fic: Thank God It's Friday (Stafford/Christeson)
It had been completely unintentional, kind of a drunk overindulgent mistake really, but one that would be paid for in the days to come. At least he hoped it would just be a few days and not stretch into a week. Evan “Q-Tip” Stafford, war hero extraordinaire with commendations, medals and honors could barely negotiate the staircase to make it from his bedroom to the kitchen. He’d already ruled out going to class as an option. If the stairs of a two story house caused the back of his legs to feel like they were being punched repeatedly, he imagined a walk or ride to campus would be a nightmare - not to mention sitting in class.
Q-tip tightened his grip on the circular wood railing against the solid wall on his right and winced lowering his left foot to the next step below. He followed with his right, gingerly in a slow movement, trying to relax the muscles he could as he took each step.
“Sup, Evan?”
He turned to the voice coming from behind and saw Matt Sanders, one of three roommates in the house, looking him over with a question on his lips. Matt had picked up on the fact Q-tip bucked at his nickname from the Corps. He introduced himself to Matt as Evan and Matt didn’t presume that he could adopt use of the nickname the way Christeson threw it around liberally. Kyle, the other roommate - the dick, didn’t have any such qualms. He’d been doling out the use of ‘Q-tip’ since moving in. Needless to say, Q-tip favored Matt over Kyle, that being the initial reason.
“Yo, you can go ahead. I’m-a be here a while,” Q-Tip answered, trying to sound carefree rather than pained, like his legs below the knee hadn’t started to quiver from the throbbing coursing through his thighs, hips and back.
“Is it the messed up leg?” Matt asked, easily taking the stairs and reaching Q-Tip before he had a chance to even respond.
“Nah,” Q-Tip responded, giving his head a shake, “That don’t even faze me.”
Matt had been referring to the shrapnel injury he’d sustained in his right thigh in Iraq. Christeson had told that story a ridiculous number of times since they’d gotten to Texas. John told the story of how badass they both were in combat to the roommates, to people at the bars they went to, and probably wrote a few papers for class with it thrown in for a guaranteed A.
Evan again lowered his left leg first, clinging to the rail with his right hand. When he brought his right foot after his left to the step, Matt took the step with him. Evan cut his eyes to his left and saw Matt had his eyes on him expectantly. The tall, broad and muscular broad twenty something could have passed for a second cousin of Eric Kocher and had two sleeves of tattoos to prove his tolerance for pain and endurance.
“I’m a’ight.” Evan insisted.
“You’re walking like you got hit by a car and thrown over the hood. What the hell?”
Q-Tip smirked and looked over at Matt.
“PT, dawg. I ain’t been at it like I should. ROTC and shit started back; wore me out.”
Matt held his eyes on him for a breath and then took the next step, with a shake of his head.
“See, that’s why I said fuck that shit. I don’t need someone telling me how to work out, when, how hard, how long. I’m doing just fine. It’d be fucking cool to go to war though,” Matt’s words trailed off as he descended to the bottom of the stairs and continued forward deeper into the house.
“Yeah, it was fucking cool,” Q-Tip spoke half-heartedly, though Matt probably didn’t hear him.
Evan brought his left arm across his chest and planted his left hand onto the railing ahead of his right hand. With a hiss of breath he moved his left foot forward and lowered it to the next step.
This reminded him of a previous experience and injury. Once, back when he was a teenager, his bad luck had landed him riding a bike from what felt like one side of Florida to the other. It had really just been four awful miles of pedaling until his calves burned while he stood up on the bike, but the respite of reclining to the seat meant a bumpy ride with his ass pressed to the hardest metal covered with the thinnest foam padding and black plastic cover. Trying to walk down the steps felt just as bad to him as the pain he’d felt waking up the morning after his long bike ride from downtown to back home. The pain overwhelmed him and Evan had walked around with shrapnel sticking out of his leg - the adrenaline had helped with that, but he still got along just fine the next day.
Ten agonizing slow minutes of one leg up a step and one leg on the lower step before Q-Tip reached the end of the stairs at the first floor. He let go of the wooden railing and smoothed his hands down the front of his black beater. His palms came away with soft black fuzz from the shirt that had stuck to the damp sweat he’d been trying to dust off. He had practice walking in super short strides before, mostly when he’d overdone his swag. He couldn’t help but recall older vets at the VA hospital shuffling without their feet lifting from the floors as they meandered with the help of walkers.
“Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, determined.
Tense and expecting the worst, he took a step forward at regular stride. It felt the way single serving chopsticks at a restaurant looked when you snapped the two wooden sticks apart for use. He kept from going to one knee by sheer will and the realization that it would hurt ten times worse if he did so. He had planned on getting to the kitchen, getting water, getting breakfast and trying to make something of the day. That had been in his pep talk to himself when he woke up. Then he’d tried to get out of bed.
