yuletide Fic: Take The Hand Of Any Man
Yay, yuletide reveal! Thank you SO MUCH again to Kittydesade, Daybreak, and Amberswansong for my three fabulous gift fics. They were the brightest part of my holiday. :-D
As for me, I wrote Drake and Josh fic again this year, this time for strippedhalo (and how fun to write for someone on my f-list this time around!). I'm posting this here for the sake of completeness; you can also read it on AO3 if you prefer.
Oh, and happy 7th LJ-versary to me! Seven years!! Holy crap. That's half my son's lifetime!
Title: Take The Hand Of Any Man
Fandom: Drake & Josh
Pairings: Drake/Josh, Drake/OMCs
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Drake finds a way to cope with Josh's absence.
Warnings: Slashy stepbrothers, adult language and concepts
Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to other people, and I'm playing with it without their permission.
Author's Note: Written for strippedhalo for yuletide 2009. Thanks to florahart for the quick beta. Crossposted.
The meeting at Spin City is running long. Drake glances at his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, but Nick either doesn't get the hint or doesn't care he's been droning on about something no one's interested in for the better part of half an hour. Although maybe it's just Drake who's not interested, come to think of it. He looks around the boardroom at the seven other people sitting there, his foot jiggling away madly under the table. They're all listening like there's going to be a quiz at the end of the meeting. Drake barely understands a word that's been said all afternoon. If Josh were here he'd be soaking it all in, nodding and throwing in the odd "Good idea, Nick" just like these other brown-nosers, and later he would translate Nick's gibberish into something Drake can understand. But Josh isn't here. That's the whole problem.
"Does that work for you, Drake?" Nick says, looking down the table at him, lacing his fingers together in front of him in that unflappably cool way Drake used to think was awesome but which he now finds annoying as shit. Drake's foot stops moving as though its plug had been pulled. Everyone in the room is staring at him, and he has no idea what Nick is talking about. "The production schedule," Nick prompts him a moment later, after Drake stares at him like he's grown another head. "Final cut ready by August, release in late September. That work for you?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," Drake says, and his foot starts twitching again. "August. September. Got it. No problem." It's a tight schedule, just four months away, and actually could be a problem, but at this point Drake would promise to fuck Mrs. Hayfer if it would just get this meeting over with. He's itchy all over, under the skin, a crawling prickle deep in his chest and down in his belly that's making it harder and harder to sit still. He swipes at his sweaty upper lip and starts tapping the tabletop with the fingertips of his other hand. "No problem," he says again.
"Great." Nick gathers up some papers from the table in front of him. "We'll be in touch, then. Ethan, I need you to look into -- "
"We done?" Drake is on his feet, one hand in his jacket pocket, palm already wrapped around his car keys. Nick nods in his direction without meeting his eye, and that's good enough. Drake grabs his guitar case. Nick's assistant tries to wave him over, but he ignores her and bolts for the door before she can ruin his getaway by calling his name.
***
The first time it happened had been the previous summer, a week before Josh went back to school. The temperatures had been over ninety for several days running, and their room felt like an oven. Even at night, with all the windows thrown open and both fans whirring at top speed, it felt hot enough to melt a cement block. They sat on the couch with their bare feet propped on the table, clad only in their shorts, the cushions around them damp and scratchy with their sweat.
"Leave it to Dad," Josh said, feebly waving one hand in front of his face, trying to entice what little air there was in the room to move his way, "to smash up the air conditioner with the lawn mower."
"What do you care?" Drake retorted. He was bored and irritable, ready to jump out of his skin but feeling like all his energy had boiled away into the sultry darkness. He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. "You're outta here in a few days."
Josh's hand stilled. "What's your problem?"
"Nothing."
"C'mon, what?"
"Nothing. Just shut up, okay?"
Josh looked at the TV. Drake wished he hadn't said anything, then hoped Josh would just leave it alone, but for once luck was not running his way. He could practically hear Josh's brain whirring as he pored over the possibilities. A commercial came on and Drake changed the channel, thankful for the distraction.
"Is it because I'm going away?" Josh said finally, his voice very soft.
"No."
"Is it?"
"Josh, you go away all the damn time. Why would that bother me?" He was amazed how easily the lie came to him, how sincere it sounded. He almost believed it himself.
"Not like this, I don't."
"Yeah, yeah. Mister junior year abroad, going all the way to Germany." He drew out the word "all" until he was sure Josh wouldn't miss the mockery. "Get over yourself. It's not like you're going to the moon or something."
Josh's hand moved like he was going to reach out and touch Drake's arm, but then it curled into a fist and dropped on to the couch. "I'll be back next summer."
"Whatever, man," Drake said, swallowing against the lump of misery rising in his throat. "You can stay there forever for all I care." He aimed the remote at the TV and clicked from one channel to the next without interest, not pausing long enough for the images flickering on the screen to register. He was looking for something, but didn't know what. He'd know when he found it.
"Wait," Josh said, "go back." Drake ignored him and kept clicking, holding his finger down on the button now so the channels cycled through faster. "Drake, go back!" Josh said, lunging for the remote, but Drake snatched it away. The picture came to rest on an old movie in black and white. It was like the heat had even bleached the color from the TV screen.
"Back off," Drake said, tossing the remote into his other hand and holding it out at arm's length. He shoved at Josh's bare chest with the palm of his hand as Josh tried to reach across him. It was like pushing against a brick wall. "I don't care if you saw Oprah, man. We're watching what I wanna watch tonight."
"It wasn't Oprah," Josh replied, straining forward and batting fruitlessly at Drake's hand just out of reach. "It was -- Come on, just gimme it!" The pungent odor of his damp skin filled Drake's head as their shoulders slipped past each other. Drake slumped back, extending his arm as far as he could while Josh continued to press in, fingers scrabbling at Drake's forearm, inching closer to his goal until they were sprawled chest to chest against the arm of the couch. Drake could feel Josh's chest expanding as he breathed, the rhythmic vibrations of his heartbeat. The circuit was complete.
The remote clattered to the floor and Drake's fingers were kneading deep into the muscles that flexed in Josh's back as he lifted his hands to cup the sides of Drake's face. The room grew hotter still as they moved against each other but now it was a different kind of heat, a fire stoked by raw need that had gone unacknowledged longer than Drake would ever admit to himself. Josh's mouth tasted of Mocha Cola and the chili they'd eaten for dinner. His cock was hard against Drake's thigh and felt smooth and blood-hot where it crossed Drake's palm. Josh wriggled to the side and shoved one hand down Drake's shorts, each breath a sharp, humid burst along Drake's collarbone until finally his breathing hitched and warmth spilled across Drake's fingers.
