FICLETS! Holiday: Day Twenty-Four
For musesfool
Michael
Michael is rated with everything that counts as a weapon in this world. If it has a trigger or an edge, he knows how to use it, knows how to kill with it and probably has. He’s learned the fine art of dismantling a bomb with a paper clip and a piece of chewing gum and he’s very, very good at not ending up dead while doing it.
He’s broken out of cells and hostage rooms, he’s found his way out of underground tunnels and bomb-rigged cars. He’s jumped off buildings and tumbled down four flights of stairs and ended up on his feet. He can get out of anything.
Except family dinners.
It doesn’t help that Fiona’s made them her life’s work, getting Michael there even if she hasn’t decided to come along. There’s always something, some emergency that ends with him on his mother’s doorstep just as the roast - dry as always but with extra gravy to make up for it, and yes, Michael, that’s pepper, not cigarette ashes - comes out of the oven and onto the table. He may not like home very much, but the smells of home sucker punch him every time.
There are so many memories in the house, smelling of stale beer and sour sweat and cigarettes and bourbon. He tries to avoid them, and his mother has painted over the cracked plaster and faint traces of rust that Michael’s blood left on the pale yellow walls, so it’s almost but not quite somewhere different than where he grew up, somewhere different than the place that looms large as his own personal hell.
For lokei
Ioan/Jamie
Jamie leans back against the bars of the balcony, sipping his sangria as he watches Ioan flick away the ashes from his fag. He’s sitting on the lone lounge chair, his feet tucked up against him and his arms wrapped around his knees. He’s ridiculously long and gangly, still not quite yet grown into his limbs. He’s a newborn colt, struggling to stand without falling on his arse, his huge doe eyes and long lashes doing little to belie the comparison.
“So, what d’you think?” Ioan reaches down with one hand and turns the page of the script, running his fingers over the words. “Play it like that then?”
“Mmm.” Jamie’s not really been listening, just watching, memorizing. He’s done a stint with kissing blokes in his college film and once that night at the club when he made the mistake of letting his best mate order the drinks. Another reason to chalk up against dancing in general and at clubs in particular. He’s not been particularly fond of the practise, to be honest, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s been standing here for nearly a half hour doing little more than watching Ioan’s lips curve around his fag and blow smoke into the warm spring air.
“That’s not actually an answer of any sort, Bamber.”
Jamie blinks and looks at Ioan for a moment. “Pardon?”
“Mmm. Not actually an answer. I mean, a yes or no question usually rather results in a yes or a no. Mmm rather sort of falls somewhere that’s not either of those in any degree at all.”
“What was the question again exactly?”
“What was the question?” Ioan’s smile grows exponentially, though Jamie has a sneaking suspicion it’s not a particularly humorous smile so much as one that is going to get him into a bit of trouble. “I’ve been prattling on for a half a bloody hour and you’ve the audacity to ask me what the hell I’ve been talking about?”
“I didn’t ask you that. I asked you to repeat the question.”
“Should I play it like that then?”
Right. Fucked then. “Like what?”
“You wanker.” Ioan laughs and there is humor in that and Jamie smiles in return, relief he’s not sure he wants to explain flooding through him. “What the fuck have you been doing whilst I’ve been chattering on to myself then?”
“Watching.” He doesn’t expect the answer any more than Ioan does, as he’d no intention of actually offering one.
Ioan looks at him, his eyes dark and shadowed from the fall of the light. “Watching what?”
Licking his lips, Jamie shrugs slightly. “You.”
“Me?” Ioan imitates him, his tongue sweeping over his own lips slowly. Jamie watches intently, liking the movement even more than the way Ioan’s mouth fits around the fag. “Why?”
“Want to kiss you.” Jamie takes a swig of his wine, emptying the glass in one long swallow. He’s not sure who’s in control of his vocal cords, as it’s certainly not anything even remotely like his brain.
Ioan looks at him for a moment then straightens, the motion like an unfolding, a careful proposition of balance and grace. He stands and walks the few steps over to Jamie and smiles, eyes still just as dark. His breath is warm against Jamie’s lips, his smile more than promising. “Then do it.”
