LOG; it's tough to have a crush; SIRIDEÁN + CIARÁN
who; Sirideán and Ciarán
what; Baileys, gay
when; The day after this
where; Their flat
At this point, the flat smelled strongly of lemon based cleaning products. Whether or not that would help Sirideán with his hangover wasn't quite Ciarán's concern - as he hadn't quite forgiven him and his cousin for getting smashed while he'd been out, then vomiting everywhere. His socks. All of them. His favorite sweater!
But, as ever, once everything had been cleaned- with Noelle's help, surprisingly- he found it difficult to maintain any irritation with Sirideán. It was bizarre, but one more thing he had ceased to question.
As such, he stood over the blender, meticulously adding drop by drop of milk to the banana, honey, and everything else. A milkshake had been one of his mother's remedies, and experience had taught him it was one that Sirideán preferred - or, it tasted better than tomato juice.
Sirideán did feel apologetic about the socks, and especially the sweater, and he'd resolved to buy Ciarán new ones or learn how to knit or something, to make up for it. His head was still pounding, though, and as a consequence, he wasn't about to go out to buy the apology socks and sweater just yet. Lying on the couch, listening to Ciarán bustle about in the kitchen, Sirideán tried to remember the lyrics to a song that his not!boyfriend had written.
All he could remember, though, was Yeah I like you, yeah I like you, yeah I like you I like you I like you, and so he simply repeated that phrase in his head over and over again.
As much as he had appreciated the offer, the thought of Sirideán knitting - and the foresight to know he'd wear it so much it would cross the line on disturbing six times - was a little terrifying. (And wonderful).
Once the machine finished whirring, he poured the yellow sludge into a glass, and walked into the living room. It might have been, to some, a little pathetic how short-lived his resistance was before he caved and let himself sit on the edge of the couch,on what little room he could manage, beside Sirideán.
"Here," he said, not swallowing, not thinking of his heartbeat in his ears. "... it's banana."
Having already, once upon a time, explained the virtues in such a milkshake, he kept his mouth shut thereafter as he held out the glass.
Sirideán didn't think it pathetic at all; he was simply grateful that he had such a good friend. Nor would he have found it disturbing if Ciarán did wear the not-yet-knitted sweater day in and day out.
Sitting up, he took the milkshake from him, taking a sip, and then a gulp.
"Thanks, it's pretty good." And then he began to chug it happily.
"I should think so," he retorted, pomp closing his eyes and lifting his shoulders. He had, after all, measured out each ingredient, every eighth of an inch of banana.
His eyes opened on Sirideán's throat, the movement of the skin, the bob of his adam's apple as he downed the shake. It did not occur to Ciarán to stop staring.
When he finished it, he handed the empty glass back to Ciarán, sighing contentedly. There was still some residue from the shake on his upper lip, which he didn't notice.
"What're ye doin' today?"
Ciarán noticed. Of course he did. Sometimes he hated himself for noticing, seeing far more than any normal person ought to. Compulsion had him leaning forward, his hand raised, thumb extended, ready to wipe the mustache clear. He caught himself halfway, and swiftly pulled his hand back to his lap.
"Er-" he tried, "N.. othing."
"Jaysus," he muttered to himself. "Ye feelin' like ducks?"
He meant feeding the ducks, but he'd never been that good with words, anyway.
Ciarán was good with words, which ought to have worked contrary to him understanding such a butchered question. But he understood Sirideán. As such, he regarded him with a skeptical arch to his eyebrows.
"D'ye feel like ducks? We could ... just as well stay in."
"True," he nodded serenely. Sirideán was feeling oddly satisfied with himself for someone who had spewed out the contents of his stomach all over the flat, for someone who had a pretty bad hangover. But the milkshake was good, and sitting with Ciarán was pretty kewl.
"We can jist stay in, then. Ye want some Baileys?"
Ciarán stared. As impossible as it was for him to maintain any level of irritation with someone as stupid sexy as Sirideán, as much as he knew better than to be surprised by new samples of idiocy, he found himself staring.