They fell asleep wrapped around each other on the couch, which was nothing new aside from the smell of sex in the air. Josh's weight was still pressing Drake into the cushions when the morning sun woke him a few hours later. They only had six days left.
***
The best thing about being in Los Angeles is nobody knows him here. Not yet, anyway. Someday he'll be famous enough that walking around in public won't be an option, even in a crappy part of town like this. But for now he's safely anonymous and that makes it easy.
The club he finally chooses is small and dark. The band is cranking out a terrible cover of an old Smashing Pumpkins tune with the bass turned so high it makes the bottom of Drake's glass skitter along the bar. Bad music pisses him off, but if things work out the way he hopes he won't have to listen to too much of it. The place is crowded and getting more so by the minute, and it never takes long for Drake to start attracting attention.
"Hey." A voice in his ear, a press of warmth against his back. "How's it going?"
There, that didn't take long at all. Drake glances over his shoulder. A guy with long blond hair and a thick pair of glasses is leaning on Drake's side, one elbow propped on the bar, gesturing at the bartender with a folded twenty between his fingers.
"Hey," Drake says, turning away. Nope. Not a bad-looking guy, all things considered, but he's not what Drake is looking for.
"Buy you a drink?" the guy asks.
Drake leans forward against the bar to break the contact between them. "Nah, I'm good," he replies. "Thanks anyway."
Mercifully, Blondie gets the message and doesn't press. "Yeah, okay," he says. His tone is a little clipped, but he's not going to be a jerk about it. "Take it easy."
Drake sips his drink and peers up at the TV suspended over the bar. A pink-haired guy with a nose ring is sitting just beneath it, and he smiles at Drake and cocks his head so his bangs slip down over eyes rimmed with purple eyeliner. A million girls have done that to him over the years, but the effect is wasted on him tonight. Drake grabs his glass and turns around, breaking eye contact before the "Yeah, I'm interested, why don't you come on over here and talk to me?" threshold is reached. It's close, but he makes it. Two strikes.
Despite the lousy music, the dance floor is full. Drake leans back against the bar, glass dangling casually from one hand, and looks around the room. The pickings are slim tonight. There are too many blonds in this place, way too many damn blonds. Also a surprising number of redheads. And since when have so many guys started sporting ponytails? Damn.
There's one possibility over by the door. He's got the right build across the shoulders and chest, but he's too short. There's another one under the Budweiser sign who's taller, but he's also got a beard. The only other one who might fit the bill sounds like an asthmatic donkey whenever he laughs. It's starting to look like Drake is wasting his time.
He sighs. The prickling in his chest is dissolving into the familiar hollow ache, the one born the day Josh said, "I told you, I'm done with you," and Drake realized what being alone really meant. It's a constant companion now Josh is gone. Most of the time he can work around it, even forget it for a few minutes if he picks up his guitar. But sometimes it hardens into a thick, painful knot in the center of his gut that's impossible to ignore, and he's found only one way to deal with it when it gets this bad.
The level of alcohol in his glass sinks lower and lower until finally the glass is empty. No point ordering another one, he thinks, setting it on the bar. Might as well go take a piss and try his luck in a different club. If worse comes to worst, he'll just head back to San Diego and spend a little quality time with his right hand. That should take the edge off enough to let him sleep, at least.
It feels like something is sticking to his shoe as he leaves the bathroom, wiping his hands on his jeans, and Drake's head is down as he tries to see his foot in the semi-darkness. He senses rather than sees the obstacle suddenly looming ahead of him in the narrow hallway, and he pulls up short, just before planting his face in the middle of the obstacle's chest.
"Sorry, dude," the obstacle says. The bathroom door opens behind Drake and the light washes across the face of a tall, dark-haired guy with heavily-lidded eyes. "I didn't see you there."
Drake takes a quick breath. "No problem," he replies, and it isn't a problem, not at all. They stare at each other for a moment that stretches on until it should start to feel uncomfortable, but somehow it never does. The door opens and closes a few more times, pinpointing a glint of gold on the guy's right earlobe that Drake has a sudden, overwhelming urge to lick.
"I, uh... I was just heading into the -- " Gold Earring gestures toward the bathroom door just as a rowdy bunch of rugby-player types push their way into the hallway behind him. They bulldoze past the two of them like they're paper cutouts, jostling them together, and with a startled "oof" Gold Earring stumbles forward and pins Drake against the wall. They're jammed against each other from belly to knee until the crowd squeezes past. The contact is enough to send the blood pounding into Drake's cock.
"Yeah," Drake says hoarsely, "go ahead." Gold Earring gives him a wordless nod and slides past him through the bathroom door, but his head is turned to keep his eyes on Drake until the door thumps shut between them. Drake leans against the wall in the dark hallway, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans, licking the dryness from his lips. He feels reckless and uneasy, the way he always does when this happens, but underneath is a little flicker of relief to warm his insides. Things will be okay soon. For a little while, anyway.
When the door opens again and Gold Earring steps out, Drake grabs his arm and pulls him in close. "I'm Drake," he says, and then his hands are sliding through the dark hair. The coarse feel of it between his fingers is both wonderfully familiar and horribly different; this isn't him, this isn't who Drake really wants, but he can't take it anymore and this as close as he's going to get. Drake nudges the post of the tiny earring with his pinky and buries his tongue in the warm, willing mouth, cutting off the conversation before Gold Earring can tell Drake his name and shatter the illusion completely.
***
Drake and Josh spent as much of the next week alone as they could, but finding the time wasn't easy. It seemed like everyone they had ever met wanted to see Josh before he left, and they ended up hopping from one goodbye party to the next. Worse still Mindy was around constantly, standing there between them every time Drake turned around, which was bad enough under normal circumstances and absolute agony now. Josh treated her the way he had always treated her, and did it so convincingly only Drake could tell his heart wasn't really in it. On the surface, everything was the same.
When the parties were over and Mindy had gone home, they would hardly get through the door to their bedroom before they were on one another, yanking each other's shirttails and tugging each other's belt buckles. Drake quickly learned to love the taste of Josh's cock, the way it felt in his mouth as Josh stroked his hair and murmured words of encouragement that grew less and less coherent until eventually he could no longer speak. He loved leaning back against Josh's chest with Josh's hands between his legs, one hand flying along the length of his cock and the other cradling his balls, whispering his name and urging him to "Come, c'mon, come for me" while Drake arched and writhed in his arms. He let Josh fuck him the night before he left, face down on Josh's bed with his ass in the air just hours before Josh boarded a plane to take him halfway around the world. He thought if he got as much of Josh as he could, as much of his lazy, seductive smile and soft gasps of pleasure, as much of his thick cock and strong arms and tight, flat belly as humanly possible, it would be easier to stand it when Josh was gone.
He was wrong.
