(no subject)
Title: Good/Bad
Pairings: Maxxie/James, Maxxie/Anwar
Rating: pg13
Warnings: slight homophobia
Wordcount: 1770
Summary: Anwar gets in a bit over his head when he follows Maxxie and James to London.
Spoilers: 2/10
Disclaimer: Skins is not mine, if it was Sid would never have left Tony.
Author's note: It's my first Skins fic, but I've been in Harry Potter for seven years, so the Brit-picking should be fairly good. Also based on the prompt 'kiss' for my Skins fic table.
It's good for three hours.
It takes two hours to get from Bristol to London, and that's good. Anwar starts to get to know James. Not deep stuff, just the stuff that matters; James would rather bike than bus anywhere, he thinks techno is awful crap and Queen is the best band in the history of mankind, and he does drugs. Not that Anwar thought Maxxie would last in a long-term relationship with someone that doesn't know the power of E, the calm of pot, but it's important to check. They sit on the plush seats, James against the window leaning forward, Maxxie on the aisle seat, and Anwar on the other side of the aisle, just talking and eating crisps and it's good.
After the trip they go straight to the flat. Their flat. Anwar wants to believe that 'their' means James and Maxxie and Anwar, but he can still hear Sketch's voice in the back of his head. He wonders how long it will take to crush it. It's obvious they've already spent some time moving in; an explanation for both of them only having small duffles. There's only one bed, but Anwar's slept in far more uncomfortable places than a couch during the myriad of house parties. They settle in their belongings, even have a small bicker over which of the two small closets is for food, and which for towels. Anwar roots for James' side, but isn't strongly invested. The flat is only thirty steps from wall to wall anyway. It takes an hour, all told, and it's good.
But then James lets out a huge yawn, and says he's knackered. He turns and walks to the door that hides the bedroom, and Maxxie follows him with a smile. Anwar wants to protest it's only two, any great party would be just starting at this hour, but knows his place. When the boyfriend goes to bed, the boyfriend goes with him, he doesn't stay up with the freeloading best friend.
Anwar falls back on the couch, stretching his legs out. The cushions are fairly padded for what must be a thrift shop purchase, it'll make a good enough bed. Of course, sleeping with a blanket would be far better. He's about to get up and ask if they have a spare one in their room, when he realises something horrific.
He can hear them. Maxxie and James are talking about the auditioning process, how to make Maxxie seem like the perfect leading man. Every word is crystal clear. The walls must be thinner than the onion skin that he always has to chop for soup. Which is fine now, -James is right, Maxxie will be amazing- but it's a bedroom, and they're boyfriends in their late teens. Shit, he doesn't even have his fucking headphones with him.
It doesn't take long before James asks 'where the fuck is it' and Maxxie tells him to check the dresser drawer. Anwar tries to shut down his hearing, covering his ear with his hands and humming, but it doesn't work. The first fuck yeah cuts through his effort like a hot knife through butter. There are bedsprings creaking, and the only thing more distracting than Maxxie's groans is his mental mantra of 'this is bad, this is bad, bad bad bad bad badbadbadbad'.
In the morning he doesn't say anything. Maxxie's gotten a loaf of bread from a grocer down the street, and all Anwar has to do is eat toast. Maxxie leaves first, off to figure out where the talent hangs out. James gives him a kiss before he leaves, and Anwar tries to not picture the black haired boy's lips sucking cock.
James helps him type up a quick resume, and they spend the day trying to get jobs. Places like coffee shops don't care about his exams results, something for which he's extremely grateful. By the end of the day he's officially a waiter at a shitty little restaurant. James follows him to get some all black clothing so he can look professional, loaning him the dosh when Anwar realises at the cashier his wallet is in his room at home.
It's been a productive day, and chatting with James about best trips and parties during their hunt was enough to make Anwar feel comfortable with him. But the moment they climb the four flights and James uses his gold key to open the door, his heart sinks. Maxxie is waiting there, the smell of melting peanut butter indicating they're having toast for dinner too.
Suddenly it's lie being back in Russia. Maxxie's being gay is the most important bit of him, because in a few hours they're going to 'crash' and that will be code word for doing gay things, and it's just bad. Every. Fucking. Time. he looks at Maxxie he sees him having sex, and it's enough to make him want to scratch his eyeballs out.