"I think ye've have more than enough of that for a while, don't ye?"
Sirideán stared back. His head was still throbbing.
He grinned.
His mouth moved, rounding out to form the solid NO. He knew better than to allow this, to allow him to get soaked while still hungover, and to partake. After all, how long had he spent in yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, sloshing through sick?
But looking too long at that grin made him stupid, made a smile insist his mouth and blood to threaten his cheeks. And to divert his eyes meant conceding defeat.
Ciarán looked away, preparing to stand and fetch the Baileys. After all, they were Irish. (And he'd felt rather left out when he'd come home to find them, not in regard to the sick, but otherwise).
Victoly.
He slumped back and let himself sink into the cushions of the couch as he waited for Ciarán to bring back the Baileys, and struggled to remember just what he and Noelle had talked about last night. He mostly remembered something about "fierce" and some more serious talk, but he put those thought aside to mull over later when he wasn't smashed or hungover.
It only took a minute before he had returned, bottles in hand. After a flicker of hesitation and handing Sirideán a bottle, he forced himself to sit in a proper chair. His thumb slid on the cold glass before he tipped it, having already removed the caps. His sip was, of course, dainty.
"Ah," he sighed.
"Let's chug it," Sirideán suggested. "YEAAAAAAAH."
With that said, he chugged the Baileys, choking when it got up his nose. However, this would not deter him, and he continued to chug through trembling snorts.
For all that he preferred small sips - well. Grimacing a little, Ciarán threw back his head and guzzled, managing still to only spill a small rivulet down his mouth.
After an awkward minute, the bottle was mostly finished and he lowered it to breath, his head a bit woozy. After thirty seconds, he realized he was giggling.
"Are ye giggling?" Sirideán tossed his bottle onto a different couch and sprawled out on the one he was lying on, before falling off unceremoniously onto Ciarán.
"Hyuk... bzzt."
"No," he retorted, now outright laughing. One last tilt emptied the bottle, and he set it with care beside the couch, all while laughing at -- what? But he stopped, abruptly, and his somewhat loosened posture went rigid and tense, after Sirideán fell onto him.
All at once, nothing was amusing; his smile was frozen on his face as he looked down, only able to think, she kissed him. It felt at times as if everyone had kissed him, except for Ciarán, and that - well, it wasn't fair. Not that he expected it.
"What are ye doing?" He asked, a bit surly as he half-heartedly pushed at a shoulder. "Clumsy."
"Sorry," Sirideán mumbled, simultaneously drunk and hungover. "Ye look fierce," he added.
"Noelle thinks that about ye too. Love games."
Not quite drunk yet, thought the alcohol was body-slamming his system from the speed which it had been imbibed, he felt glad he could blame the heat glowing in his cheeks on the drink.
"...What?" He asked, unable to follow the thread. Noelle had kissed him - why was that all he could think about? Had it been a game? "She didn' say that."
"What d'ye think of me?" he demanded in response.
His entire face went red, well beyond the influence of Baileys.
"..." Ciarán choked. "Er, ye better go first."
A familiar buzzing noise filled Sirideán's head as his hair began to go staticy again.
"My bzzt mate," he answered, with a noncommittal wave of the hand.
Of course. Of course. But disappointment still spun and eroded in his stomach. He leaned back, felt as if he'd gone limp, his head falling to the side.
"Right," he said, dully, "Me too."
Sirideán turned and gave Ciarán a big hug, before pushing him off, standing up, picking him up, throwing him over his shoulder, and taking large, wobbly steps to his room.
He forgot to open the door, though, and walked straight into it.
"Bzzt motherfuuuuck."
He hadn't been given time to react. The hug left him red and wide-eyed and sorely tempted to threaten Sirideán's sexuality. Then he was in the air, too surprised to even yell or struggle - and then a door hit them.
"...Whaftrredoinnnnnnng, put me down!" Or don't, he added mentally, his hair hanging around his face as he stared at Sirideán's backside.
