Bradley/Colin: It Feels Like the End of the World (with you)
Title | It Feels Like the End of the World (with you)
Pairing | Bradley/Colin
Rating | R
Word Count | 4,073
Summary | All Colin wants is a quiet night in with a big bed, a big TV and a big bottle of whiskey to keep him company. When Bradley turns up however, Colin's evening becomes decidedly less quiet.
Notes | So this is the least Christmassy fic ever but it was written for my dear viennajones as a little Xmas gift and we're both complete angst whores, so it just had to be a bit achey. You have been such a wonderful friend this year sweetie and I wish for nothing but incredible things in 2012 for you ♥ A huge hug to baratheons who did a fabulous speedy beta job on this *squishes*
Also available on AO3
Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and enjoys this little thing!
-*-
After all the lights and the weather issues and the blasted four hours in make-up and the two hours to get out of it, Colin’s had just about enough.
‘Fuck off’, he thinks, ‘just fuck off’. He doesn’t say it though; because he’s Colin. So just smiles like he means it, like he has for the last twelve hours and tries not to think about the ache in his legs, and the sweat pooling at the base of his spine, cold and sticky now.
He loses track of time, and when he’s finally showered and back at the hotel and (thank Christ) eaten something, everyone else seems to be way ahead of him. He lost Bradley sometime in costume and now he’s too tired to join in anything that might be going down, even if it is a Friday. He’s tired and emotionally pushed to the brink and his back feels like the seven hours spent playing Emrys have left him permanently crippled. All he wants is a quiet night in.
“Tell me about it in the morning,” he says to the others. He laughs and rolls his eyes and plays the old man card as many times as it takes until they head out into the French town without him.
The silence is bliss. Big bed, big TV, big beautiful bottle of Balvenie; the kind that studying in Scotland had acquired his tongue to. The city sparkles through the glass; sky full of streetlamp glow and headlights sweeping past the hotel. He settles down on the bed, splashes whiskey into a glass, flicks on the TV and pushes his head back into the plush, downy pillows.
Two hundred channels on this French cable TV and he’s sure he won’t find a single thing worth watching on any of them. His theory is proved right all the way to 57 (Canal+ Sport), with a brief pause at 49 (Arte), when there’s a soft knock on the door. It’s a room service kind of knock, cautious and polite, and he’s already said “come in” before he remembers that he hasn’t ordered anything.
It isn’t room service; it’s Bradley. Standing in the doorway in a black button-down shirt and dark jeans, bare feet on the hallway carpet, he raises his eyebrows at Colin before taking an unsure step forward.
Colin sits up a little taller, grins as brightly as he can, because he’s just realised what his little night in was missing. He’s never too tired or too angry for Bradley; because that’s one smile he never has to fake.
“Wanna watch some French documentary on bee-keeping?”
Bradley’s face doesn’t change. “Well, I was going to go out…but when you say it like that.” He lets himself in and shuts the door behind him, and Colin knows that Bradley was going out right up to the point he found out Colin wasn’t. He watches Bradley walk over to the bed, a little stiff, a little taut in the shoulders - Andreas has worked him hard today - but warm eyes are smiling down at him like none of that matters.
“Shift, then.”
Colin shuffles over across the duvet, makes enough room for Bradley to hop up on the bed beside him and settle down, leaning over to pour another glass of Balvenie. He scoops it up and, careful now, hands it to Bradley. No need to ask. Routine. Old friends, side by side, as it should be.
“You ok?” Bradley asks.
He thinks about it for a second, then nods and shrugs, because there isn’t the time, there really isn’t. Because never having to explain anything to Bradley is part of the package; he already understands.
Colin looks away at the screen and flicks through the channels. Charlie Chaplin, Sky News, some half naked bird with a koala clamped to her breast, football, war flick.
“Hey.” The remote is snatched out of his hand and Bradley’s switching back to the koala woman, fascinated.
He turns to look at Bradley, half irritated, half amused. “Ginger!”
Bradley snorts. “Only you, Morgan, would view ‘ginger’ as the most cutting of insults.”
Colin’s hand catches Bradley square in the chest and he jumps. They’re both laughing now, and there’s whiskey, cold and wet, sharp on his face. Bradley’s smug grin is temporarily wiped clean, face pushed down flat against the pillows. The glass hits the floor beside the bed with a mercilessly solid thud and they come up fighting, Bradley snatching at Colin’s t-shirt, that infuriating smile taunting and teasing.
Colin’s free hand grabs for the remote and clutches it up close to his chest, other arm extended, holding Bradley at bay; both of them out of breath.
Bradley settles back against the headboard, trying to look conciliatory. His eyes are wide and innocent, cheeks flushed, and Colin has to look away because if he doesn’t he’s going to say something stupid, something he will regret.
“You spilt my drink,” says Bradley.
“And?” Colin leans over, stretches down for the glass tucked in under the bed, barely touching Bradley underneath him. He’s trying not to, because sometimes having some of what you want is far far worse than having none and he should fucking know that, if he’s learnt nothing else in the past five years.