***
Gold Earring goes down on Drake in the back seat of his car, kneeling in a pile of candy wrappers and crumpled soda cans, his dark head bobbing in Drake's lap. It's obviously not his first time doing this, and Drake can already feel the spark starting to ignite. Every once in a while the guy does this wicked little twist with his tip of his tongue that makes Drake's belly tighten and fuck, it feels amazing. The only problem is he keeps looking up to gauge Drake's reaction, and every time it happens Drake slips back down the hill a little. He doesn't want to see the guy's eyes. He just wants to feel his lips and tongue and rake his fingers through the thick black hair.
He closes his eyes and settles back more comfortably, trying to clear his head. If he tries really hard it will happen, just like it always does. His mind will become brilliantly clear, and he'll be able to forget he's in the back seat of his car getting blown by a complete stranger. He'll be a hundred miles away, back in his bedroom in San Diego with his cock down Josh's throat, Josh's stubbled chin rasping against his belly. Instead of leaning back on the cracked leather upholstery and smelling the diesel fumes of a passing truck, he'll be leaning on Mr. Puff Puff and catch the lemony scent of his favorite guitar polish on the air. Instead of the on-again, off-again pulses of light from a buzzing street lamp in the process of burning out, the room will be dark except for the moonlight shining weakly through the window over Josh's bed. No distant sirens or blaring car horns. The only sounds he'll hear will be Josh breathing heavily through his nose and his own soft moans, stifled as much as possible so no one passing their room can hear. And it'll be Josh's hair he tugs more and more sharply between his fingers as the spark roars into a flame, guiding his head to where everything feels best. His stepbrother, Josh. His best friend, Josh.
Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh.
This pathetic fantasy takes a while to bring off and only lasts a few seconds, but it's enough. When Drake finally gets there his orgasm rips through him like a rocket launch, bending him double over the guy's head, taking them both by surprise. Later he'll feel like a douchebag for not giving the dude any warning, but right now all he feels is wave after wave of blessed relief.
Gold Earring climbs up onto the seat next to Drake, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. He doesn't speak. Out of the corner of his eye Drake can see the guy looking at him as he tucks his dick back into his jeans, but he never makes a sound. It's like he knows Drake is far away and doesn't want to be dragged back down to earth just yet.
It's the same way would Josh react, if he were here. Drake kind of loves him for that. He kind of loves them all for a little while, until they say the wrong thing or move the wrong way or miss the punchline of an in-joke that would've had Josh on the floor if he'd heard it. That's what always kills it, in the end. None of them ever lasts more than an hour or two.
He hooks a finger behind the button of Gold Earring's jeans and jerks at it until it opens. "You now," he says, starting to slide off the seat, but Gold Earring shakes his head.
"Not here," he says, taking hold of Drake's hand and rubbing it along his zipper so Drake can feel the warmth of the hard bulge lying just beneath. He wants to pull his hand away, but Gold Earring is holding it down, tilting his hips so it slides over the faded denim. He smiles at the slack-jawed expression on Drake's face, perhaps mistaking it for awe. "I wanna fuck you," he whispers, crushing Drake's hand against his crotch so hard Drake is surprised it doesn't hurt. The mirage starts to blur at the edges. "Let's go someplace private."
***
After Josh left, Drake tried like hell to get his life back to normal. He hung out at The Premiere and practiced with his band, cruised the beach and picked up girls just like he always had, staying out late because he hated the echoing silence in their room in the absence of Josh's voice. When he did finally get home, he'd lie in bed with his face to the wall, trying not to think about what he and Josh had been doing together this time last week, two weeks ago, two months ago.
Some nights he managed to get to sleep without dwelling on it too long. Other nights he tossed for hours, turning every detail of their time together over in his mind, wondering what Josh was doing right now. When it got really bad, the only solution was to climb down from the loft and crawl into Josh's bed, on his back with his legs spread, blankets pulled up over his face so the smell of Josh's skin was all around him as he jacked off. Finally he gave up on the loft altogether and slept in Josh's bed every night, even after the last traces of his scent were long gone.
It didn't help any that his first CD wasn't selling well. The label encouraged Drake to play as many live gigs as he could to get some exposure, drum up some demand. The trouble was the guy Drake had hired to manage him until Josh got back sucked, and set him up to play in a series of shitty little dives all over southern California. Night after night, they would sit in traffic for three hours to play a twenty minute set for next to no money and sell maybe one CD, if they were lucky. The only upside was there were a lot of girls around, and they were all into musicians. Drake fucked a fair few of them, mostly for show. He knew the guys in his band expected it of him, but it felt wrong.
He started typing little Xs at the bottom of each day's calendar in his Blackberry to mark the passage of time. Soon he had a long string of them racked up behind him, but next summer still seemed as far out of reach as Josh himself did.
One night in late November, Drake's band played a beachside hole-in-the-wall in Encinitas. The crowd barely paid attention and the applause was sparse, but Drake was as indifferent to their reactions as they were to him. The club was overheated and it was hotter still under the lights, and Drake had that same itchy, wanting to leap out of his skin feeling he'd had on another hot night that now felt like a decade ago. When they finished the set he jumped off the stage and made a beeline for the bar. He flashed his fake I.D. at the bartender (a better one this time, with his real name on it, and hell, he was only a few months from being legal anyway), ordered a beer, and drank half of it in one go.
Through the crowd he could see a table of girls smiling in his direction. One of them ducked her head and turned to look at the others, who made a flurry of "Go for it" motions at her with their hands. A moment later she was on her feet and heading his way, an empty glass in one hand and a predatory smile on her face. The idea of trying to make conversation with her made Drake feel queasy. When the bartender returned with his change, he stuffed the bills in his pocket and scooted quickly around the side of the bar, heading toward the back of the room where it was dark and the crowd was thin. The only people there were a crowd of guys huddled around a pool table, leaning on their cues and making way too much noise. They'd be the perfect cover.
They cheered at each other as Drake walked past, and one of them extended a pitcher of beer toward another, filling his glass so quickly the foam slopped over the sides. The second guy jumped back as the foam splattered to the ground, shouting something about not wanting that shit all over his shoes, and in the space that cleared when he moved away Drake could see a dark-haired figure leaning over the pool table, carefully lining up a shot. He froze.
For a moment he was back at The Premiere, watching with poorly concealed excitement as Josh prepared to sink a shot that would net Drake yet another twenty bucks from a couple of suckers who'd underestimated them. The tip of the cue hit the ball with a little puff of chalk dust, and the subsequent crack of the balls hitting each other was so loud it made Drake jump. His mind reeled as the 7 ball ricocheted off the side of the table and plopped into the corner pocket on the other side.
Why didn't tell me he was coming home?
