can see the black, chipped colour of Charlie's nails, and the chunky DS ring that glints in the light. Charlie twirls Boone's ring around his finger, the metal sliding against his skin. "You'd let me sing, wouldn't you? I bet you'd let me sing the chorus." Charlie looks up, meeting his eyes again, and Boone can't speak. His mouth is dry: he nods, and that is all. "I thought so. You'd let me do anything I wanted to, wouldn't you?"
He pulls on Boone's hand, with an effect like pulling on a horse's reins. Boone follows, effortlessly. Charlie is still in his seat and with Boone standing he has to try not to think about the way that Charlie is looking up at him, his blond hair falling across his forehead.
"Works both ways, Boone. I'd do anything you wanted me to," Charlie says, and even if his pupils are blown and Boone knows that he isn't in his right mind he thinks that he'd like to give in. He'd like to give in. "Name it; just ask. Grow some stones and just ask." He's still holding onto Boone's hand, and now his thumb is stroking against the back of Boone's hand, tiny movements that edge from left to right.
"Charlie, I can't..." He wants to. He wants to, and it feels as if he's watching somebody else as his free hand reaches out to run through Charlie's hair. It feels so perfect, each strand the perfect length to hold onto and tug if he just had the courage to let himself do so. "You're not thinking clearly. This is messed up. This is really, really messed up."
"It's fine," Charlie murmurs. He finally lets go of Boone's hand and reaches out for his hips instead. When he guides Boone closer, between his spread legs. Once Boone is close enough he is able to nuzzle at his navel through the thin material of Boone's tight t-shirt. The moment that Boone feels the heat of Charlie's breath on his skin through the material is the exact moment that his self-control breaks. His hand slides to the back of Charlie's head, still buried in Charlie's hair, and with a soft, leading pressure he indicates exactly where he wants the attention of that mouth. "Yeah, it's all fine," Charlie repeats.
His hands reach between them to undo the button of Boone's tight jeans and to tug them wide open without pulling them down. He's greeted with the sight of Boone's briefs: the obstruction is enough to make him complain, a whimpering noise from the back of his throat. It's a sound that goes straight to Boone's already thickening cock; his hips jerk forward almost entirely of their own accord.
"Easy there, mate," Charlie laughs as if he's trying to tame a wild animal. His laughter continues, rumbling, through his body and into his shoulders where it finally fades away. This creature before Boone, open and amused and - apparently - horny, it isn't Boone's Charlie. It isn't the bandmate that he has grown dangerously attached to since the first day he auditioned. This is Charlie as he isn't; this is him with the stain of Liam's mistreatment shining in his eyes.
But Boone doesn't call it off and tell Charlie to stop. He allows Charlie to pull his stiffened cock out of his underwear for him and to run his hand thoughtfully along the length; he chokes back a desperate moan when Charlie's hot mouth swallows him inside; and he can't help but rock his hips back and forth, taking exactly what he's been imagining for months. He feels bad even as Charlie's mouth feels amazing. He feels like he's the bad guy, the villain, the enemy. Far from the hero that he'd always imagined being - far from the white knight he'd envisioned in his daydreams.
Charlie's hands steady his hips as he takes him in deeper, his blond head bobbing as he manages to unscrew Boone's sanity bit by bit. Boone bites down on his bottom lip as hard as he can to keep himself quiet, watching Charlie's face and his lips spread wide around his cock. He tries to clear his mind, just this once. It's too late to turn back now - and as his breathing begins to catch and stutter in his chest, he knows that he needs to enjoy this. It won't happen again.
He won't let it.
*
He's gone the following morning, feeling sick to his stomach with his knuckles aching from finally delivering that long-awaited punch to Liam's jaw.
Doesn't call. Doesn't look back. Never picks up a set of sticks again.
Boone returns to his mother because - really - that seems like it's the best thing to do. She's happy that he's got 'that nonsense' out of his system, and he shrugs and agrees with her. He puts it behind him; puts away childish things. From time to time Shannon will bring it up whenever they encounter each other, when she's lashing out with every scrap of ammunition that she can uncover. That's her trump card. She doesn't know exactly what happened there, but she's Shannon. She doesn't have to know the details in order to torture him with it.