Koala woman is holding something else now, some sort of weird ass bear thing. Wombat, he thinks abstractedly, turning away to find the bottle of whiskey, t-shirt damp and clingy, the smell of Balvenie strong around him, clearing his head. Now would be a really good time to think about the rules, because the rules are all about this kind of thing. About how Bradley isn’t actually his, isn’t who he should be having these thoughts about, and dreams, and fucking fantasies.
“You’re wet.” Bradley’s voice sounds behind him, matter of fact, and Colin looks down at the bottle on the bedside table and fumbles awkwardly with the cap, because he isn’t ready to turn back around just yet. Because he can’t make his eyes lie that much. Not to Bradley. Because knowing the rules isn’t the same as being able to play by them. Not yet.
He stops breathing, stops thinking because there’s a finger running soft through the wet splash of whiskey on his cheek, cold alcohol burn and warm dry skin, rough slide against the bone. He leans into the pressure, flesh prickling.
The lightest touch rests on his cheek and he’s trying so hard, so fucking hard not to freeze. ‘Breathe’, he thinks, ‘breathe’. Doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t want to do anything, because this could so easily, so fucking easily be it. The end: Game over.
One finger runs up against the line of his jaw, slow and lazy and lovely; tracing the line of everything he’s wanted for such a long time now.
All he really wants to say is, finally.
Bradley's finger follows around to press along the curve of Colin's bottom lip and it’s all he can do to stay still, to keep his eyes down and his mouth quiet and his hands from shaking like he’s some seventeen-year-old schoolgirl. The whiskey on his lips is warm and heady and Bradley tastes like he smells, and that’s good. That’s very good.
Colin's mouth moves around that gentle finger, slowly, questioningly, tongue touching fingertip, all wrong and strange but so much right. And the point where he could have laughed and twisted away, made a joke and kept it all together, vanishes right there.
So he closes his eyes on the soft grey hotel carpet; runs his tongue slowly along the underside of Bradley's finger, cautious, careful; lets his lips slide and remembers and remembers because whatever happens now he has had this and if this is all he ever gets then he’s not ever going to forget it. Ever.
His neck arches forward, and he thinks of all those days he’s watched and waited. Bradley’s finger moving in his mouth, Bradley’s breath gentle at the base of his hair. He takes that finger between his teeth, presses down just a little, just enough to hear the breathing behind him catch and snag. ‘I have never wanted anything this much,’ Colin thinks.
Then there’s a hand, firm against his chin, holding his face, palm against his jawbone, turning his head around, away from the teasing finger, towards Bradley and he doesn’t want to look. He can’t look.
The hand is gently pulling his head up, so there’s nowhere else to look, nowhere else to go; and Bradley’s face is unexpectedly vulnerable. Colin feels something tug in his chest, something tiny and fragile.
Lovely serious eyes meet his, part threat, part promise and the word he’s looking for is ‘desire.’ He should know what that looks like, if anyone does, he just never expected to find it here.
Colin’s hands are on the black collar of Bradley’s shirt; they’re shaking so hard that he can barely work the fabric over the buttons and he thinks, ‘well thank god he doesn’t have to undo a bra or anything.’ The thought makes him want to laugh, the kind of stupid nervous laugh that could so easily ruin all this right here and now.
There’s a warm hand on his shoulder and it’s pulling him close enough that the shaking is between them. He looks up into the question in Bradley's eyes, that beautiful mouth and all he can say; stupid, clumsy, needy, is, “Want -“
There is a second of nothing, just long enough and empty enough to let him understand, with a horrible clarity, that right now he is the loneliest person in the whole world. Colin closes his eyes and then Bradley’s mouth touches his, warm and slightly awkward and Colin pushes back until Bradley’s head is against the wall. The remote control slides across the pillows and falls to the floor, forgotten.
Colin moans, soft and low as Bradley’s lips press hard against his, a gentle asking tongue slides inside his mouth and he lets his hands move up over shoulders, fingers digging in, leaving bruises. They’re running along the soft skin between the nape of Bradley’s neck and hair, stroking over muscle, fingertips moving down inside the shirt where the skin is so hot and Bradley moves against him, a soft sound whispered in his mouth.
He moves his head away a little, feels Bradley’s mouth catch and drag on his lower lip and the sensation goes right down his spine, his whole body hard wired and tingling with need. Colin’s hand isn’t shaking now as he sits up and slowly unbuttons Bradley’s shirt and lets his fingers trail down over the pale warm ridges of muscle.
Bradley leans forward and there’s a noise in his throat that makes Colin’s hands stop what they are doing for a second. He looks up, half smiles because Bradley’s mouth is swollen and red and it’s every fucking shade of gorgeous. Bradley catches his lip white between his teeth and says, “Please,” but it’s Bradley, so he isn’t asking, he’s telling and Colin, Colin is told.
Bradley breaks away and rests his head against Colin’s shoulder, the sandpaper rough of his cheek and the curve of his neck is beautiful and Colin just wants to look and look and remember and hold it all inside. But Bradley’s hands are hard against his back and Bradley’s mouth is sliding down over his collarbone and he can’t keep his eyes open even though he wants to so bad it almost hurts.