It only took about a minute before he realized he was being ridiculous. It wasn't Josh; it couldn't be. But damn. The guy could be Josh's twin. A little meatier in the biceps, maybe, his hair a little longer, his chin a little pointier, but it was definitely Josh's lopsided smile that lit the face when he straightened up. Seeing it again made Drake want to cry, though he wasn't sure if it was from happiness or want.
He edged closer to insinuate himself into the group, and was immediately recognized as "that guy from he band." When the Josh look-alike finished off his opponent and called for another, Drake slapped a handful of quarters down on the edge of the table to accept the challenge. Three hours and a few pitches of beer later he was leaning against the side of his car, the smell of the ocean thick in his nose as his new friend hungrily sucked his cock.
Once and done, he thought as he climbed into Josh's bed that night. Once and done. It had been fun, but it was an experience he wouldn't repeat. He fell asleep quickly, his body loose and relaxed as it hadn't been for ages, telling himself it would never happen again. It was a promise he was to make to himself over and over again in the months to come.
***
Drake pulls his car into place beside Gold Earring's and cuts the engine. They've driven for half an hour past nowhere to get to this run-down motel with a battered sign at the curb reading "LO HO RLY RAT S." The wind blows some dead leaves and scraps of newspaper across Drake's feet as he gets out of his car. A few other cars are scattered throughout the parking lot, but there's nobody else in sight. It looks like a set for a bad horror movie.
Gold Earring disappears behind a door marked "Office," then re-appears a few minutes later and beckons for Drake to follow him. The room he leads Drake to is dark and reeks of stale cigarette smoke. He flips the light switch next to the door and takes a look around, but gets only a quick glimpse of an ugly, tattered bedspread before Gold Earring flicks it down again and pushes him back against the door.
"You feel that?" Gold Earring whispers, pressing his erection against Drake's thigh. "I want you so bad." Then he's kissing Drake again, his hands shoved between Drake's ass and the door, squeezing hard and pulling Drake forward against him so the trapped heat of his cock flows through Drake's jeans. It's quiet enough in the dusty old motel that Drake can hear the noises being made in one of the neighboring rooms, a woman's cry, a man's answering groan, a loose headboard smacking against the wall with the cadence of a metronome. This dirty room with its peeling paint and smell of mold has probably seen a thousand anonymous fucks.
This isn't right. He doesn't want this. He never lets them fuck him. The only dick he's ever wanted in his ass belongs to Josh, and it's so apparent now that this isn't Josh, not even close, no matter how hard Drake had tried to convince himself. He squirms to get away, but Gold Earring's grip is so tight all the effort does is grind them together even harder. Drake's heart starts to pound as the fear rises in his chest. For all he knows, this guy could be an axe murderer. He could have brought Drake here to the middle of freaking nowhere so he can tie him to the bed and torture the bottom of his feet with a frayed electrical wire. He's not sure why it didn't occur to him earlier, but it's all he can think about now.
He manages to wrench his mouth free. "You got a rubber?" he manages, and the frottage against his leg stops short. It's a dangerous bluff, one that could easily backfire, but it's the only plan that leaps immediately to mind.
"No," Gold Earring pants in Drake's ear. "I wasn't planning on... Well anyway, you got any?"
"Sorry, man," Drake replies, and he's thankful he left his wallet with its supply of condoms locked in his car. He wouldn't put it past this guy to search him, if it came down to it. "I guess we can't --"
"No, wait." Gold Earring lets Drake go and takes a step back. "There's a gas station about a mile down the road. Did you see it on the way in? I've been here before, they've got one of those dispenser things in the bathroom."
"Oh. Oh, okay. I'll uh, I'll just head over there and get one, then," Drake says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of freedom.
Gold Earring leers in a way he probably considers sexy, but which makes Drake's stomach churn with disgust. "Get a few," he says quietly. "And a six-pack. We've got three hours."
"Sure, okay, whatever, sounds good." The words trip over each other as Drake twists the doorknob and jerks the door open behind him. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
The lights of the San Diego skyline have never looked so good to Drake as they do coming home that night.
***
When Josh comes home at the end of June it's just like when he left, but in reverse. They spend the first week going to a round of welcome home parties where they see the same faces, eat the same foods, and listen to the same music they did before he left, with the added bonus of Josh telling the same stories about his trip over and over again until Drake can recite them word for word. The only difference is there's no Mindy this time. She and Josh drifted apart while he was gone. Drake hears she's practically engaged to some other guy now. She hadn't been able to wait for Josh to come back home. She'd been too weak.
They approach each other cautiously on Josh's first night back. They've both changed since Josh has been gone. In some ways they are almost strangers to each other now, and Drake gave up on strangers wearing Josh's face a long time ago, after the disaster with Gold Earring. They take it slowly, exploring each other like it's their first time together, gentle kisses and caresses that evolve into something rough and needy as they begin to recognize each other again. There's no need to build the fantasy now; Josh is here, right here next to him, and nothing changes when Drake opens his eyes. The sights and tastes and sounds are actually happening again with no imagination required. Josh's hands are on Drake's body, his tongue is in Drake's mouth, his hair is between Drake's fingers, and Drake can't figure out how he'd ever thought he could find something of value in those pale, washed-out copies of Josh he'd tried so hard to build in his own mind.
Later, they lie spent in the tangle of Josh's sheets, curled in a sweat-soaked knot. Josh rubs his palm idly on the point of Drake's shoulder and pulls him in closer. "I want you to know," he croaks, then clears his throat. Drake stops tracing paths through the hair on Josh's belly and tilts his head back to study Josh's silhouette in the moonlight. "I want you to know, I wasn't with anybody else while I was gone."
Neither speaks for a long time. An airplane flies low over the house, making the windowpane above the bed rattle. Josh lifts his other hand and clears Drake's bangs out of his eyes. "What about you?" he asks softly. "Were you with anyone else?" His voice cracks again but it's a different kind of crack this time, not from lack of use but from fear.
"A few girls," Drake replies. He's not afraid to admit that much. He knows Josh will be expecting it, and anyway girls have never posed a serious threat between them.
"Yeah, okay." Josh stops stroking Drake's forehead and drops his hand down on the mattress. His arm grows tense across Drake's back. "What about... what about other guys? You been with any other guys?"
Their faces flash through Drake's mind, the dark eyes, the lazy smiles, the stubbled chins. He'd have never looked twice at any of them if he hadn't really been wanting Josh. Even though none had measured up in the cold light of day, for the moments Drake had spent with them they were the closest thing to Josh he could find on this side of the globe. That part of it was the only part that mattered.
Drake sits up slowly and slides one leg across Josh's body until he's straddling Josh's waist. "No," he says, lacing their fingers together on either side of Josh's head, and using his own weird brand of logic the answer is a truthful one. He can feel the tension flowing out of Josh's body as he leans in close for a kiss. "Just you."