"Bzzt bzzt bzzt bzzt," he chanted methodically, beating his head against the door with each incantation. It helped him feel a little calmer about having Ciarán on his back, though it didn't stop his hair from sticking up more and more.
"What are you doing," Ciarán repeated, enunciating slowly. He raised his arms in slow, stiff movements, bending his elbows up as he groped at Sirideán's shoulders. And his face glowed bright red.
"You should ... probably put me down."
"Okay," Sirideán drunkenly conceded. Yawning, he gently placed Ciarán down before taking a seat on the ground himself, and fell to the floor while dragging Ciarán with him.
"Bzzzzzzt."
Softening the blow of the ground's impact with his hands, he found himself abruptly seated and slouched against Sirideán's chest. After a half-minute of his heart pulsing in his ears, he cleared his throat with a small, delicate sound. And mumbled.
"Ye -- I don't just think of ye as me mate."
"Eh?"
Though his tongue wanted to move, so loosened by the alcohol, he found himself freezing. Baileys couldn't undo years of disappointment.
"Never mind," he muttered, pulling free to straighten, to sit arm-to-arm with his oldest and, really, sadly, only friend. He didn't even notice, immediately, that he'd begun to hum that song - Yeah, I like you. Ciarán licked his lips.
"YEAH I LIKE YOU I LIKE YOU I LIKE YOU," Sirideán continued for him.
He leaned over further to look into Ciarán's eyes, and furrowed his brows. Staying like that for a few moments, he abruptly brushed his lips against Ciarán's cheek, and fell to the floor with a thud.
That's the problem, he thought, but it wasn't really. It was as natural and commonplace as breathing - liking Sirideán. So he stared back, confused, wondering what stupid thing would come out of his mouth, because Sirideán lookd pretty puzzled himself.
Then he kissed him. On the cheek - but. But. Sirideán's collapse prevented from having to react, from having to do more than clutch his cheek and resist the urge to either throw himself on Sirideán or ... vomit.
"Jaysus," he whispered.
what; Baileys, gay
when; The day after this
where; Their flat
At this point, the flat smelled strongly of lemon based cleaning products. Whether or not that would help Sirideán with his hangover wasn't quite Ciarán's concern - as he hadn't quite forgiven him and his cousin for getting smashed while he'd been out, then vomiting everywhere. His socks. All of them. His favorite sweater!
But, as ever, once everything had been cleaned- with Noelle's help, surprisingly- he found it difficult to maintain any irritation with Sirideán. It was bizarre, but one more thing he had ceased to question.
As such, he stood over the blender, meticulously adding drop by drop of milk to the banana, honey, and everything else. A milkshake had been one of his mother's remedies, and experience had taught him it was one that Sirideán preferred - or, it tasted better than tomato juice.
Sirideán did feel apologetic about the socks, and especially the sweater, and he'd resolved to buy Ciarán new ones or learn how to knit or something, to make up for it. His head was still pounding, though, and as a consequence, he wasn't about to go out to buy the apology socks and sweater just yet. Lying on the couch, listening to Ciarán bustle about in the kitchen, Sirideán tried to remember the lyrics to a song that his not!boyfriend had written.
All he could remember, though, was Yeah I like you, yeah I like you, yeah I like you I like you I like you, and so he simply repeated that phrase in his head over and over again.
As much as he had appreciated the offer, the thought of Sirideán knitting - and the foresight to know he'd wear it so much it would cross the line on disturbing six times - was a little terrifying. (And wonderful).
Once the machine finished whirring, he poured the yellow sludge into a glass, and walked into the living room. It might have been, to some, a little pathetic how short-lived his resistance was before he caved and let himself sit on the edge of the couch,on what little room he could manage, beside Sirideán.
"Here," he said, not swallowing, not thinking of his heartbeat in his ears. "... it's banana."
Having already, once upon a time, explained the virtues in such a milkshake, he kept his mouth shut thereafter as he held out the glass.