A hand twists gentle, almost casual, into his hair, then fingers lock and he’s tugged down; lips grazing chin, chapped skin that tastes of sweat and dirt and unmistakeably strawberries.
He is never going to be able to look at Bradley’s hands ever again. May never be able to look at his own without remembering this, this moment. This perfect thing.
-*-
The first light of morning creeps slowly along the ceiling above the bed, pale shades of yellow and grey pushing back the shadows into the corners of the room. He watches through half closed eyes, head sunk back into the pillows, so warm and comfortable he can’t imagine ever wanting to move again.
Colin’s face is pressed against his shoulder, one fair arm thrown out loosely across his chest. His hip fits perfectly into the curve of Colin’s waist, bodies twisted under the sheets, sweet and close, it really should be all wrong, but it isn’t. It isn’t wrong at all.
And now it’s over.
He twists the clock on the bedside table round to see the display, trying not to move too much, shoulder rotating awkwardly. He wishes for a second that they could just stay there. That the rest of their cast and crew mates would go home without them and maybe around lunchtime they could get up and go out for a beer and something to eat, some place quiet in this foreign city where nobody knows their names.
He looks up at the ceiling and swallows hard. Closes his eyes and opens them again. Then he gently rolls Colin’s head off his chest, careful enough not to wake him. Colin smiles in his sleep, just a little; just enough for Bradley to have to turn away as he’s getting up off the bed.
He looks out of the window, over the city, the gold-grey sky above the rooftops. The air in the room is cool after the shared warmth of the bed and his skin prickles and complains (Colin’s fingers stroking through his hair, drifting over his chest).
Behind him Colin shifts again, rolling back over into the warmer sheets Bradley has just left. His face is peaceful and untroubled, eyes pressed tightly shut. There’s a stray eyelash lying on his right cheek, between the crease marks the pillow has left pressed into the soft skin; a dark shadow of stubble above his top lip. Beautiful. Vulnerable.
As Bradley walks to the bathroom, stepping over the pair of jeans he abandoned the night before (Colin’s hands tugging at the buttons, denim dragging at the skin over his hips), he wonders how this happened. How he stopped being the responsible one. Because he completely lost it back there. How selfish, how stupid. He thinks of Georgia and kicks himself, he’s going to have to live with this, this guilt, (all those noises whispered hard against the back of his neck), wonders how exactly. Wonders if it would be easier if it hadn’t been so…perfect.
The clean white surfaces of the bathroom reflect things he doesn’t want to see. Marks on his body that he knows he’s going to be looking at for days, trying not to remember the ways they got there, (the graze of teeth on his shoulder, the sharp scrape of nails on his thigh). He turns on the shower and stands waiting for the steam to rise and fill the small room; blot out the images on the mirror.
Getting into the splashing water feels like a betrayal; like washing Colin off his skin, out of his hair and his mouth is the first step away. The first step into a careful life. Guarding all the things he wants, keeping his feelings down where he knows they belong; where his career, and Georgia and, most of all, Colin, need them to be.
He shakes his head and turns the dial again until the water is so hot it starts to affect his breathing, (Colin’s voice cracking and breaking off into a moan).
There’s only one way to deal with this. In his head he lines up the words one by one. This can never happen again. Because you can’t miss what you haven’t had. So it’s better for everyone if this never happened at all.
For a moment he seriously thinks about punching the wall. But he’s older, if not wiser, for all that now. He rubs watery hotel shampoo hard into his hair, hard enough to hurt, and tries not to think about the rest of his life.
The soap washes out in a greasy film, running down over his face and into his mouth, clean tasting, tinny. And what he’s really thinking about is Colin. Colin’s head thrown back and the line of his throat arching away in a groan; short dark hair twisting between his fingers, bottom lip between his teeth - fucking beautiful.
When did this start turning him on? When did this become what he wanted? He feels like he’s seventeen years old again, all need and want and madness. He’s too old for this.
Behind him the door into the bedroom softly clicks open and shut. He’s suddenly very, very aware of the tingling that’s running up and down his spine, of the way the space between his hips is slowly liquefying, of how fucking hard he is.
‘I don’t have to turn around,’ he thinks, defiant, and then he turns around, because, yes, he does have to.
Colin is standing perfectly still, leaning against the wall beside the door, just watching, silently. The hard lean lines of his body sharp beneath a thin cotton t-shirt. One hand resting thoughtfully under his bottom lip. Hungry looking.
Suddenly Bradley’s mouth is completely dry. His stomach lurches, a sharp twist of longing below his ribs. Rationality checks out.
“Come here.” His voice is thick and hoarse, and Colin doesn’t move, just looks at him, smiles slowly. Bradley narrows his eyes and slides a hand low over his chest, just to see Colin’s face change.
“Now, Cols,” he says, and he’s not fucking around anymore.
The cocky smile is replaced by something else, and he’s shocked to realise that he’s never seen anything, not one thing, that turns him on nearly as much as Colin’s mouth right now. Bradley raises an eyebrow, his hands are shaking, the same way they did last night.