Three days later, Maxxie corners him. He's just gotten home from a shift, he's still in his sweaty black shirt and trousers, and with his eyes closed he doesn't realise Maxxie's hovering until it's too late. Until Maxxie drops down and fucking straddles his lap, so he can force Anwar to look him straight in the eyes.
"So," he says conversationally, "What the fuck?"
"What's that, mate?"
"Are we though? Because you haven't looked at me in three days. So, again, what the fuck?"
Anwar wants to deny the hell out of it. He doesn't want to have this conversation, and he especially doesn't want to face the fallout from what might be said. The last time they had a gay equals disturbing conversation they stopped being friends for a month.
But on the other hand, as he's laying there trying not to pay attention to their noises, all he can think about is leaving.
"I don't want to be like Sketch!" he says, too late realising he's shouted it.
Apparently that's not what Maxxie had expected to hear, he's floored. It takes him a second to recover with "You don't want to stalk me and try to poison Michelle? I don't think you have to worry about it."
Fucking hell, obviously not. "No. Wanker. I don't want to not have any mates and be fucking happy about it."
"So don't then. Or what, we're not mates?"
It's like a sixth sense. Tell Maxxie, he'll understand. Anwar doesn't know where the voice comes from, he doesn't want to be blasphemous but it's like the voice of the Prophet, letting him know everything will be okay.
"Right now you're really freaking me the fuck out. I can hear you getting off, the walls are too thin, I can hear it. Maxxie, I can hear you come, and every time I look at you I can see you and hear you and you're sitting on me like you'd sit on him and you're really freaking me out!"
"Oh. Shit." Maxxie closes his eyes for a second, but he doesn't move off, and Anwar can't stop thinking about the way his arse his resting heavily on his thighs. "Well, aside from moving to a different, more expensive flat, I can't think of a way to fix it. We're not going to stop shagging."
And that's really what it boils down to, isn't it? Maxxie and James stop shagging, or Anwar moves out. Either is a total shit option.
Anwar is not a good critical thinker, which showed itself quite well in his E's and U's. But as he thinks desperately that there's got to be another solution, it comes to him. He just has to make himself be okay with it.
Before he can stop himself, he stops slouching. The slight change in posture is enough to push his chest into Maxxie's, and he takes advantage of the shakiness the bump causes by angling his head and kissing Maxxie. It's short, something just as easily done on a cheek or forehead, but it changes everything. Maxxie pulls back, enough that he nearly falls off Anwar's knees onto the floor, and stares. Anwar looks back, panic and fear showing just as much as desperation to find a way to not be freaked out by gayness, and need to keep Maxxie. Anwar doesn't know which of it Maxxie sees, but whatever it is, Maxxie likes it enough to scootch forward again and kiss Anwar back.
This one is a real one. Maxxie's tongue is in his mouth, and in his head the bit screaming what the fuck are you doing is warring with sod off, and any second now his brain is going to declare jihad on itself, but everything turns into grey fuzz when Maxxie's hand lands on his cock. His stupid, almost shiny work trousers with the plastic zip and no belt loops, shit, it's only been three days and he already hates his uniform with a passion rivalling only those that sell E that's all meth and no MDMA.
Maxxie's having trouble getting the tiny teeth of the zip to pull apart, and the anticipation is fucking killing him. It has to be either do this and finally understand, or don't do it and live a pathetic live with Sketch as his only friend, he shouldn't have to wait after he's made his choice.
Anwar nearly sighs into Maxxie's mouth when it finally comes undone. His hand feels cold against his sweaty, overheated body, more like a Popsicle is jerking him off than anything else. But he arches up into the touch, and each time he moves Maxxie moves with him. Such a perfect balance, it's no wonder Maxxie's going to be a famous dancer.
He doesn't touch Maxxie, anywhere other than the lips. His hands are balled into fists at his side, but he's not sure he could stop kissing him if he was asked at gunpoint, it's like a lifeline. Each time he thinks this is wrong he counters with this is Maxxie and it makes it better.
After it ends, they don't talk. Maxxie looks at Anwar's come on his hand, his own come on Anwar's stomach, and Anwar follows his movements as he gets up to wipe his hand on a dishrag from the kitchen. Which is a little disturbing, actually, if it doesn't get put in the laundry before being used again. Anwar doesn't say 'that was surprisingly good', Maxxie doesn't say 'this can't happen again, I have a boyfriend,' Anwar doesn't say 'that's sort of the point'. They don't need to. Anwar has known Maxxie for five years, and sometimes they can move beyond words. Maybe even beyond Good and Bad, to just Is.