Have a safe, happy, and prosperous 2010, everyone!
As for me, I wrote Drake and Josh fic again this year, this time for strippedhalo (and how fun to write for someone on my f-list this time around!). I'm posting this here for the sake of completeness; you can also read it on AO3 if you prefer.
Oh, and happy 7th LJ-versary to me! Seven years!! Holy crap. That's half my son's lifetime!
Title: Take The Hand Of Any Man
Fandom: Drake & Josh
Pairings: Drake/Josh, Drake/OMCs
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Drake finds a way to cope with Josh's absence.
Warnings: Slashy stepbrothers, adult language and concepts
Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to other people, and I'm playing with it without their permission.
Author's Note: Written for strippedhalo for yuletide 2009. Thanks to florahart for the quick beta. Crossposted.
The meeting at Spin City is running long. Drake glances at his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, but Nick either doesn't get the hint or doesn't care he's been droning on about something no one's interested in for the better part of half an hour. Although maybe it's just Drake who's not interested, come to think of it. He looks around the boardroom at the seven other people sitting there, his foot jiggling away madly under the table. They're all listening like there's going to be a quiz at the end of the meeting. Drake barely understands a word that's been said all afternoon. If Josh were here he'd be soaking it all in, nodding and throwing in the odd "Good idea, Nick" just like these other brown-nosers, and later he would translate Nick's gibberish into something Drake can understand. But Josh isn't here. That's the whole problem.
"Does that work for you, Drake?" Nick says, looking down the table at him, lacing his fingers together in front of him in that unflappably cool way Drake used to think was awesome but which he now finds annoying as shit. Drake's foot stops moving as though its plug had been pulled. Everyone in the room is staring at him, and he has no idea what Nick is talking about. "The production schedule," Nick prompts him a moment later, after Drake stares at him like he's grown another head. "Final cut ready by August, release in late September. That work for you?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," Drake says, and his foot starts twitching again. "August. September. Got it. No problem." It's a tight schedule, just four months away, and actually could be a problem, but at this point Drake would promise to fuck Mrs. Hayfer if it would just get this meeting over with. He's itchy all over, under the skin, a crawling prickle deep in his chest and down in his belly that's making it harder and harder to sit still. He swipes at his sweaty upper lip and starts tapping the tabletop with the fingertips of his other hand. "No problem," he says again.
"Great." Nick gathers up some papers from the table in front of him. "We'll be in touch, then. Ethan, I need you to look into -- "
"We done?" Drake is on his feet, one hand in his jacket pocket, palm already wrapped around his car keys. Nick nods in his direction without meeting his eye, and that's good enough. Drake grabs his guitar case. Nick's assistant tries to wave him over, but he ignores her and bolts for the door before she can ruin his getaway by calling his name.
***
The first time it happened had been the previous summer, a week before Josh went back to school. The temperatures had been over ninety for several days running, and their room felt like an oven. Even at night, with all the windows thrown open and both fans whirring at top speed, it felt hot enough to melt a cement block. They sat on the couch with their bare feet propped on the table, clad only in their shorts, the cushions around them damp and scratchy with their sweat.
"Leave it to Dad," Josh said, feebly waving one hand in front of his face, trying to entice what little air there was in the room to move his way, "to smash up the air conditioner with the lawn mower."
"What do you care?" Drake retorted. He was bored and irritable, ready to jump out of his skin but feeling like all his energy had boiled away into the sultry darkness. He couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. "You're outta here in a few days."
Josh's hand stilled. "What's your problem?"
"Nothing."
"C'mon, what?"
"Nothing. Just shut up, okay?"
Josh looked at the TV. Drake wished he hadn't said anything, then hoped Josh would just leave it alone, but for once luck was not running his way. He could practically hear Josh's brain whirring as he pored over the possibilities. A commercial came on and Drake changed the channel, thankful for the distraction.
"Is it because I'm going away?" Josh said finally, his voice very soft.
"No."
"Is it?"
"Josh, you go away all the damn time. Why would that bother me?" He was amazed how easily the lie came to him, how sincere it sounded. He almost believed it himself.
"Not like this, I don't."
"Yeah, yeah. Mister junior year abroad, going all the way to Germany." He drew out the word "all" until he was sure Josh wouldn't miss the mockery. "Get over yourself. It's not like you're going to the moon or something."
Josh's hand moved like he was going to reach out and touch Drake's arm, but then it curled into a fist and dropped on to the couch. "I'll be back next summer."
"Whatever, man," Drake said, swallowing against the lump of misery rising in his throat. "You can stay there forever for all I care." He aimed the remote at the TV and clicked from one channel to the next without interest, not pausing long enough for the images flickering on the screen to register. He was looking for something, but didn't know what. He'd know when he found it.
"Wait," Josh said, "go back." Drake ignored him and kept clicking, holding his finger down on the button now so the channels cycled through faster. "Drake, go back!" Josh said, lunging for the remote, but Drake snatched it away. The picture came to rest on an old movie in black and white. It was like the heat had even bleached the color from the TV screen.
"Back off," Drake said, tossing the remote into his other hand and holding it out at arm's length. He shoved at Josh's bare chest with the palm of his hand as Josh tried to reach across him. It was like pushing against a brick wall. "I don't care if you saw Oprah, man. We're watching what I wanna watch tonight."
"It wasn't Oprah," Josh replied, straining forward and batting fruitlessly at Drake's hand just out of reach. "It was -- Come on, just gimme it!" The pungent odor of his damp skin filled Drake's head as their shoulders slipped past each other. Drake slumped back, extending his arm as far as he could while Josh continued to press in, fingers scrabbling at Drake's forearm, inching closer to his goal until they were sprawled chest to chest against the arm of the couch. Drake could feel Josh's chest expanding as he breathed, the rhythmic vibrations of his heartbeat. The circuit was complete.
The remote clattered to the floor and Drake's fingers were kneading deep into the muscles that flexed in Josh's back as he lifted his hands to cup the sides of Drake's face. The room grew hotter still as they moved against each other but now it was a different kind of heat, a fire stoked by raw need that had gone unacknowledged longer than Drake would ever admit to himself. Josh's mouth tasted of Mocha Cola and the chili they'd eaten for dinner. His cock was hard against Drake's thigh and felt smooth and blood-hot where it crossed Drake's palm. Josh wriggled to the side and shoved one hand down Drake's shorts, each breath a sharp, humid burst along Drake's collarbone until finally his breathing hitched and warmth spilled across Drake's fingers.
They fell asleep wrapped around each other on the couch, which was nothing new aside from the smell of sex in the air. Josh's weight was still pressing Drake into the cushions when the morning sun woke him a few hours later. They only had six days left.