Colin steps away from the wall and up to the door of the shower; looks Bradley up and down, one long appraising look, blue eyes taking in everything, slow and fiercely casual. Bradley reaches out to put a hand on Colin’s shoulder, damp cotton clinging to warm skin and he tries to say something halfway sensible. And then Colin kisses him so hard his head almost hits the tiled wall.
He can’t breath, he’s going to black out, but he doesn’t want to stop, just wants to take, and take. He’s never kissed anyone like this before. There’s a strange taste in his mouth that might be blood, and Colin pulls away, lips full and red and gasping, water falling down all around him. Clothes soaked.
He knows he’s staring, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. It’s not like last night. It’s like this is the last time. Because this is the last time.
He reaches out to pull Colin towards him but Colin’s already there, feet sliding on the wet tiles and his back slams against the wall. Hot water falls over them and Colin puts one hand firm against the side of his face and kisses him again, hard enough to hurt. Bradley’s hands run over Colin’s back, soft skin and the shapes of muscle beneath nearly transparent white cloth, wrinkling up as he pushes it out of his way.
Hungry, needy kisses are nipped against his lips and Colin’s breathing is rough in his mouth. Bradley strokes savagely down his side, fingers curling against the smooth wet jut of Colin’s hip. Bodies rubbing together, and God, it’s near unbearable, so fucking wrong and good and right. The rush of the water almost drowns out his own breathing, but he still feels the moan rumble low in his throat, shoulder blades flat against the tiles.
Colin’s mouth is open and the curve of his neck stretches out of the thin white shirt. There are too many clothes, but Bradley kind of likes the way the sodden cotton clings to skin and bone, highlighting, emphasising.
His body takes over, filling in the places his mind is afraid to go. Hips moving fast and urgent against the slip slide of a body slowly going senseless with want. His hands glide down until Colin makes a noise that isn’t quite pleading. His back arches away from the tips of Bradley’s fingers, and Colin looks up into Bradley’s eyes, face unguarded and shockingly, heartbreakingly, naked.
And in that second Bradley sees everything. The future, the past - and he loses it. Because he can’t allow this to go on any longer than it already has. Because he’s already gone too far. However much he might want it.
He begins to shift his weight away, but Colin steps in closer, shoves against his front, drags his teeth to bite down roughly on Bradley’s lower lip, and the sharp copper tang of blood is on his tongue again.
Bradley snatches and grabs for a handful of sodden t-shirt, drags Colin off balance, their faces merely an inch apart, eyes wide and blue. He’s so angry. With himself, with Colin, and yet still so fucking turned on he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next.
Then Colin slides down Bradley’s chest, fingers tracking long purposeful lines, nails digging painfully into the slope of muscle over hipbone. Mouth licking and teasing down across the hard panes of his stomach, and it feels so damn good.
“Jesus, Colin.”
That mouth completely undoes him. So hot. Messy and inexpert and so fucking perfect. Rasp of tongue and teeth and then, an unsure touch, the soft tip of a finger, reaching around, sliding in between, touching, pushing, just -
Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
His hips quiver and jerk, one hand sliding on the wet tiles, the other wrapped around the back of Colin’s head, fingers curling, guiding closer. Water drips into his eyes and into his mouth and he gasps soundlessly into the steam, head tipped back.
When it’s done and over, final sweet soul shudders, spine slack, nerves good and gone, he slides inelegantly down the wall and splashes exhausted into the shallow pool of warm water. He’s still shaking, every dragging breath reminding him of the rawness in his chest, the fact that his lip is still bleeding. He closes his eyes and a quiet hand touches his.
Colin looks across at him, mouth wet and red and so devastatingly pretty. “Hey,” he says softly.
And everything is alright after all. Because it’s Colin’s eyes meeting his, Colin, who he never knew wanted this. And God, they’ve wasted so much time.
Bradley’s hand fingers the side of Colin’s face, settles softly around a cheekbone. A bead of water trickles down his index finger and pools in the curve of his palm, reflecting the light. And Colin smiles at him and holds out a hand to help him get up.
-*-
There are thick brown hotel towels, soft and warm from the radiator and he makes sure Colin gets one first, because he’s starting to shiver already, and ‘he’s only tiny.’ Wet cotton sticks to Colin’s chest, hair dripping to cling to his eyelashes. Bradley wraps a towel over Colin’s shoulders and pushes him back against the heater, very gently kisses those bruised lips, tongue soft, touching the inside of his mouth.
They slide down to the floor, twisting until their backs are pressed up against the comforting heat, side by side, hip against hip.
All the regret; the remorse and the guilt and the plain scared little boy panic that has been racing through Bradley’s mind, is finally gone. The things that happened last night he could maybe, one day, have pushed away and buried; concealed even from himself, but this…
He licks his lips, tries to speak. And Colin sighs, looks down for a second. Then he lifts a hand out from the folds of the towel and very carefully, very pointedly clamps it down over Bradley’s mouth.
“This…never happened,” he says simply, and there’s a catch somewhere in his voice but his face is still and calm. All the vulnerability and the openness drained away from his deep blue eyes as if it had never been there at all.
Colin stands and tugs the ends of the towel closer around him; clicks open the bathroom door and walks through without looking back.