Pairings: Maxxie/James, Maxxie/Anwar
Rating: pg13
Warnings: slight homophobia
Wordcount: 1770
Summary: Anwar gets in a bit over his head when he follows Maxxie and James to London.
Spoilers: 2/10
Disclaimer: Skins is not mine, if it was Sid would never have left Tony.
Author's note: It's my first Skins fic, but I've been in Harry Potter for seven years, so the Brit-picking should be fairly good. Also based on the prompt 'kiss' for my Skins fic table.
It's good for three hours.
It takes two hours to get from Bristol to London, and that's good. Anwar starts to get to know James. Not deep stuff, just the stuff that matters; James would rather bike than bus anywhere, he thinks techno is awful crap and Queen is the best band in the history of mankind, and he does drugs. Not that Anwar thought Maxxie would last in a long-term relationship with someone that doesn't know the power of E, the calm of pot, but it's important to check. They sit on the plush seats, James against the window leaning forward, Maxxie on the aisle seat, and Anwar on the other side of the aisle, just talking and eating crisps and it's good.
After the trip they go straight to the flat. Their flat. Anwar wants to believe that 'their' means James and Maxxie and Anwar, but he can still hear Sketch's voice in the back of his head. He wonders how long it will take to crush it. It's obvious they've already spent some time moving in; an explanation for both of them only having small duffles. There's only one bed, but Anwar's slept in far more uncomfortable places than a couch during the myriad of house parties. They settle in their belongings, even have a small bicker over which of the two small closets is for food, and which for towels. Anwar roots for James' side, but isn't strongly invested. The flat is only thirty steps from wall to wall anyway. It takes an hour, all told, and it's good.
But then James lets out a huge yawn, and says he's knackered. He turns and walks to the door that hides the bedroom, and Maxxie follows him with a smile. Anwar wants to protest it's only two, any great party would be just starting at this hour, but knows his place. When the boyfriend goes to bed, the boyfriend goes with him, he doesn't stay up with the freeloading best friend.
Anwar falls back on the couch, stretching his legs out. The cushions are fairly padded for what must be a thrift shop purchase, it'll make a good enough bed. Of course, sleeping with a blanket would be far better. He's about to get up and ask if they have a spare one in their room, when he realises something horrific.
He can hear them. Maxxie and James are talking about the auditioning process, how to make Maxxie seem like the perfect leading man. Every word is crystal clear. The walls must be thinner than the onion skin that he always has to chop for soup. Which is fine now, -James is right, Maxxie will be amazing- but it's a bedroom, and they're boyfriends in their late teens. Shit, he doesn't even have his fucking headphones with him.
It doesn't take long before James asks 'where the fuck is it' and Maxxie tells him to check the dresser drawer. Anwar tries to shut down his hearing, covering his ear with his hands and humming, but it doesn't work. The first fuck yeah cuts through his effort like a hot knife through butter. There are bedsprings creaking, and the only thing more distracting than Maxxie's groans is his mental mantra of 'this is bad, this is bad, bad bad bad bad badbadbadbad'.
In the morning he doesn't say anything. Maxxie's gotten a loaf of bread from a grocer down the street, and all Anwar has to do is eat toast. Maxxie leaves first, off to figure out where the talent hangs out. James gives him a kiss before he leaves, and Anwar tries to not picture the black haired boy's lips sucking cock.
James helps him type up a quick resume, and they spend the day trying to get jobs. Places like coffee shops don't care about his exams results, something for which he's extremely grateful. By the end of the day he's officially a waiter at a shitty little restaurant. James follows him to get some all black clothing so he can look professional, loaning him the dosh when Anwar realises at the cashier his wallet is in his room at home.
It's been a productive day, and chatting with James about best trips and parties during their hunt was enough to make Anwar feel comfortable with him. But the moment they climb the four flights and James uses his gold key to open the door, his heart sinks. Maxxie is waiting there, the smell of melting peanut butter indicating they're having toast for dinner too.
Suddenly it's lie being back in Russia. Maxxie's being gay is the most important bit of him, because in a few hours they're going to 'crash' and that will be code word for doing gay things, and it's just bad. Every. Fucking. Time. he looks at Maxxie he sees him having sex, and it's enough to make him want to scratch his eyeballs out.
Three days later, Maxxie corners him. He's just gotten home from a shift, he's still in his sweaty black shirt and trousers, and with his eyes closed he doesn't realise Maxxie's hovering until it's too late. Until Maxxie drops down and fucking straddles his lap, so he can force Anwar to look him straight in the eyes.