Sirideán didn't think it pathetic at all; he was simply grateful that he had such a good friend. Nor would he have found it disturbing if Ciarán did wear the not-yet-knitted sweater day in and day out.
Sitting up, he took the milkshake from him, taking a sip, and then a gulp.
"Thanks, it's pretty good." And then he began to chug it happily.
"I should think so," he retorted, pomp closing his eyes and lifting his shoulders. He had, after all, measured out each ingredient, every eighth of an inch of banana.
His eyes opened on Sirideán's throat, the movement of the skin, the bob of his adam's apple as he downed the shake. It did not occur to Ciarán to stop staring.
When he finished it, he handed the empty glass back to Ciarán, sighing contentedly. There was still some residue from the shake on his upper lip, which he didn't notice.
"What're ye doin' today?"
Ciarán noticed. Of course he did. Sometimes he hated himself for noticing, seeing far more than any normal person ought to. Compulsion had him leaning forward, his hand raised, thumb extended, ready to wipe the mustache clear. He caught himself halfway, and swiftly pulled his hand back to his lap.
"Er-" he tried, "N.. othing."
"Jaysus," he muttered to himself. "Ye feelin' like ducks?"
He meant feeding the ducks, but he'd never been that good with words, anyway.
Ciarán was good with words, which ought to have worked contrary to him understanding such a butchered question. But he understood Sirideán. As such, he regarded him with a skeptical arch to his eyebrows.
"D'ye feel like ducks? We could ... just as well stay in."
"True," he nodded serenely. Sirideán was feeling oddly satisfied with himself for someone who had spewed out the contents of his stomach all over the flat, for someone who had a pretty bad hangover. But the milkshake was good, and sitting with Ciarán was pretty kewl.
"We can jist stay in, then. Ye want some Baileys?"
Ciarán stared. As impossible as it was for him to maintain any level of irritation with someone as stupid sexy as Sirideán, as much as he knew better than to be surprised by new samples of idiocy, he found himself staring.
"I think ye've have more than enough of that for a while, don't ye?"
Sirideán stared back. His head was still throbbing.
He grinned.
His mouth moved, rounding out to form the solid NO. He knew better than to allow this, to allow him to get soaked while still hungover, and to partake. After all, how long had he spent in yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, sloshing through sick?
But looking too long at that grin made him stupid, made a smile insist his mouth and blood to threaten his cheeks. And to divert his eyes meant conceding defeat.
Ciarán looked away, preparing to stand and fetch the Baileys. After all, they were Irish. (And he'd felt rather left out when he'd come home to find them, not in regard to the sick, but otherwise).
Victoly.
He slumped back and let himself sink into the cushions of the couch as he waited for Ciarán to bring back the Baileys, and struggled to remember just what he and Noelle had talked about last night. He mostly remembered something about "fierce" and some more serious talk, but he put those thought aside to mull over later when he wasn't smashed or hungover.
It only took a minute before he had returned, bottles in hand. After a flicker of hesitation and handing Sirideán a bottle, he forced himself to sit in a proper chair. His thumb slid on the cold glass before he tipped it, having already removed the caps. His sip was, of course, dainty.
"Ah," he sighed.
"Let's chug it," Sirideán suggested. "YEAAAAAAAH."
With that said, he chugged the Baileys, choking when it got up his nose. However, this would not deter him, and he continued to chug through trembling snorts.
For all that he preferred small sips - well. Grimacing a little, Ciarán threw back his head and guzzled, managing still to only spill a small rivulet down his mouth.
After an awkward minute, the bottle was mostly finished and he lowered it to breath, his head a bit woozy. After thirty seconds, he realized he was giggling.
"Are ye giggling?" Sirideán tossed his bottle onto a different couch and sprawled out on the one he was lying on, before falling off unceremoniously onto Ciarán.
"Hyuk... bzzt."