And it’s not really the end of the world. But it feels like it might be.
-*-
Pairing | Bradley/Colin
Rating | R
Word Count | 4,073
Summary | All Colin wants is a quiet night in with a big bed, a big TV and a big bottle of whiskey to keep him company. When Bradley turns up however, Colin's evening becomes decidedly less quiet.
Notes | So this is the least Christmassy fic ever but it was written for my dear viennajones as a little Xmas gift and we're both complete angst whores, so it just had to be a bit achey. You have been such a wonderful friend this year sweetie and I wish for nothing but incredible things in 2012 for you ♥ A huge hug to baratheons who did a fabulous speedy beta job on this *squishes*
Also available on AO3
Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and enjoys this little thing!
-*-
After all the lights and the weather issues and the blasted four hours in make-up and the two hours to get out of it, Colin’s had just about enough.
‘Fuck off’, he thinks, ‘just fuck off’. He doesn’t say it though; because he’s Colin. So just smiles like he means it, like he has for the last twelve hours and tries not to think about the ache in his legs, and the sweat pooling at the base of his spine, cold and sticky now.
He loses track of time, and when he’s finally showered and back at the hotel and (thank Christ) eaten something, everyone else seems to be way ahead of him. He lost Bradley sometime in costume and now he’s too tired to join in anything that might be going down, even if it is a Friday. He’s tired and emotionally pushed to the brink and his back feels like the seven hours spent playing Emrys have left him permanently crippled. All he wants is a quiet night in.
“Tell me about it in the morning,” he says to the others. He laughs and rolls his eyes and plays the old man card as many times as it takes until they head out into the French town without him.
The silence is bliss. Big bed, big TV, big beautiful bottle of Balvenie; the kind that studying in Scotland had acquired his tongue to. The city sparkles through the glass; sky full of streetlamp glow and headlights sweeping past the hotel. He settles down on the bed, splashes whiskey into a glass, flicks on the TV and pushes his head back into the plush, downy pillows.
Two hundred channels on this French cable TV and he’s sure he won’t find a single thing worth watching on any of them. His theory is proved right all the way to 57 (Canal+ Sport), with a brief pause at 49 (Arte), when there’s a soft knock on the door. It’s a room service kind of knock, cautious and polite, and he’s already said “come in” before he remembers that he hasn’t ordered anything.
It isn’t room service; it’s Bradley. Standing in the doorway in a black button-down shirt and dark jeans, bare feet on the hallway carpet, he raises his eyebrows at Colin before taking an unsure step forward.
Colin sits up a little taller, grins as brightly as he can, because he’s just realised what his little night in was missing. He’s never too tired or too angry for Bradley; because that’s one smile he never has to fake.
“Wanna watch some French documentary on bee-keeping?”
Bradley’s face doesn’t change. “Well, I was going to go out…but when you say it like that.” He lets himself in and shuts the door behind him, and Colin knows that Bradley was going out right up to the point he found out Colin wasn’t. He watches Bradley walk over to the bed, a little stiff, a little taut in the shoulders - Andreas has worked him hard today - but warm eyes are smiling down at him like none of that matters.
“Shift, then.”
Colin shuffles over across the duvet, makes enough room for Bradley to hop up on the bed beside him and settle down, leaning over to pour another glass of Balvenie. He scoops it up and, careful now, hands it to Bradley. No need to ask. Routine. Old friends, side by side, as it should be.
“You ok?” Bradley asks.
He thinks about it for a second, then nods and shrugs, because there isn’t the time, there really isn’t. Because never having to explain anything to Bradley is part of the package; he already understands.
Colin looks away at the screen and flicks through the channels. Charlie Chaplin, Sky News, some half naked bird with a koala clamped to her breast, football, war flick.
“Hey.” The remote is snatched out of his hand and Bradley’s switching back to the koala woman, fascinated.
He turns to look at Bradley, half irritated, half amused. “Ginger!”
Bradley snorts. “Only you, Morgan, would view ‘ginger’ as the most cutting of insults.”
Colin’s hand catches Bradley square in the chest and he jumps. They’re both laughing now, and there’s whiskey, cold and wet, sharp on his face. Bradley’s smug grin is temporarily wiped clean, face pushed down flat against the pillows. The glass hits the floor beside the bed with a mercilessly solid thud and they come up fighting, Bradley snatching at Colin’s t-shirt, that infuriating smile taunting and teasing.
Colin’s free hand grabs for the remote and clutches it up close to his chest, other arm extended, holding Bradley at bay; both of them out of breath.
Bradley settles back against the headboard, trying to look conciliatory. His eyes are wide and innocent, cheeks flushed, and Colin has to look away because if he doesn’t he’s going to say something stupid, something he will regret.
“You spilt my drink,” says Bradley.
“And?” Colin leans over, stretches down for the glass tucked in under the bed, barely touching Bradley underneath him. He’s trying not to, because sometimes having some of what you want is far far worse than having none and he should fucking know that, if he’s learnt nothing else in the past five years.