Yet, besides a few ups and downs, the years slip by peacefully - until Boone is sitting in the cafe of an Australian airport when a certain grinning Brit plops down in the seat beside him.
"Boone sodding Carlyse," Charlie says. "I thought it was you."
He smiles in exactly the same way; his voice hasn't changed; and the way Boone's stomach does a giddy little flip is worse than ever.
"How the hell have you been, man? It's been years."
It's been a lifetime of changes for both of them, but Boone nonetheless keeps waiting for Charlie to bring up what he did. Hey, Boone, remember that time you took advantage of me when I was too high to object? he ought to say - but it doesn't come. Charlie doesn't yell at him at all, and Boone hates to think that maybe it's because he's so damn used to being walked over. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses now, even though they're indoors. Liam is nowhere in sight. Boone can't tell if that's a good or a bad sign.
In the end, it doesn't matter. They stick together, side-by-side; they miss their flight, too busy catching up and talking. It isn't until Boone sees the news reports about the missing Oceanic 815, when they are lazing around in his hotel room together, Charlie skittish, naked but smiling, that he realises that maybe he's finally done what he's been waiting all this time to do: he's inadvertantly got to be the hero. He's saved Charlie - they've saved each other.
Pairing: Boone/Charlie
Word Count: 3007
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Consent issues, mentions of drug abuse
A/N: For her day at the lostsquee Luau, janie_tangerine asked for anything Boone-related. This is an AU fic in which Boone was the drummer for DriveShaft.
Summary: Boone started drumming when he was thirteen, after Shannon had laughed and said there was no way he could do it.
"Charlie, your brother really is an idiot," Boone observes as they both sit watching as Liam tries - and, annoyingly, succeeds - at picking up girls with slurred-out pick-up lines.
If I could rearrange the alphabet I'd put U and I together.
It's the kind of thing that makes Boone hang his head in shame. Maybe what everyone says about singers getting all the action is true. As the drummer and the bassist, the attention is rarely focused on Boone or Charlie. Doesn't matter that a band isn't a band without a beat. Doesn't matter that DriveShaft wouldn't have any music to begin with if it wasn't for Charlie. All that matters, it would appear, is Liam's swagger, his grin, and his so-so voice.
Figures.
"You're telling me that?" Charlie snorts, picking at the label on the side of his empty beer bottle. Instead of coming off in one smooth motion it has ripped and is coming off in paper-thin lines that stick to Charlie's fingers. He doesn't look up: at this point, he doesn't even need to see Liam to know that he's being a prat. There are times, Boone thinks, when 'close' becomes 'too close'. Working, travelling and living with your sibling when you're in your twenties... That has to be enfringing on 'too close' territory. He's pretty certain that if he'd stayed near to Shannon for that long that she would have destroyed him by now. She would have eaten him up from the inside out and he would have smiled, willingly, while she did it. "Liam's a wanker. What's he doing now?"
"The usual," Boone answers, even though for Liam that could mean a whole host of things. "How do you put up with him?"
Charlie shrugs, glancing up from his bottle for only a moment. "He's my brother," he answers, before he hops off of the bar stool and leaves Boone's side. He's given himself the role of Liam's caretaker, always there to steer him out of trouble and to make sure he turns up for rehersals on time. Charlie doesn't seem like the younger brother at all, and there are times when Boone wishes that he and Charlie had been the set of siblings: screw Liam, screw Shannon, screw everybody. They could have been happy, growing up together. Boone would have liked Charlie to have grown up in the luxury that his family could have offered.
There are other times - times like right this second, when his eyes linger in places they shouldn't as he watches Charlie winding through the crowded bar - when the way he feels towards Charlie isn't brotherly, not at all: when what he would like to do most of all is to lead Charlie into his room and worship him slowly, in just the way that he deserves. Both of them would get something out of that, and some days Boone has to fight fucking hard to remind himself why screwing his bandmates would be a very, very bad idea.