"No," he retorted, now outright laughing. One last tilt emptied the bottle, and he set it with care beside the couch, all while laughing at -- what? But he stopped, abruptly, and his somewhat loosened posture went rigid and tense, after Sirideán fell onto him.
All at once, nothing was amusing; his smile was frozen on his face as he looked down, only able to think, she kissed him. It felt at times as if everyone had kissed him, except for Ciarán, and that - well, it wasn't fair. Not that he expected it.
"What are ye doing?" He asked, a bit surly as he half-heartedly pushed at a shoulder. "Clumsy."
"Sorry," Sirideán mumbled, simultaneously drunk and hungover. "Ye look fierce," he added.
"Noelle thinks that about ye too. Love games."
Not quite drunk yet, thought the alcohol was body-slamming his system from the speed which it had been imbibed, he felt glad he could blame the heat glowing in his cheeks on the drink.
"...What?" He asked, unable to follow the thread. Noelle had kissed him - why was that all he could think about? Had it been a game? "She didn' say that."
"What d'ye think of me?" he demanded in response.
His entire face went red, well beyond the influence of Baileys.
"..." Ciarán choked. "Er, ye better go first."
A familiar buzzing noise filled Sirideán's head as his hair began to go staticy again.
"My bzzt mate," he answered, with a noncommittal wave of the hand.
Of course. Of course. But disappointment still spun and eroded in his stomach. He leaned back, felt as if he'd gone limp, his head falling to the side.
"Right," he said, dully, "Me too."
Sirideán turned and gave Ciarán a big hug, before pushing him off, standing up, picking him up, throwing him over his shoulder, and taking large, wobbly steps to his room.
He forgot to open the door, though, and walked straight into it.
"Bzzt motherfuuuuck."
He hadn't been given time to react. The hug left him red and wide-eyed and sorely tempted to threaten Sirideán's sexuality. Then he was in the air, too surprised to even yell or struggle - and then a door hit them.
"...Whaftrredoinnnnnnng, put me down!" Or don't, he added mentally, his hair hanging around his face as he stared at Sirideán's backside.
"Bzzt bzzt bzzt bzzt," he chanted methodically, beating his head against the door with each incantation. It helped him feel a little calmer about having Ciarán on his back, though it didn't stop his hair from sticking up more and more.
"What are you doing," Ciarán repeated, enunciating slowly. He raised his arms in slow, stiff movements, bending his elbows up as he groped at Sirideán's shoulders. And his face glowed bright red.
"You should ... probably put me down."
"Okay," Sirideán drunkenly conceded. Yawning, he gently placed Ciarán down before taking a seat on the ground himself, and fell to the floor while dragging Ciarán with him.
"Bzzzzzzt."
Softening the blow of the ground's impact with his hands, he found himself abruptly seated and slouched against Sirideán's chest. After a half-minute of his heart pulsing in his ears, he cleared his throat with a small, delicate sound. And mumbled.
"Ye -- I don't just think of ye as me mate."
"Eh?"
Though his tongue wanted to move, so loosened by the alcohol, he found himself freezing. Baileys couldn't undo years of disappointment.
"Never mind," he muttered, pulling free to straighten, to sit arm-to-arm with his oldest and, really, sadly, only friend. He didn't even notice, immediately, that he'd begun to hum that song - Yeah, I like you. Ciarán licked his lips.
"YEAH I LIKE YOU I LIKE YOU I LIKE YOU," Sirideán continued for him.
He leaned over further to look into Ciarán's eyes, and furrowed his brows. Staying like that for a few moments, he abruptly brushed his lips against Ciarán's cheek, and fell to the floor with a thud.
That's the problem, he thought, but it wasn't really. It was as natural and commonplace as breathing - liking Sirideán. So he stared back, confused, wondering what stupid thing would come out of his mouth, because Sirideán lookd pretty puzzled himself.
Then he kissed him. On the cheek - but. But. Sirideán's collapse prevented from having to react, from having to do more than clutch his cheek and resist the urge to either throw himself on Sirideán or ... vomit.
"Jaysus," he whispered.