Koala woman is holding something else now, some sort of weird ass bear thing. Wombat, he thinks abstractedly, turning away to find the bottle of whiskey, t-shirt damp and clingy, the smell of Balvenie strong around him, clearing his head. Now would be a really good time to think about the rules, because the rules are all about this kind of thing. About how Bradley isn’t actually his, isn’t who he should be having these thoughts about, and dreams, and fucking fantasies.
“You’re wet.” Bradley’s voice sounds behind him, matter of fact, and Colin looks down at the bottle on the bedside table and fumbles awkwardly with the cap, because he isn’t ready to turn back around just yet. Because he can’t make his eyes lie that much. Not to Bradley. Because knowing the rules isn’t the same as being able to play by them. Not yet.
He stops breathing, stops thinking because there’s a finger running soft through the wet splash of whiskey on his cheek, cold alcohol burn and warm dry skin, rough slide against the bone. He leans into the pressure, flesh prickling.
The lightest touch rests on his cheek and he’s trying so hard, so fucking hard not to freeze. ‘Breathe’, he thinks, ‘breathe’. Doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t want to do anything, because this could so easily, so fucking easily be it. The end: Game over.
One finger runs up against the line of his jaw, slow and lazy and lovely; tracing the line of everything he’s wanted for such a long time now.
All he really wants to say is, finally.
Bradley's finger follows around to press along the curve of Colin's bottom lip and it’s all he can do to stay still, to keep his eyes down and his mouth quiet and his hands from shaking like he’s some seventeen-year-old schoolgirl. The whiskey on his lips is warm and heady and Bradley tastes like he smells, and that’s good. That’s very good.
Colin's mouth moves around that gentle finger, slowly, questioningly, tongue touching fingertip, all wrong and strange but so much right. And the point where he could have laughed and twisted away, made a joke and kept it all together, vanishes right there.
So he closes his eyes on the soft grey hotel carpet; runs his tongue slowly along the underside of Bradley's finger, cautious, careful; lets his lips slide and remembers and remembers because whatever happens now he has had this and if this is all he ever gets then he’s not ever going to forget it. Ever.
His neck arches forward, and he thinks of all those days he’s watched and waited. Bradley’s finger moving in his mouth, Bradley’s breath gentle at the base of his hair. He takes that finger between his teeth, presses down just a little, just enough to hear the breathing behind him catch and snag. ‘I have never wanted anything this much,’ Colin thinks.
Then there’s a hand, firm against his chin, holding his face, palm against his jawbone, turning his head around, away from the teasing finger, towards Bradley and he doesn’t want to look. He can’t look.
The hand is gently pulling his head up, so there’s nowhere else to look, nowhere else to go; and Bradley’s face is unexpectedly vulnerable. Colin feels something tug in his chest, something tiny and fragile.
Lovely serious eyes meet his, part threat, part promise and the word he’s looking for is ‘desire.’ He should know what that looks like, if anyone does, he just never expected to find it here.
Colin’s hands are on the black collar of Bradley’s shirt; they’re shaking so hard that he can barely work the fabric over the buttons and he thinks, ‘well thank god he doesn’t have to undo a bra or anything.’ The thought makes him want to laugh, the kind of stupid nervous laugh that could so easily ruin all this right here and now.
There’s a warm hand on his shoulder and it’s pulling him close enough that the shaking is between them. He looks up into the question in Bradley's eyes, that beautiful mouth and all he can say; stupid, clumsy, needy, is, “Want -“
There is a second of nothing, just long enough and empty enough to let him understand, with a horrible clarity, that right now he is the loneliest person in the whole world. Colin closes his eyes and then Bradley’s mouth touches his, warm and slightly awkward and Colin pushes back until Bradley’s head is against the wall. The remote control slides across the pillows and falls to the floor, forgotten.
Colin moans, soft and low as Bradley’s lips press hard against his, a gentle asking tongue slides inside his mouth and he lets his hands move up over shoulders, fingers digging in, leaving bruises. They’re running along the soft skin between the nape of Bradley’s neck and hair, stroking over muscle, fingertips moving down inside the shirt where the skin is so hot and Bradley moves against him, a soft sound whispered in his mouth.
He moves his head away a little, feels Bradley’s mouth catch and drag on his lower lip and the sensation goes right down his spine, his whole body hard wired and tingling with need. Colin’s hand isn’t shaking now as he sits up and slowly unbuttons Bradley’s shirt and lets his fingers trail down over the pale warm ridges of muscle.
Bradley leans forward and there’s a noise in his throat that makes Colin’s hands stop what they are doing for a second. He looks up, half smiles because Bradley’s mouth is swollen and red and it’s every fucking shade of gorgeous. Bradley catches his lip white between his teeth and says, “Please,” but it’s Bradley, so he isn’t asking, he’s telling and Colin, Colin is told.
Bradley breaks away and rests his head against Colin’s shoulder, the sandpaper rough of his cheek and the curve of his neck is beautiful and Colin just wants to look and look and remember and hold it all inside. But Bradley’s hands are hard against his back and Bradley’s mouth is sliding down over his collarbone and he can’t keep his eyes open even though he wants to so bad it almost hurts.