Michael
Michael is rated with everything that counts as a weapon in this world. If it has a trigger or an edge, he knows how to use it, knows how to kill with it and probably has. He’s learned the fine art of dismantling a bomb with a paper clip and a piece of chewing gum and he’s very, very good at not ending up dead while doing it.
He’s broken out of cells and hostage rooms, he’s found his way out of underground tunnels and bomb-rigged cars. He’s jumped off buildings and tumbled down four flights of stairs and ended up on his feet. He can get out of anything.
Except family dinners.
It doesn’t help that Fiona’s made them her life’s work, getting Michael there even if she hasn’t decided to come along. There’s always something, some emergency that ends with him on his mother’s doorstep just as the roast - dry as always but with extra gravy to make up for it, and yes, Michael, that’s pepper, not cigarette ashes - comes out of the oven and onto the table. He may not like home very much, but the smells of home sucker punch him every time.
There are so many memories in the house, smelling of stale beer and sour sweat and cigarettes and bourbon. He tries to avoid them, and his mother has painted over the cracked plaster and faint traces of rust that Michael’s blood left on the pale yellow walls, so it’s almost but not quite somewhere different than where he grew up, somewhere different than the place that looms large as his own personal hell.
For lokei
Ioan/Jamie
Jamie leans back against the bars of the balcony, sipping his sangria as he watches Ioan flick away the ashes from his fag. He’s sitting on the lone lounge chair, his feet tucked up against him and his arms wrapped around his knees. He’s ridiculously long and gangly, still not quite yet grown into his limbs. He’s a newborn colt, struggling to stand without falling on his arse, his huge doe eyes and long lashes doing little to belie the comparison.
“So, what d’you think?” Ioan reaches down with one hand and turns the page of the script, running his fingers over the words. “Play it like that then?”
“Mmm.” Jamie’s not really been listening, just watching, memorizing. He’s done a stint with kissing blokes in his college film and once that night at the club when he made the mistake of letting his best mate order the drinks. Another reason to chalk up against dancing in general and at clubs in particular. He’s not been particularly fond of the practise, to be honest, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s been standing here for nearly a half hour doing little more than watching Ioan’s lips curve around his fag and blow smoke into the warm spring air.
“That’s not actually an answer of any sort, Bamber.”
Jamie blinks and looks at Ioan for a moment. “Pardon?”
“Mmm. Not actually an answer. I mean, a yes or no question usually rather results in a yes or a no. Mmm rather sort of falls somewhere that’s not either of those in any degree at all.”
“What was the question again exactly?”
“What was the question?” Ioan’s smile grows exponentially, though Jamie has a sneaking suspicion it’s not a particularly humorous smile so much as one that is going to get him into a bit of trouble. “I’ve been prattling on for a half a bloody hour and you’ve the audacity to ask me what the hell I’ve been talking about?”
“I didn’t ask you that. I asked you to repeat the question.”
“Should I play it like that then?”
Right. Fucked then. “Like what?”
“You wanker.” Ioan laughs and there is humor in that and Jamie smiles in return, relief he’s not sure he wants to explain flooding through him. “What the fuck have you been doing whilst I’ve been chattering on to myself then?”
“Watching.” He doesn’t expect the answer any more than Ioan does, as he’d no intention of actually offering one.
Ioan looks at him, his eyes dark and shadowed from the fall of the light. “Watching what?”
Licking his lips, Jamie shrugs slightly. “You.”
“Me?” Ioan imitates him, his tongue sweeping over his own lips slowly. Jamie watches intently, liking the movement even more than the way Ioan’s mouth fits around the fag. “Why?”
“Want to kiss you.” Jamie takes a swig of his wine, emptying the glass in one long swallow. He’s not sure who’s in control of his vocal cords, as it’s certainly not anything even remotely like his brain.
Ioan looks at him for a moment then straightens, the motion like an unfolding, a careful proposition of balance and grace. He stands and walks the few steps over to Jamie and smiles, eyes still just as dark. His breath is warm against Jamie’s lips, his smile more than promising. “Then do it.”