***
The best thing about being in Los Angeles is nobody knows him here. Not yet, anyway. Someday he'll be famous enough that walking around in public won't be an option, even in a crappy part of town like this. But for now he's safely anonymous and that makes it easy.
The club he finally chooses is small and dark. The band is cranking out a terrible cover of an old Smashing Pumpkins tune with the bass turned so high it makes the bottom of Drake's glass skitter along the bar. Bad music pisses him off, but if things work out the way he hopes he won't have to listen to too much of it. The place is crowded and getting more so by the minute, and it never takes long for Drake to start attracting attention.
"Hey." A voice in his ear, a press of warmth against his back. "How's it going?"
There, that didn't take long at all. Drake glances over his shoulder. A guy with long blond hair and a thick pair of glasses is leaning on Drake's side, one elbow propped on the bar, gesturing at the bartender with a folded twenty between his fingers.
"Hey," Drake says, turning away. Nope. Not a bad-looking guy, all things considered, but he's not what Drake is looking for.
"Buy you a drink?" the guy asks.
Drake leans forward against the bar to break the contact between them. "Nah, I'm good," he replies. "Thanks anyway."
Mercifully, Blondie gets the message and doesn't press. "Yeah, okay," he says. His tone is a little clipped, but he's not going to be a jerk about it. "Take it easy."
Drake sips his drink and peers up at the TV suspended over the bar. A pink-haired guy with a nose ring is sitting just beneath it, and he smiles at Drake and cocks his head so his bangs slip down over eyes rimmed with purple eyeliner. A million girls have done that to him over the years, but the effect is wasted on him tonight. Drake grabs his glass and turns around, breaking eye contact before the "Yeah, I'm interested, why don't you come on over here and talk to me?" threshold is reached. It's close, but he makes it. Two strikes.
Despite the lousy music, the dance floor is full. Drake leans back against the bar, glass dangling casually from one hand, and looks around the room. The pickings are slim tonight. There are too many blonds in this place, way too many damn blonds. Also a surprising number of redheads. And since when have so many guys started sporting ponytails? Damn.
There's one possibility over by the door. He's got the right build across the shoulders and chest, but he's too short. There's another one under the Budweiser sign who's taller, but he's also got a beard. The only other one who might fit the bill sounds like an asthmatic donkey whenever he laughs. It's starting to look like Drake is wasting his time.
He sighs. The prickling in his chest is dissolving into the familiar hollow ache, the one born the day Josh said, "I told you, I'm done with you," and Drake realized what being alone really meant. It's a constant companion now Josh is gone. Most of the time he can work around it, even forget it for a few minutes if he picks up his guitar. But sometimes it hardens into a thick, painful knot in the center of his gut that's impossible to ignore, and he's found only one way to deal with it when it gets this bad.
The level of alcohol in his glass sinks lower and lower until finally the glass is empty. No point ordering another one, he thinks, setting it on the bar. Might as well go take a piss and try his luck in a different club. If worse comes to worst, he'll just head back to San Diego and spend a little quality time with his right hand. That should take the edge off enough to let him sleep, at least.
It feels like something is sticking to his shoe as he leaves the bathroom, wiping his hands on his jeans, and Drake's head is down as he tries to see his foot in the semi-darkness. He senses rather than sees the obstacle suddenly looming ahead of him in the narrow hallway, and he pulls up short, just before planting his face in the middle of the obstacle's chest.
"Sorry, dude," the obstacle says. The bathroom door opens behind Drake and the light washes across the face of a tall, dark-haired guy with heavily-lidded eyes. "I didn't see you there."
Drake takes a quick breath. "No problem," he replies, and it isn't a problem, not at all. They stare at each other for a moment that stretches on until it should start to feel uncomfortable, but somehow it never does. The door opens and closes a few more times, pinpointing a glint of gold on the guy's right earlobe that Drake has a sudden, overwhelming urge to lick.
"I, uh... I was just heading into the -- " Gold Earring gestures toward the bathroom door just as a rowdy bunch of rugby-player types push their way into the hallway behind him. They bulldoze past the two of them like they're paper cutouts, jostling them together, and with a startled "oof" Gold Earring stumbles forward and pins Drake against the wall. They're jammed against each other from belly to knee until the crowd squeezes past. The contact is enough to send the blood pounding into Drake's cock.
"Yeah," Drake says hoarsely, "go ahead." Gold Earring gives him a wordless nod and slides past him through the bathroom door, but his head is turned to keep his eyes on Drake until the door thumps shut between them. Drake leans against the wall in the dark hallway, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans, licking the dryness from his lips. He feels reckless and uneasy, the way he always does when this happens, but underneath is a little flicker of relief to warm his insides. Things will be okay soon. For a little while, anyway.
When the door opens again and Gold Earring steps out, Drake grabs his arm and pulls him in close. "I'm Drake," he says, and then his hands are sliding through the dark hair. The coarse feel of it between his fingers is both wonderfully familiar and horribly different; this isn't him, this isn't who Drake really wants, but he can't take it anymore and this as close as he's going to get. Drake nudges the post of the tiny earring with his pinky and buries his tongue in the warm, willing mouth, cutting off the conversation before Gold Earring can tell Drake his name and shatter the illusion completely.
***
Drake and Josh spent as much of the next week alone as they could, but finding the time wasn't easy. It seemed like everyone they had ever met wanted to see Josh before he left, and they ended up hopping from one goodbye party to the next. Worse still Mindy was around constantly, standing there between them every time Drake turned around, which was bad enough under normal circumstances and absolute agony now. Josh treated her the way he had always treated her, and did it so convincingly only Drake could tell his heart wasn't really in it. On the surface, everything was the same.
When the parties were over and Mindy had gone home, they would hardly get through the door to their bedroom before they were on one another, yanking each other's shirttails and tugging each other's belt buckles. Drake quickly learned to love the taste of Josh's cock, the way it felt in his mouth as Josh stroked his hair and murmured words of encouragement that grew less and less coherent until eventually he could no longer speak. He loved leaning back against Josh's chest with Josh's hands between his legs, one hand flying along the length of his cock and the other cradling his balls, whispering his name and urging him to "Come, c'mon, come for me" while Drake arched and writhed in his arms. He let Josh fuck him the night before he left, face down on Josh's bed with his ass in the air just hours before Josh boarded a plane to take him halfway around the world. He thought if he got as much of Josh as he could, as much of his lazy, seductive smile and soft gasps of pleasure, as much of his thick cock and strong arms and tight, flat belly as humanly possible, it would be easier to stand it when Josh was gone.
He was wrong.