A hand twists gentle, almost casual, into his hair, then fingers lock and he’s tugged down; lips grazing chin, chapped skin that tastes of sweat and dirt and unmistakeably strawberries.
He is never going to be able to look at Bradley’s hands ever again. May never be able to look at his own without remembering this, this moment. This perfect thing.
-*-
The first light of morning creeps slowly along the ceiling above the bed, pale shades of yellow and grey pushing back the shadows into the corners of the room. He watches through half closed eyes, head sunk back into the pillows, so warm and comfortable he can’t imagine ever wanting to move again.
Colin’s face is pressed against his shoulder, one fair arm thrown out loosely across his chest. His hip fits perfectly into the curve of Colin’s waist, bodies twisted under the sheets, sweet and close, it really should be all wrong, but it isn’t. It isn’t wrong at all.
And now it’s over.
He twists the clock on the bedside table round to see the display, trying not to move too much, shoulder rotating awkwardly. He wishes for a second that they could just stay there. That the rest of their cast and crew mates would go home without them and maybe around lunchtime they could get up and go out for a beer and something to eat, some place quiet in this foreign city where nobody knows their names.
He looks up at the ceiling and swallows hard. Closes his eyes and opens them again. Then he gently rolls Colin’s head off his chest, careful enough not to wake him. Colin smiles in his sleep, just a little; just enough for Bradley to have to turn away as he’s getting up off the bed.
He looks out of the window, over the city, the gold-grey sky above the rooftops. The air in the room is cool after the shared warmth of the bed and his skin prickles and complains (Colin’s fingers stroking through his hair, drifting over his chest).
Behind him Colin shifts again, rolling back over into the warmer sheets Bradley has just left. His face is peaceful and untroubled, eyes pressed tightly shut. There’s a stray eyelash lying on his right cheek, between the crease marks the pillow has left pressed into the soft skin; a dark shadow of stubble above his top lip. Beautiful. Vulnerable.
As Bradley walks to the bathroom, stepping over the pair of jeans he abandoned the night before (Colin’s hands tugging at the buttons, denim dragging at the skin over his hips), he wonders how this happened. How he stopped being the responsible one. Because he completely lost it back there. How selfish, how stupid. He thinks of Georgia and kicks himself, he’s going to have to live with this, this guilt, (all those noises whispered hard against the back of his neck), wonders how exactly. Wonders if it would be easier if it hadn’t been so…perfect.
The clean white surfaces of the bathroom reflect things he doesn’t want to see. Marks on his body that he knows he’s going to be looking at for days, trying not to remember the ways they got there, (the graze of teeth on his shoulder, the sharp scrape of nails on his thigh). He turns on the shower and stands waiting for the steam to rise and fill the small room; blot out the images on the mirror.
Getting into the splashing water feels like a betrayal; like washing Colin off his skin, out of his hair and his mouth is the first step away. The first step into a careful life. Guarding all the things he wants, keeping his feelings down where he knows they belong; where his career, and Georgia and, most of all, Colin, need them to be.
He shakes his head and turns the dial again until the water is so hot it starts to affect his breathing, (Colin’s voice cracking and breaking off into a moan).
There’s only one way to deal with this. In his head he lines up the words one by one. This can never happen again. Because you can’t miss what you haven’t had. So it’s better for everyone if this never happened at all.
For a moment he seriously thinks about punching the wall. But he’s older, if not wiser, for all that now. He rubs watery hotel shampoo hard into his hair, hard enough to hurt, and tries not to think about the rest of his life.
The soap washes out in a greasy film, running down over his face and into his mouth, clean tasting, tinny. And what he’s really thinking about is Colin. Colin’s head thrown back and the line of his throat arching away in a groan; short dark hair twisting between his fingers, bottom lip between his teeth - fucking beautiful.
When did this start turning him on? When did this become what he wanted? He feels like he’s seventeen years old again, all need and want and madness. He’s too old for this.
Behind him the door into the bedroom softly clicks open and shut. He’s suddenly very, very aware of the tingling that’s running up and down his spine, of the way the space between his hips is slowly liquefying, of how fucking hard he is.
‘I don’t have to turn around,’ he thinks, defiant, and then he turns around, because, yes, he does have to.
Colin is standing perfectly still, leaning against the wall beside the door, just watching, silently. The hard lean lines of his body sharp beneath a thin cotton t-shirt. One hand resting thoughtfully under his bottom lip. Hungry looking.
Suddenly Bradley’s mouth is completely dry. His stomach lurches, a sharp twist of longing below his ribs. Rationality checks out.
“Come here.” His voice is thick and hoarse, and Colin doesn’t move, just looks at him, smiles slowly. Bradley narrows his eyes and slides a hand low over his chest, just to see Colin’s face change.
“Now, Cols,” he says, and he’s not fucking around anymore.
The cocky smile is replaced by something else, and he’s shocked to realise that he’s never seen anything, not one thing, that turns him on nearly as much as Colin’s mouth right now. Bradley raises an eyebrow, his hands are shaking, the same way they did last night.