Q-Tip put his hand out to the wall encasing the stairs and used it for support to turn the corner. He made his way carefully down the short hallway that led to two bedrooms and a shared bathroom - Kyle and John’s rooms. He had one hand to the wall and the other he tested the door knob of John’s door. It didn’t give. He’d locked his door.
“Hey,” Evan yelled, knocking with the heel of his hand, “Open up, fucknuts.”
He heard movement inside and put his ear to the door. The swish of sheets, rustling woven thread to woven thread, and the creak and squeak of the mattress and box spring followed by a groan and footfalls gave Christeson away. Evan pulled back from the door hearing the lock on the door knob twisted to unlock from the other side. Christeson opened the door wide enough to peer out through sleepy squinting eyes. He offered Q- tip a weak smile and rubbed at his right eye with the pad of his middle and pointer finger, dusting away sleep.
“Morning sunshine,” Christeson greeted ruefully, running a hand through his short black hair.
He’d literally rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door - his hair was mussed, he smelled like alcohol, cologne and sex, and he was wearing white boxers.
“Uh huh,” Evan echoed sarcastically, nudging John backward with his forearm so he could step in the dark bedroom.
Christeson stepped aside allowing Q-Tip in and rubbed at his other eye, before shutting the bedroom door behind them. Q-Tip shuffled with small steps and purposely fell forward onto the bed groaning from relief.
“My ass,” he explained, twisting his head so his face wasn’t in the mattress and he could see Christeson.
John grinned and advanced to the bed. “What about it?”
“You broke it, mayn,” Q-Tip answered unable to suppress a smirk even as much as he really did hurt.
“You helped,” John reminded, putting one knee to the mattress and then the other, going to all fours. “You skipping your class?”
“Damn right. I can barely get down the stairs,”
John sighed and reached over stroking his hand along Evan’s back through his shirt, tracing a circle with his fingertips when he reached the small. Evan tensed beneath his hand even though John had touched him gently.
“Can I see?” John asked and received a short nod as a reply.
He drew up the black shirt to mid back and sucked in a breath. He could make out two bruises in the shape of a mouthful of teeth. He knew for fact that they’d match up to his mouth perfectly. It didn’t stand out in his mind that he’d bitten Evan, but he vaguely remembered doing so since he was trying to retrace the events in his foggy memory. John touched one of the bite marks lightly and Evan flinched, sucking in a breath.
“Damn,” John sighed, “I fucked your shit up.”
“Man, that ain’t shit. My ass and my legs are killing me.”
“You got on boxers; that’s more than I left you in this morning.”
Evan gave John a glare that dissolved the sweet dispositional smile from John’s defined lips.
“Putting on my boxers like to have killed me,” he complained, still glaring at Christeson. “You should see the rest of your handiwork.”
“You remember last night?” John asked rising from all fours to his knees and sit back on his heels.
“Mostly,”
John hooked a finger on the waistband of Evan’s blue plaid boxers and pulled the elastic back from his waist. Evan’s breath hitched, muscle memory dictating his reaction to the hands on his waistband, despite the throbbing ache and pain.
“Oh, shit,” Christeson whispered, swallowing before pulling the boxers down to expose more of Q-tip. “Fuck me. Evan, I’m sorry,”
Q-Tip made a futile effort to look over his own shoulder to see what John had and slumped back to the mattress, folding his arms to pillow beneath his cheek. John sucked in his bottom lip and bit, dragging it between both rows of teeth, pensive and quiet. He nudged Evan’s legs apart and groaned, pulling back and covering his mouth with one hand, folding his other arm across his chest. After a minute he shook off whatever feeling had gripped him and then he carefully drew up the boxers making sure not to let the elastic band snap back on Q-Tip’s skin.
“Yo, settle down with the drama. I’m the one with the broke ass,”
John crossed his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” John repeated, “I thought - I mean, I didn’t feel anything - er, notice what I- . I didn’t know. I was too hammered to think about what I was doing,”
“Me too,” Q-tip agreed, looking over at Christeson who looked back at him uncertain about his tone. “For real,”
“I gotta get you some ice and clean you up,”
“Clean me up?” Evan balked.
“Yo, you’re bleeding. I - how did you not know you were bleeding?”
“Bleedin! You fuckin,” Evan slapped at John who was too far to take the hit, “I knew that shit hurt worse than it should! You ripped my ass? You motherfucker!”
“Shh!” John hissed, putting his finger to his lips, “We have fucking roommates.”