"So," he says conversationally, "What the fuck?"
"What's that, mate?"
"Are we though? Because you haven't looked at me in three days. So, again, what the fuck?"
Anwar wants to deny the hell out of it. He doesn't want to have this conversation, and he especially doesn't want to face the fallout from what might be said. The last time they had a gay equals disturbing conversation they stopped being friends for a month.
But on the other hand, as he's laying there trying not to pay attention to their noises, all he can think about is leaving.
"I don't want to be like Sketch!" he says, too late realising he's shouted it.
Apparently that's not what Maxxie had expected to hear, he's floored. It takes him a second to recover with "You don't want to stalk me and try to poison Michelle? I don't think you have to worry about it."
Fucking hell, obviously not. "No. Wanker. I don't want to not have any mates and be fucking happy about it."
"So don't then. Or what, we're not mates?"
It's like a sixth sense. Tell Maxxie, he'll understand. Anwar doesn't know where the voice comes from, he doesn't want to be blasphemous but it's like the voice of the Prophet, letting him know everything will be okay.
"Right now you're really freaking me the fuck out. I can hear you getting off, the walls are too thin, I can hear it. Maxxie, I can hear you come, and every time I look at you I can see you and hear you and you're sitting on me like you'd sit on him and you're really freaking me out!"
"Oh. Shit." Maxxie closes his eyes for a second, but he doesn't move off, and Anwar can't stop thinking about the way his arse his resting heavily on his thighs. "Well, aside from moving to a different, more expensive flat, I can't think of a way to fix it. We're not going to stop shagging."
And that's really what it boils down to, isn't it? Maxxie and James stop shagging, or Anwar moves out. Either is a total shit option.
Anwar is not a good critical thinker, which showed itself quite well in his E's and U's. But as he thinks desperately that there's got to be another solution, it comes to him. He just has to make himself be okay with it.
Before he can stop himself, he stops slouching. The slight change in posture is enough to push his chest into Maxxie's, and he takes advantage of the shakiness the bump causes by angling his head and kissing Maxxie. It's short, something just as easily done on a cheek or forehead, but it changes everything. Maxxie pulls back, enough that he nearly falls off Anwar's knees onto the floor, and stares. Anwar looks back, panic and fear showing just as much as desperation to find a way to not be freaked out by gayness, and need to keep Maxxie. Anwar doesn't know which of it Maxxie sees, but whatever it is, Maxxie likes it enough to scootch forward again and kiss Anwar back.
This one is a real one. Maxxie's tongue is in his mouth, and in his head the bit screaming what the fuck are you doing is warring with sod off, and any second now his brain is going to declare jihad on itself, but everything turns into grey fuzz when Maxxie's hand lands on his cock. His stupid, almost shiny work trousers with the plastic zip and no belt loops, shit, it's only been three days and he already hates his uniform with a passion rivalling only those that sell E that's all meth and no MDMA.
Maxxie's having trouble getting the tiny teeth of the zip to pull apart, and the anticipation is fucking killing him. It has to be either do this and finally understand, or don't do it and live a pathetic live with Sketch as his only friend, he shouldn't have to wait after he's made his choice.
Anwar nearly sighs into Maxxie's mouth when it finally comes undone. His hand feels cold against his sweaty, overheated body, more like a Popsicle is jerking him off than anything else. But he arches up into the touch, and each time he moves Maxxie moves with him. Such a perfect balance, it's no wonder Maxxie's going to be a famous dancer.
He doesn't touch Maxxie, anywhere other than the lips. His hands are balled into fists at his side, but he's not sure he could stop kissing him if he was asked at gunpoint, it's like a lifeline. Each time he thinks this is wrong he counters with this is Maxxie and it makes it better.
After it ends, they don't talk. Maxxie looks at Anwar's come on his hand, his own come on Anwar's stomach, and Anwar follows his movements as he gets up to wipe his hand on a dishrag from the kitchen. Which is a little disturbing, actually, if it doesn't get put in the laundry before being used again. Anwar doesn't say 'that was surprisingly good', Maxxie doesn't say 'this can't happen again, I have a boyfriend,' Anwar doesn't say 'that's sort of the point'. They don't need to. Anwar has known Maxxie for five years, and sometimes they can move beyond words. Maybe even beyond Good and Bad, to just Is.