Colin steps away from the wall and up to the door of the shower; looks Bradley up and down, one long appraising look, blue eyes taking in everything, slow and fiercely casual. Bradley reaches out to put a hand on Colin’s shoulder, damp cotton clinging to warm skin and he tries to say something halfway sensible. And then Colin kisses him so hard his head almost hits the tiled wall.
He can’t breath, he’s going to black out, but he doesn’t want to stop, just wants to take, and take. He’s never kissed anyone like this before. There’s a strange taste in his mouth that might be blood, and Colin pulls away, lips full and red and gasping, water falling down all around him. Clothes soaked.
He knows he’s staring, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. It’s not like last night. It’s like this is the last time. Because this is the last time.
He reaches out to pull Colin towards him but Colin’s already there, feet sliding on the wet tiles and his back slams against the wall. Hot water falls over them and Colin puts one hand firm against the side of his face and kisses him again, hard enough to hurt. Bradley’s hands run over Colin’s back, soft skin and the shapes of muscle beneath nearly transparent white cloth, wrinkling up as he pushes it out of his way.
Hungry, needy kisses are nipped against his lips and Colin’s breathing is rough in his mouth. Bradley strokes savagely down his side, fingers curling against the smooth wet jut of Colin’s hip. Bodies rubbing together, and God, it’s near unbearable, so fucking wrong and good and right. The rush of the water almost drowns out his own breathing, but he still feels the moan rumble low in his throat, shoulder blades flat against the tiles.
Colin’s mouth is open and the curve of his neck stretches out of the thin white shirt. There are too many clothes, but Bradley kind of likes the way the sodden cotton clings to skin and bone, highlighting, emphasising.
His body takes over, filling in the places his mind is afraid to go. Hips moving fast and urgent against the slip slide of a body slowly going senseless with want. His hands glide down until Colin makes a noise that isn’t quite pleading. His back arches away from the tips of Bradley’s fingers, and Colin looks up into Bradley’s eyes, face unguarded and shockingly, heartbreakingly, naked.
And in that second Bradley sees everything. The future, the past - and he loses it. Because he can’t allow this to go on any longer than it already has. Because he’s already gone too far. However much he might want it.
He begins to shift his weight away, but Colin steps in closer, shoves against his front, drags his teeth to bite down roughly on Bradley’s lower lip, and the sharp copper tang of blood is on his tongue again.
Bradley snatches and grabs for a handful of sodden t-shirt, drags Colin off balance, their faces merely an inch apart, eyes wide and blue. He’s so angry. With himself, with Colin, and yet still so fucking turned on he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next.
Then Colin slides down Bradley’s chest, fingers tracking long purposeful lines, nails digging painfully into the slope of muscle over hipbone. Mouth licking and teasing down across the hard panes of his stomach, and it feels so damn good.
“Jesus, Colin.”
That mouth completely undoes him. So hot. Messy and inexpert and so fucking perfect. Rasp of tongue and teeth and then, an unsure touch, the soft tip of a finger, reaching around, sliding in between, touching, pushing, just -
Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
His hips quiver and jerk, one hand sliding on the wet tiles, the other wrapped around the back of Colin’s head, fingers curling, guiding closer. Water drips into his eyes and into his mouth and he gasps soundlessly into the steam, head tipped back.
When it’s done and over, final sweet soul shudders, spine slack, nerves good and gone, he slides inelegantly down the wall and splashes exhausted into the shallow pool of warm water. He’s still shaking, every dragging breath reminding him of the rawness in his chest, the fact that his lip is still bleeding. He closes his eyes and a quiet hand touches his.
Colin looks across at him, mouth wet and red and so devastatingly pretty. “Hey,” he says softly.
And everything is alright after all. Because it’s Colin’s eyes meeting his, Colin, who he never knew wanted this. And God, they’ve wasted so much time.
Bradley’s hand fingers the side of Colin’s face, settles softly around a cheekbone. A bead of water trickles down his index finger and pools in the curve of his palm, reflecting the light. And Colin smiles at him and holds out a hand to help him get up.
-*-
There are thick brown hotel towels, soft and warm from the radiator and he makes sure Colin gets one first, because he’s starting to shiver already, and ‘he’s only tiny.’ Wet cotton sticks to Colin’s chest, hair dripping to cling to his eyelashes. Bradley wraps a towel over Colin’s shoulders and pushes him back against the heater, very gently kisses those bruised lips, tongue soft, touching the inside of his mouth.
They slide down to the floor, twisting until their backs are pressed up against the comforting heat, side by side, hip against hip.
All the regret; the remorse and the guilt and the plain scared little boy panic that has been racing through Bradley’s mind, is finally gone. The things that happened last night he could maybe, one day, have pushed away and buried; concealed even from himself, but this…
He licks his lips, tries to speak. And Colin sighs, looks down for a second. Then he lifts a hand out from the folds of the towel and very carefully, very pointedly clamps it down over Bradley’s mouth.
“This…never happened,” he says simply, and there’s a catch somewhere in his voice but his face is still and calm. All the vulnerability and the openness drained away from his deep blue eyes as if it had never been there at all.
Colin stands and tugs the ends of the towel closer around him; clicks open the bathroom door and walks through without looking back.
And it’s not really the end of the world. But it feels like it might be.
-*-