He drags his attention away once Charlie reaches his brother, because the multi-faceted interactions of the Pace Brothers is something that lost its appeal a long while again. Turning back to the bar, Boone looks down at the pile of ripped label that Charlie has left behind. He's ready to smile brightly when he's approached by a tall, dark stranger: one night stands, he thinks, are emotionally a lot safer than anything more meaningful.
*
"You should stop hassling him like that," Boone says to Liam when they're parked in a petrol station, waiting for Charlie to come back from paying for their fuel and nipping in to the bathroom. "If it wasn't for Charlie we wouldn't even be here right now."
"Piss off, mate," Liam laughs, leaning back more thoroughly in his seat. His boot kicks the back of Boone's seat to make him jerk. "What are you, his bodyguard? He's my baby brother: he can take it."
"He shouldn't have to," Boone snaps, but it just makes Roderick and Liam laugh even more. God knows he loves them most of the time, but there's a whole heap of hate creeping in there at the same time. "Never mind."
Charlie comes outside a few moments later and hops behind the wheel once more: the two in the backseat are still H, and they don't stop even when Charlie glances over his shoulder at them. "What is it?" he asks.
"Your girlfriend's been standing up for you, Charlie," Liam says. He leans forward to reach through the front seats and clamp his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "If you've got a problem, grow some balls and say it yourself."
"Fuck you," Charlie grumbles good-naturedly. "If I've got a problem you'll know about it, alright?"
They fall easily into happy threats and debating who could beat the other up in a fight. Boone's legs are angled away from the rest of them, his body language defensive. He wants to tell Charlie that he doesn't need to put up with his brother's bullshit; but something tells him that Charlie would argue with him and say that they stick together, thick and thin. Boone doesn't understand it. He can't, not when the only experience he has with it is with Shannon, who wants nothing to do with him any more.
When they stop at a hotel for a night, he corners Charlie and tries to explain himself. "Listen, about what Liam was saying in the car..."
"Don't worry about it, mate," Charlie says, clapping a hand against his back. "Liam's a twat. You don't need to explain that to me, alright?"
Boone thinks that maybe he should: if he could loosen his tongue he could tell Charlie how he plans on taking him out of this mess one day. They can form a new band where their talents will actually be appreciated and they'll leave Liam in the dust with his girls and his drugs and his long, downward spiral.
I want to save you, Boone could whisper, and every word would be the truth.
Instead he twitches a smile like he doesn't really care. If he's a little harsher on the drums when they're on stage later that night, if he beats down hard enough that he feels the impact all through his arms, nobody asks him if there's anything wrong.
*
"Just screw him," Shannon tells him when he makes the mistake of confiding in her over the phone. "Get him out of your system."
"And that's what you would do, is it?"
Stupid question. This is Shannon. Of course it's what she would do.
She snorts laughter at him in a way that is far from ladylike. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Boone. Stop mooning around after this guy. Fuck him, get over him, get the hell out of that band, and get on with your life."
Get, get, get. He can feel a headache coming on.
"I'll think about it," he mutters.
It's a relief when he finally gets to put the phone down.
*
And, yeah, he does think about it. A lot. Near constantly. He's driven to distraction to the point that he isn't as on the ball as he should be when he's drumming, and he can't even enjoy spending time with Charlie as much as he usually would because he's so busy imagining what else they could be spending their time doing. It's not fair: he's not usually 'that guy'. Boone usually likes to pride himself on being better than that, above it all. He doesn't think with his prick, he respects woman as people not objects, and he's not just interested in sex.
No, really.
He's not.
But just try telling that particular fact to his cock. He doubts it'll be in any mood to listen.
It's getting to the point where he's just too far gone, where it's hardly worth sticking around. He could quit the band and move on to find something else, somewhere else, someone else. It would help him get his mind clear again, and maybe once he's away from Charlie he'll be able to start thinking objectively again.