Q-Tip’s eyes went wide and then narrowed as he stared indignant at Christeson. His entire face took on almost a new shape when his brow furrowed, his jaw set and the bridge of his nose wrinkled. John eased back off the bed and backed toward the door keeping eye contact with Evan.
“Nah, don’t play that card. You do NOT want to try to lay down that shit with me. You think I give a single fuck right now! You just made me that fag who gets his ass ripped up!”
Christeson put a finger to his lips and hushed Q-tip emphatically. Q-tip’s eyes just opened wider and he clenched his jaw. Christeson smirked and turned, stifling a laugh.
“Oh, now it’s funny?” Q-tip hissed, at a much lower volume.
“Your fucking face,” John laughed, “and ‘that fag who gets his ass ripped up’ - how do you expect me not to laugh at that.”
“Mayn, fuck you.” Q-tip retorted.
Christeson just laughed harder, turning away from Q-tip and leaning against the door as he huffed out a final few laughs.
“Dawg, it really hurts. Can you get that damn ice already.”
“I really,” John began, turning and focusing back on Q-tip, “I really am sorry though. It’s all bad, too. Bruised and bloody. I fucked your shit up.”
“Yeah, you said that already back when I wasn’t giving a fuck - oh wait, STILL DON’T GIVE A FUCK! Just want my goddamn ice or bag of peas or some shit. God damn, you going to just talk and talk -“
“Just stay there; don’t move. I’ll be right back with some ice. And, sorry,”
“You better come back in here with a goddamn pop tart or something. I’m starving and thirsty, so get at that O.J. while you’re at it.”
“Okay, okay,” John agreed, reaching for the door. “Will that keep your bitching down to a tolerable level. I’m still hungover, by the way, Tequila champ - thanks for asking,”
“Man, fuck you!” Evan hollered, “HANGOVER MY ASS”
John started laughing immediately. Q-tip’s face flushed bright red.
“FUCK YOUR STUPID HANGOVER!” Q-tip recovered from the poorly chosen words of seconds prior. Christeson couldn’t contain his laughter even recognizing the true anger in Q-tip’s voice.
Despite being the injured party and in pain, Evan lunged and grabbed one of John’s pillows from the head of the mattress and heaved it at him, catching John in the chest. John yanked open the door and jumped out shutting it behind him and the second pillow hit the door dead on. Q-tip sighed and hung his head reaching out for the third pillow and shaking it to fluff it before collapsing down, burying his face into it, and yelling until he ran out of air.
Q-tip leaned back from the pillow and took a breath, he shoved the pillow forward back to the head of the mattress. Then he followed it, using his elbows to low crawl so he’d be at least lying on the bed properly even if he had to lie on his stomach. John’s bedroom had Spartan furnishings - the minimalist modern décor from IKEA collections had been mixed and matched. His bed was the only thing not bought at the Swedish outlet. He had a plain frame with full size mattress and box spring. Q-tip had reason to believe the bed had been with John probably before the Corps and for that reason John had invested in a memory foam mattress topper and a feather bed after that. If not for the continuous ache and twinges of pain hitting him although he’d gone still, he would have probably fallen right back into sleep.
Q-tip turned his head, putting cheek to the pillow and watched the door. He couldn’t turn to the TV and trying to use a clock radio for entertainment seemed like an awful way to listen to music. He looked down at the pillows he’d thrown, now lying haphazard in front of the door. He saw that he’d hurled the heaviest pillow. It was double filled with fake down and the softest most comfortable of John’s and maybe even in the world. He whined staring at it.
Evan usually found a way to crib that pillow when he got any chance. He’d even kidnapped it to his room once or twice, but it always had a way of returning to John’s and not by way of Q-tip returning it. He thought of it as their little ongoing recon game - capture the pillow, retake the pillow, capture the pillow again and all without the other catching him in the act. Being trained for a million a pop to be swift, silent and deadly had its practical uses. Of course, being able to tolerate a ridiculously large amount of alcohol also came with the territory of being in the Corps. The previous night had been a fine example of that, but things hadn’t gone as well in respect to that area - hangovers, drunk sex, drunk sex that had gotten too rough and barely any memory of it - well, full memory anyway.
The night had started out around 9 when they met Kyle up at Rudy’s for some beers. Usually just three beers a piece was the limit when they went out to Rudy’s, because anything more and it would turn into a contest and they’d drink some poor civilian under the table and then all hell might break loose. So, deciding to head back to the house, they left Kyle at Rudy’s to keep drinking and watching some replay of a football game on ESPN. It had been a good night for bullshitting at the bar - the pain of no sporting events during the week, world news, how to make a quick buck without having to pay the IRS, and the merits of barbecue on gas, wood or coals. So, the liquor store on the way home didn’t seem like an outright terrible idea. A bag of limes and a bottle of Jose Cuervo Black - the glug jug size, as John called it - came home with them.
