Big drabble!
Wrote this around five a.m. Got the idea sometime yesterday whilst eating potato chips. Have realized that my only notion of a chip shop comes from the movie Gregory's Girl. Body woke up after less than five hours of sleep, so cannot construct decent sentences. Also, just wrote first real slashy fic and it is DUDLEY...
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Dudley will never say that the boxing is not really about winning or bloodying another boy's face, but that moment of exhaustion, on the edge of consciousness, when opponents lean into each other just to remain standing, that clumsy, gloved hug, sweat and perhaps blood beading in drops along the curve of his lip and sliding into his mouth, intermingling with his saliva and turning it to salt.
In the summer, he goes home and holds Mark Evans up by his ankles and shakes the change out of his pockets, but it's not the same.
It's closer when he and Piers go down to the chip shop. It takes Dudley two minutes to finish off a bag of chips. He crumples the greasy bag and throws it into the road, and by the time Piers is done, they've reached the alley. Like boxing, this is a matter of timing.
And hidden behind the trash bins, Dudley sucks the salt and oil from Piers's hands, along the rough edges of bitten nails, the grooved flesh of fingers' joints. Piers's thumb curls into Dudley's mouth and is caught between his teeth, the faint thumbprint pressing its pattern against his tongue, and Dudley sucks and sucks until all the salt is gone.
Piers is pinned up against the wall until Dudley backs away. Their breath is heavy and they stare at each other, not knowing what this means, what to do next.
For Dudley, this is closer to boxing but not the same. Backwards. He pulls his arm back and his hand forms a fist and it flies into Piers's gut.
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P.S., stiletto, I got your e-mail. Will get it done in the next couple days! <3
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Dudley will never say that the boxing is not really about winning or bloodying another boy's face, but that moment of exhaustion, on the edge of consciousness, when opponents lean into each other just to remain standing, that clumsy, gloved hug, sweat and perhaps blood beading in drops along the curve of his lip and sliding into his mouth, intermingling with his saliva and turning it to salt.
In the summer, he goes home and holds Mark Evans up by his ankles and shakes the change out of his pockets, but it's not the same.
It's closer when he and Piers go down to the chip shop. It takes Dudley two minutes to finish off a bag of chips. He crumples the greasy bag and throws it into the road, and by the time Piers is done, they've reached the alley. Like boxing, this is a matter of timing.
And hidden behind the trash bins, Dudley sucks the salt and oil from Piers's hands, along the rough edges of bitten nails, the grooved flesh of fingers' joints. Piers's thumb curls into Dudley's mouth and is caught between his teeth, the faint thumbprint pressing its pattern against his tongue, and Dudley sucks and sucks until all the salt is gone.
Piers is pinned up against the wall until Dudley backs away. Their breath is heavy and they stare at each other, not knowing what this means, what to do next.
For Dudley, this is closer to boxing but not the same. Backwards. He pulls his arm back and his hand forms a fist and it flies into Piers's gut.
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P.S., stiletto, I got your e-mail. Will get it done in the next couple days! <3