His mind is made up, in fact, the time that they go on stage for the final time as a band - and he sits at the back, hidden behind his drum kit, and he watches as Liam steals Charlie's few seconds of limelight, stealing his one chorus. Damn it, Boone thinks. Charlie deserves that applause, that adoration. He deserves the world and yet Liam keeps on stealing it.
He spends over an hour after the show psyching himself up to go and tell Charlie that he can't do this any more; he can't sit here and watch as Charlie allows his brother to steam-roll over him again and again and again. "He's in there," Roderick tells him, hiking a thumb towards the dressing room. The faintly amused smile on the guitarist's face makes a spike of nerves shoot through Boone unbidden.
Inside the room, Charlie is sat in front of the brightly-lit mirrors. His head is hanging down so that he isn't looking at his reflection; Boone doesn't think that he's ever seen him looking so miserable. It makes his heart ache and his fist curl and the heat that rushes through him reminds him of why he's here. Can't do this any more. Can't be that guy any more.
"Charlie?" he asks. He barely recognises the sound of his own voice, hesitant and unsure. He doesn't usually sound like that, and after this he doesn't even want to do so again. Boone wants to be the kind of man that can make decisions and stay in charge no matter what. He wants to be like Liam, but he has the uncomfortable feeling that he falls into Charlie's push-over catagory far too often. Charlie raises his head to glance over his shoulder at him. It's the free, easy smile that pings onto his face that makes Boone's skin crawl as he realises why Roderick had been smiling like that. "What did you do?"
Charlie makes an open gesture with his hand. Boone doesn't even know what the hell that is supposed to mean. "Nah, nothing. Nothing - don't worry about it, Boone."
"Did you get into Liam's stash?" They've known. They've all known; the only person that has been kept in the dark has been Charlie, willfully ignorant. Now Liam has managed to pierce that veil and Boone has never - ever - wanted to punch anyone as much as he does now. He's usually a pacifist. "Christ, Charlie, how much did you take?"
"Just a little. Stop worrying. C'mon, stop worrying. Just - come over here, Boone. Please."
Charlie holds out his hand for him, waiting, and even though Boone ought to roll his eyes at him, utterly disgusted, he can't. He steps across the room and takes Charlie's hand, their palms sliding together. Charlie's hand is soft and his grip is gentle; it makes Boone's heart race, especially when Charlie is holding his gaze steadily. "You think I'm hot," Charlie states, more bluntly than Boone could have imagined.
He nearly snorts and chokes in reply. "What?" he squeaks.
"Liam says you think I'm hot." Charlie looks down at his hand, reaching up with his other hand to play with the rings on Boone's fingers. Boone can see the black, chipped colour of Charlie's nails, and the chunky DS ring that glints in the light. Charlie twirls Boone's ring around his finger, the metal sliding against his skin. "You'd let me sing, wouldn't you? I bet you'd let me sing the chorus." Charlie looks up, meeting his eyes again, and Boone can't speak. His mouth is dry: he nods, and that is all. "I thought so. You'd let me do anything I wanted to, wouldn't you?"
He pulls on Boone's hand, with an effect like pulling on a horse's reins. Boone follows, effortlessly. Charlie is still in his seat and with Boone standing he has to try not to think about the way that Charlie is looking up at him, his blond hair falling across his forehead.
"Works both ways, Boone. I'd do anything you wanted me to," Charlie says, and even if his pupils are blown and Boone knows that he isn't in his right mind he thinks that he'd like to give in. He'd like to give in. "Name it; just ask. Grow some stones and just ask." He's still holding onto Boone's hand, and now his thumb is stroking against the back of Boone's hand, tiny movements that edge from left to right.
"Charlie, I can't..." He wants to. He wants to, and it feels as if he's watching somebody else as his free hand reaches out to run through Charlie's hair. It feels so perfect, each strand the perfect length to hold onto and tug if he just had the courage to let himself do so. "You're not thinking clearly. This is messed up. This is really, really messed up."