From what Q-tip could recall, they hadn’t finished the jug. They’d probably be long dead with no liver if they could accomplish that on a Thursday night. They’d still put a dent in the volume. He had a mental picture of tucking the bottle behind his boots and rucksack when John disappeared into the bathroom to break the seal, against Q-tip’s advice. They’d been playing ‘Drinking With Tyra’ while watching late night TV. The game’s rules were simple: take a shot every time Tyra Banks found a way to make the topic relate to problems she supposedly had. Q-tip had brought the game with him from back home in Florida and it became a house classic for bored drinking.
John returned from the bathroom, cursing Tyra’s name with colorful expletives. Evan had sprawled out on the bed, changing channels, swaying a little under the effects of the alcohol. John hopped back onto the bed to sit beside him and pulled the remote out of his hands. He punched in the number for Mtv and blinked leaning forward to the TV, trying to figure out what show he’d put on. Evan stole the remote back with a swift yank and keyed in BET. John reached for the remote, but with a taunting laugh Q-tip raised it over his head and as soon as John grabbed for it he tossed it across the room. Then John noticed the tequila had left and declared if he didn’t have tequila to get him through there would be no way he’d put up with BET. Thusly, he rolled over and off the bed then made haste for the remote. Q-tip followed after and leapt off the bed tackling him, crashing them both into the wall, where they struggled through fits of laughter. John to the point of tears while trying to use the remote to change the channel and Q-tip trying to rip it from his hands.
Then it all stopped when Christeson started kissing Q-tip (though at first the blonde suspected it to be a tactical maneuver to distract him from the remote war). John let go of the remote and cupped Evan’s cheeks running his thumbs along his chiseled cheekbones. The wrestling then resumed, the remote forgotten. The struggle ended in Evan standing beside the window, against the bedroom wall, begging for release, bite marks on his back, and John rising up from his knees to turn him around and take him with no preparation but spit in his hand.
The door opened a crack, stopped by the pillows that had been thrown. The less comfortable of the two had gotten wedged beneath the door. John had to lean in pretty hard to squeeze through. Evan tried in vain to suppress a smirk and laugh low in his throat watching John somehow ease through. He had a tray - a pretty flimsy bamboo tray that Kyle had contributed to the kitchen - and it looked to be both weighed down and full. Evan lifted his head from the pillow expectantly.
“Yo, you remember my poptart and juice?” he asked before John had even pushed the door shut with his heel.
“This is déjà vu from Iraq. Yes, honey, I brought your poptart.”
“Cold?” Q-tip persisted with a raised eyebrow, calculating just how much hell he would give John over the wrong answer.
“When have I ever heated your poptarts?” John shot back, setting the tray on the stacked milk crates covered in a black sheet that composed his nightstand.
Q-tip rested his cheek back on the pillow and sighed.
“I know you like them cold - only the smores hot. Now sit up a little,”
John pinched three white pills from the tray and held them out to Evan, taking the glass of orange juice in his other hand complete with a white striped straw, bent at the neck. Evan lifted his head again and propped up on his elbows. He opened his mouth and John shook his head giving an eyeroll before placing the pills gingerly on Q-tip’s outstretched tongue. Q-tip swallowed them dry and then took a sip of the orange juice to wash them down.
“What’s that?”
“Two Tylenol and a muscle relaxer.”
“Aw, yeah. Shit’s about to get a lot better, now.”
“Yeah, well, Matt hooked me up. Said he saw you on the stairs looking like complete shit from a hardcore session of PT,” John rolled his eyes, raising his eyebrow at Q-tip.
“Best I could come up with. I was in pain, yo,”
Christeson rolled his eyes again to respond and smirked. He then took the paper plate with two pop tarts (cherry frosted it looked like) and set it on the mattress beside Evan’s pillow. He put the orange juice back on the tray and took stock of his other implements: a bag of frozen peas and a rogue pop tart presumably for John to eat.
“I’ll have to run out to get Gatorade. We’re out again,”
“Mm,” Q-tip grunted, having started on his first pop tart.
“I filled up the ice trays. Of course, whoever the fuck cracked them into the ice container should have done that, but they’re obviously too fucking important. I’m going to put a note on the fridge. It’s not going to be nice either,”
“Mm,” came the resounding grunt of acknowledgment.