***
Gold Earring goes down on Drake in the back seat of his car, kneeling in a pile of candy wrappers and crumpled soda cans, his dark head bobbing in Drake's lap. It's obviously not his first time doing this, and Drake can already feel the spark starting to ignite. Every once in a while the guy does this wicked little twist with his tip of his tongue that makes Drake's belly tighten and fuck, it feels amazing. The only problem is he keeps looking up to gauge Drake's reaction, and every time it happens Drake slips back down the hill a little. He doesn't want to see the guy's eyes. He just wants to feel his lips and tongue and rake his fingers through the thick black hair.
He closes his eyes and settles back more comfortably, trying to clear his head. If he tries really hard it will happen, just like it always does. His mind will become brilliantly clear, and he'll be able to forget he's in the back seat of his car getting blown by a complete stranger. He'll be a hundred miles away, back in his bedroom in San Diego with his cock down Josh's throat, Josh's stubbled chin rasping against his belly. Instead of leaning back on the cracked leather upholstery and smelling the diesel fumes of a passing truck, he'll be leaning on Mr. Puff Puff and catch the lemony scent of his favorite guitar polish on the air. Instead of the on-again, off-again pulses of light from a buzzing street lamp in the process of burning out, the room will be dark except for the moonlight shining weakly through the window over Josh's bed. No distant sirens or blaring car horns. The only sounds he'll hear will be Josh breathing heavily through his nose and his own soft moans, stifled as much as possible so no one passing their room can hear. And it'll be Josh's hair he tugs more and more sharply between his fingers as the spark roars into a flame, guiding his head to where everything feels best. His stepbrother, Josh. His best friend, Josh.
Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh, Josh.
This pathetic fantasy takes a while to bring off and only lasts a few seconds, but it's enough. When Drake finally gets there his orgasm rips through him like a rocket launch, bending him double over the guy's head, taking them both by surprise. Later he'll feel like a douchebag for not giving the dude any warning, but right now all he feels is wave after wave of blessed relief.
Gold Earring climbs up onto the seat next to Drake, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. He doesn't speak. Out of the corner of his eye Drake can see the guy looking at him as he tucks his dick back into his jeans, but he never makes a sound. It's like he knows Drake is far away and doesn't want to be dragged back down to earth just yet.
It's the same way would Josh react, if he were here. Drake kind of loves him for that. He kind of loves them all for a little while, until they say the wrong thing or move the wrong way or miss the punchline of an in-joke that would've had Josh on the floor if he'd heard it. That's what always kills it, in the end. None of them ever lasts more than an hour or two.
He hooks a finger behind the button of Gold Earring's jeans and jerks at it until it opens. "You now," he says, starting to slide off the seat, but Gold Earring shakes his head.
"Not here," he says, taking hold of Drake's hand and rubbing it along his zipper so Drake can feel the warmth of the hard bulge lying just beneath. He wants to pull his hand away, but Gold Earring is holding it down, tilting his hips so it slides over the faded denim. He smiles at the slack-jawed expression on Drake's face, perhaps mistaking it for awe. "I wanna fuck you," he whispers, crushing Drake's hand against his crotch so hard Drake is surprised it doesn't hurt. The mirage starts to blur at the edges. "Let's go someplace private."
***
After Josh left, Drake tried like hell to get his life back to normal. He hung out at The Premiere and practiced with his band, cruised the beach and picked up girls just like he always had, staying out late because he hated the echoing silence in their room in the absence of Josh's voice. When he did finally get home, he'd lie in bed with his face to the wall, trying not to think about what he and Josh had been doing together this time last week, two weeks ago, two months ago.
Some nights he managed to get to sleep without dwelling on it too long. Other nights he tossed for hours, turning every detail of their time together over in his mind, wondering what Josh was doing right now. When it got really bad, the only solution was to climb down from the loft and crawl into Josh's bed, on his back with his legs spread, blankets pulled up over his face so the smell of Josh's skin was all around him as he jacked off. Finally he gave up on the loft altogether and slept in Josh's bed every night, even after the last traces of his scent were long gone.
It didn't help any that his first CD wasn't selling well. The label encouraged Drake to play as many live gigs as he could to get some exposure, drum up some demand. The trouble was the guy Drake had hired to manage him until Josh got back sucked, and set him up to play in a series of shitty little dives all over southern California. Night after night, they would sit in traffic for three hours to play a twenty minute set for next to no money and sell maybe one CD, if they were lucky. The only upside was there were a lot of girls around, and they were all into musicians. Drake fucked a fair few of them, mostly for show. He knew the guys in his band expected it of him, but it felt wrong.
He started typing little Xs at the bottom of each day's calendar in his Blackberry to mark the passage of time. Soon he had a long string of them racked up behind him, but next summer still seemed as far out of reach as Josh himself did.
One night in late November, Drake's band played a beachside hole-in-the-wall in Encinitas. The crowd barely paid attention and the applause was sparse, but Drake was as indifferent to their reactions as they were to him. The club was overheated and it was hotter still under the lights, and Drake had that same itchy, wanting to leap out of his skin feeling he'd had on another hot night that now felt like a decade ago. When they finished the set he jumped off the stage and made a beeline for the bar. He flashed his fake I.D. at the bartender (a better one this time, with his real name on it, and hell, he was only a few months from being legal anyway), ordered a beer, and drank half of it in one go.
Through the crowd he could see a table of girls smiling in his direction. One of them ducked her head and turned to look at the others, who made a flurry of "Go for it" motions at her with their hands. A moment later she was on her feet and heading his way, an empty glass in one hand and a predatory smile on her face. The idea of trying to make conversation with her made Drake feel queasy. When the bartender returned with his change, he stuffed the bills in his pocket and scooted quickly around the side of the bar, heading toward the back of the room where it was dark and the crowd was thin. The only people there were a crowd of guys huddled around a pool table, leaning on their cues and making way too much noise. They'd be the perfect cover.
They cheered at each other as Drake walked past, and one of them extended a pitcher of beer toward another, filling his glass so quickly the foam slopped over the sides. The second guy jumped back as the foam splattered to the ground, shouting something about not wanting that shit all over his shoes, and in the space that cleared when he moved away Drake could see a dark-haired figure leaning over the pool table, carefully lining up a shot. He froze.
For a moment he was back at The Premiere, watching with poorly concealed excitement as Josh prepared to sink a shot that would net Drake yet another twenty bucks from a couple of suckers who'd underestimated them. The tip of the cue hit the ball with a little puff of chalk dust, and the subsequent crack of the balls hitting each other was so loud it made Drake jump. His mind reeled as the 7 ball ricocheted off the side of the table and plopped into the corner pocket on the other side.
Why didn't tell me he was coming home?
It only took about a minute before he realized he was being ridiculous. It wasn't Josh; it couldn't be. But damn. The guy could be Josh's twin. A little meatier in the biceps, maybe, his hair a little longer, his chin a little pointier, but it was definitely Josh's lopsided smile that lit the face when he straightened up. Seeing it again made Drake want to cry, though he wasn't sure if it was from happiness or want.