"It's fine," Charlie murmurs. He finally lets go of Boone's hand and reaches out for his hips instead. When he guides Boone closer, between his spread legs. Once Boone is close enough he is able to nuzzle at his navel through the thin material of Boone's tight t-shirt. The moment that Boone feels the heat of Charlie's breath on his skin through the material is the exact moment that his self-control breaks. His hand slides to the back of Charlie's head, still buried in Charlie's hair, and with a soft, leading pressure he indicates exactly where he wants the attention of that mouth. "Yeah, it's all fine," Charlie repeats.
His hands reach between them to undo the button of Boone's tight jeans and to tug them wide open without pulling them down. He's greeted with the sight of Boone's briefs: the obstruction is enough to make him complain, a whimpering noise from the back of his throat. It's a sound that goes straight to Boone's already thickening cock; his hips jerk forward almost entirely of their own accord.
"Easy there, mate," Charlie laughs as if he's trying to tame a wild animal. His laughter continues, rumbling, through his body and into his shoulders where it finally fades away. This creature before Boone, open and amused and - apparently - horny, it isn't Boone's Charlie. It isn't the bandmate that he has grown dangerously attached to since the first day he auditioned. This is Charlie as he isn't; this is him with the stain of Liam's mistreatment shining in his eyes.
But Boone doesn't call it off and tell Charlie to stop. He allows Charlie to pull his stiffened cock out of his underwear for him and to run his hand thoughtfully along the length; he chokes back a desperate moan when Charlie's hot mouth swallows him inside; and he can't help but rock his hips back and forth, taking exactly what he's been imagining for months. He feels bad even as Charlie's mouth feels amazing. He feels like he's the bad guy, the villain, the enemy. Far from the hero that he'd always imagined being - far from the white knight he'd envisioned in his daydreams.
Charlie's hands steady his hips as he takes him in deeper, his blond head bobbing as he manages to unscrew Boone's sanity bit by bit. Boone bites down on his bottom lip as hard as he can to keep himself quiet, watching Charlie's face and his lips spread wide around his cock. He tries to clear his mind, just this once. It's too late to turn back now - and as his breathing begins to catch and stutter in his chest, he knows that he needs to enjoy this. It won't happen again.
He won't let it.
*
He's gone the following morning, feeling sick to his stomach with his knuckles aching from finally delivering that long-awaited punch to Liam's jaw.
Doesn't call. Doesn't look back. Never picks up a set of sticks again.
Boone returns to his mother because - really - that seems like it's the best thing to do. She's happy that he's got 'that nonsense' out of his system, and he shrugs and agrees with her. He puts it behind him; puts away childish things. From time to time Shannon will bring it up whenever they encounter each other, when she's lashing out with every scrap of ammunition that she can uncover. That's her trump card. She doesn't know exactly what happened there, but she's Shannon. She doesn't have to know the details in order to torture him with it.
Yet, besides a few ups and downs, the years slip by peacefully - until Boone is sitting in the cafe of an Australian airport when a certain grinning Brit plops down in the seat beside him.
"Boone sodding Carlyse," Charlie says. "I thought it was you."
He smiles in exactly the same way; his voice hasn't changed; and the way Boone's stomach does a giddy little flip is worse than ever.
"How the hell have you been, man? It's been years."
It's been a lifetime of changes for both of them, but Boone nonetheless keeps waiting for Charlie to bring up what he did. Hey, Boone, remember that time you took advantage of me when I was too high to object? he ought to say - but it doesn't come. Charlie doesn't yell at him at all, and Boone hates to think that maybe it's because he's so damn used to being walked over. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses now, even though they're indoors. Liam is nowhere in sight. Boone can't tell if that's a good or a bad sign.
In the end, it doesn't matter. They stick together, side-by-side; they miss their flight, too busy catching up and talking. It isn't until Boone sees the news reports about the missing Oceanic 815, when they are lazing around in his hotel room together, Charlie skittish, naked but smiling, that he realises that maybe he's finally done what he's been waiting all this time to do: he's inadvertantly got to be the hero. He's saved Charlie - they've saved each other.