Christeson, took the bag of peas and crunched it between his hands before resting it on Q-tip’s boxer covered ass. Q-tip shivered, but didn’t break stride eating the pop tart. John took a seat on the bed and took his pop tart off the tray. He moved to lean back where his pillows would have been, had they not been thrown at him as he exited the room. He sighed, put the pop tart back on the tray, and got up, walking toward the door to retrieve his two pillows.
“Hey, can I get at the badass pillow? I’ll trade ya, two for one,” Q-tip asked, through the last bits of pop tart before swallowing down the bite he’d taken.
“You think I’m giving you the good pillow?” Christeson smirked, hugging it to his chest protectively.
“Mayn, I asked,” Q-tip countered, looking up at Christeson from the mattress - wearing his poker face.
“Maybe, but this is a damn good pillow and my back - you know how my back is - so I’m going to need a little more to sway me than the promise of then having two sort-of-good pillows instead.”
Q-tip just stared back. “You serious? Dude, my ass - If that ain’t worth the pillow; I just don’t know what is.”
“Are you going to straight up pull the ‘broken ass’ card for the rest of the day to get me to do everything and give you all the stuff you want?”
“That’s the strategy I made up while you was out getting my pop tart,” Evan’s poker face broke and he smiled wide.
Christeson set the subpar pillow on the bed and motioned Q-tip to lift his head. He pulled the pillow from under his cheek and put it against the other subpar pillow before sliding the good pillow in its place.
“To be clear, your ass claims are useless. That smile gets you everywhere,”
“Yo,” Q-tip grinned, reaching out and tapping his knuckles against Christeson’s hip, “That’s damn close to romantic what you just said. You still drunk?”
“Probably,” John shrugged, trying to ignore what else Evan had just said.
He sat back down on the bed, reclined against the pillows pushed up against the wall and took his pop tart in hand.
“After your ass numbs, you should probably take a shower and get cleaned up.”
“That goes for you, too then. You smell like a French whore house,”
“Is that an expert opinion?”
“Closest I’ve been to France is -“ Q-tip thought a minute, “French fries or cooking crepes, French toast, au jus, and that type of shit.”
“I’m sure I smell more like a Tijuana whore house. It was a Cuervo night after all,”
Q-tip took a bite out of his pop tart and through his full mouth, Christeson made out “Fuck Jose and his Cuervo” before the rest got garbled by the chewing. He shook his head with a smirk.
“I got class today. You woke me up early. I may kill you when I get back,” Christeson warned, with a smug grin, taking a big bite from his pop tart.
“Look at you all responsible and shit,” Evan snorted, “Hungover and stanky but you’re still going to get your learn on,”
“Some of us don’t just want to lie around all day in bed, whining, and being catered to.”
“Dawg, I’d rather go to class,” Q-tip chanced a grin, up at Christeson, “Guess it was worth it?” he shrugged.
Christeson stared at him for a minute and in silence took another bite from his pop tart. Evan shifted his pop tart to the other hand and gave Christeson a light jab in the hip with his knuckles. John looked down at him and kept his face neutral while Evan smiled up at him, with mischievous eyebrows.
“Yo, I’m playin.” He sat up on his elbows, leaning toward John, brushing his chin and nose along the curve of his bicep. “But, I think if I gotta miss class you should miss, too. It’s only fair.”
John licked his lips and turned, picking up the glass of orange juice and taking a sip. He put the glass down and looked back down to Evan, who was ghosting breath over the skin of John’s arm as he leaned away.
“Seems like I should take my education seriously since the military is paying for it; what would I do here with you, just lay around?”
“I gotta get a shower. It’s almost a damn life or death situation and,” Evan hung on the word, “Could you really bear the guilt if you went to class and left me and I fell in the shower or something?”
John finished his pop tart, a smirk forming on his lips. He shook his head, admirably and reclined against the two pillows behind him.
“The speed your mind forms up a line of complete bullshit is astounding,”
“You love how ma mind work. It’s ain’t even bullshit. I could slip in there and bust my skull open and gush blood and die. You cain’t live with that on your conscience and I don’t want to die so - “He clapped his hands together, “you got to stay home.”
Q-tip picked up his pop tart and angled the last sliver so it slid completely into his mouth while giving John a wink. Christeson started to laugh and pinched his lips together to muffle it.
“Finish your other pop tart. I don’t want you passing out from low blood sugar, too.”
Evan beamed with a grin spread the width of his face. He picked up the second pop tart and moved his other hand, resting it on the curve of John’s hip, stroking back and forth with this thumb.
“Safety first,”
“Yes, because clearly you are an accident prone disaster and I have to protect you even at risk to myself and my GPA.”
“You so dramatic,” Evan snorted, through a mouthful of pop tart.
~fin