He edged closer to insinuate himself into the group, and was immediately recognized as "that guy from he band." When the Josh look-alike finished off his opponent and called for another, Drake slapped a handful of quarters down on the edge of the table to accept the challenge. Three hours and a few pitches of beer later he was leaning against the side of his car, the smell of the ocean thick in his nose as his new friend hungrily sucked his cock.
Once and done, he thought as he climbed into Josh's bed that night. Once and done. It had been fun, but it was an experience he wouldn't repeat. He fell asleep quickly, his body loose and relaxed as it hadn't been for ages, telling himself it would never happen again. It was a promise he was to make to himself over and over again in the months to come.
***
Drake pulls his car into place beside Gold Earring's and cuts the engine. They've driven for half an hour past nowhere to get to this run-down motel with a battered sign at the curb reading "LO HO RLY RAT S." The wind blows some dead leaves and scraps of newspaper across Drake's feet as he gets out of his car. A few other cars are scattered throughout the parking lot, but there's nobody else in sight. It looks like a set for a bad horror movie.
Gold Earring disappears behind a door marked "Office," then re-appears a few minutes later and beckons for Drake to follow him. The room he leads Drake to is dark and reeks of stale cigarette smoke. He flips the light switch next to the door and takes a look around, but gets only a quick glimpse of an ugly, tattered bedspread before Gold Earring flicks it down again and pushes him back against the door.
"You feel that?" Gold Earring whispers, pressing his erection against Drake's thigh. "I want you so bad." Then he's kissing Drake again, his hands shoved between Drake's ass and the door, squeezing hard and pulling Drake forward against him so the trapped heat of his cock flows through Drake's jeans. It's quiet enough in the dusty old motel that Drake can hear the noises being made in one of the neighboring rooms, a woman's cry, a man's answering groan, a loose headboard smacking against the wall with the cadence of a metronome. This dirty room with its peeling paint and smell of mold has probably seen a thousand anonymous fucks.
This isn't right. He doesn't want this. He never lets them fuck him. The only dick he's ever wanted in his ass belongs to Josh, and it's so apparent now that this isn't Josh, not even close, no matter how hard Drake had tried to convince himself. He squirms to get away, but Gold Earring's grip is so tight all the effort does is grind them together even harder. Drake's heart starts to pound as the fear rises in his chest. For all he knows, this guy could be an axe murderer. He could have brought Drake here to the middle of freaking nowhere so he can tie him to the bed and torture the bottom of his feet with a frayed electrical wire. He's not sure why it didn't occur to him earlier, but it's all he can think about now.
He manages to wrench his mouth free. "You got a rubber?" he manages, and the frottage against his leg stops short. It's a dangerous bluff, one that could easily backfire, but it's the only plan that leaps immediately to mind.
"No," Gold Earring pants in Drake's ear. "I wasn't planning on... Well anyway, you got any?"
"Sorry, man," Drake replies, and he's thankful he left his wallet with its supply of condoms locked in his car. He wouldn't put it past this guy to search him, if it came down to it. "I guess we can't --"
"No, wait." Gold Earring lets Drake go and takes a step back. "There's a gas station about a mile down the road. Did you see it on the way in? I've been here before, they've got one of those dispenser things in the bathroom."
"Oh. Oh, okay. I'll uh, I'll just head over there and get one, then," Drake says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of freedom.
Gold Earring leers in a way he probably considers sexy, but which makes Drake's stomach churn with disgust. "Get a few," he says quietly. "And a six-pack. We've got three hours."
"Sure, okay, whatever, sounds good." The words trip over each other as Drake twists the doorknob and jerks the door open behind him. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
The lights of the San Diego skyline have never looked so good to Drake as they do coming home that night.
***
When Josh comes home at the end of June it's just like when he left, but in reverse. They spend the first week going to a round of welcome home parties where they see the same faces, eat the same foods, and listen to the same music they did before he left, with the added bonus of Josh telling the same stories about his trip over and over again until Drake can recite them word for word. The only difference is there's no Mindy this time. She and Josh drifted apart while he was gone. Drake hears she's practically engaged to some other guy now. She hadn't been able to wait for Josh to come back home. She'd been too weak.
They approach each other cautiously on Josh's first night back. They've both changed since Josh has been gone. In some ways they are almost strangers to each other now, and Drake gave up on strangers wearing Josh's face a long time ago, after the disaster with Gold Earring. They take it slowly, exploring each other like it's their first time together, gentle kisses and caresses that evolve into something rough and needy as they begin to recognize each other again. There's no need to build the fantasy now; Josh is here, right here next to him, and nothing changes when Drake opens his eyes. The sights and tastes and sounds are actually happening again with no imagination required. Josh's hands are on Drake's body, his tongue is in Drake's mouth, his hair is between Drake's fingers, and Drake can't figure out how he'd ever thought he could find something of value in those pale, washed-out copies of Josh he'd tried so hard to build in his own mind.
Later, they lie spent in the tangle of Josh's sheets, curled in a sweat-soaked knot. Josh rubs his palm idly on the point of Drake's shoulder and pulls him in closer. "I want you to know," he croaks, then clears his throat. Drake stops tracing paths through the hair on Josh's belly and tilts his head back to study Josh's silhouette in the moonlight. "I want you to know, I wasn't with anybody else while I was gone."
Neither speaks for a long time. An airplane flies low over the house, making the windowpane above the bed rattle. Josh lifts his other hand and clears Drake's bangs out of his eyes. "What about you?" he asks softly. "Were you with anyone else?" His voice cracks again but it's a different kind of crack this time, not from lack of use but from fear.
"A few girls," Drake replies. He's not afraid to admit that much. He knows Josh will be expecting it, and anyway girls have never posed a serious threat between them.
"Yeah, okay." Josh stops stroking Drake's forehead and drops his hand down on the mattress. His arm grows tense across Drake's back. "What about... what about other guys? You been with any other guys?"
Their faces flash through Drake's mind, the dark eyes, the lazy smiles, the stubbled chins. He'd have never looked twice at any of them if he hadn't really been wanting Josh. Even though none had measured up in the cold light of day, for the moments Drake had spent with them they were the closest thing to Josh he could find on this side of the globe. That part of it was the only part that mattered.
Drake sits up slowly and slides one leg across Josh's body until he's straddling Josh's waist. "No," he says, lacing their fingers together on either side of Josh's head, and using his own weird brand of logic the answer is a truthful one. He can feel the tension flowing out of Josh's body as he leans in close for a kiss. "Just you."
Have a safe, happy, and prosperous 2010, everyone!