Fic: Fishsticks' Theory of Portable Sunshine
Posting on a weekend and late at night should pretty much ensure that nobody is around to read this, eh? :-D My timing needs work. Ah, well... time for fun with minor characters!
940 words, rated... shall we say PG-14 for drugs, swearing, and making out in unhygienic places?
From the 'One-Way Streets' world again. Concrit is greatly appreciated.
Fishsticks’ Theory of Portable Sunshine
* * *
“So I figure, the trick is to live the hell out of every minute and take the good bits with you for when you need them.” Fisher paused to complete the increasingly fiddly maneuver of swapping his new buddy’s cigarette for the last of the joint. “Because it’s not going to be good all the time, right? So you need to store up, like, portable sunshine.” Pleased with the sentiment, he tapped ash into the sink between them, leaning back against the cracked mirror to take a celebratory drag.
“Too fuckin’ right,” his buddy murmured, intent on the weed.
Fisher really had tried to remember the guy’s name… Joel? Jay?... but the casual introduction had gotten tangled up in the music and the welcome heat of the guy’s fingers around Fisher’s wrist as they cut through the impromptu party towards the washrooms and it had gone right out of his head again. Which sucked, because they’d long since passed the point where Fisher could’ve asked him to repeat it without looking like a real first-class brain-lag. Whatever his name was, he had great eyes, thick-lashed and dark, and the best hands that Fisher had ever seen. They were really clean, even under his nails.
“That’s why I’m here,” Fisher continued, only realizing that he was talking again a few seconds after he’d begun. “You find a party, you party.”
“Until the Hands shut you down,” Buddy concluded. “Share?”
Fisher nodded and hopped off the countertop, swaying like an amateur for a moment before finding his legs and moving over to stand between Buddy’s knees. Buddy took the last hit off the roach and flicked it into the sink to join its fallen comrades congealing in the drain. He cupped Fisher’s face, an unexpectedly sweet gesture, and tilted his head to bring his mouth against Fisher’s, breathing out the smoke in a steady stream. His lips were hot and slightly sticky, and Fisher found himself clutching his thigh through the denim of his jeans, losing his balance with his eyes closed. He wobbled precariously.
“You okay?” Buddy asked.
Fisher opened his eyes and shot him a grin before exhaling. “Strong stuff,” he lied, because as sweet as this guy was, admitting that you hadn’t exactly eaten in a few days was always embarrassing.
The food issue was why he’d been topside this fine evening in the first place. There was no question that the guys were going to bust his balls if they figured out he’d been mooching drugs and kisses off dark-eyed city boys instead.
Screw it. Let Reni deal with trying to track down some cheap eats. K.R.’s approval meant more to Reni than it ever would to Fisher anyway. K.R., the tacit leader of their little gang, who called Fisher ‘Fishsticks’ because he was too tall and too pale and because sometimes it made Reni laugh…
Fisher loved them like family, would take the fall for them any day, would even fucking die for them if it ever came down to that. He just didn’t always like them.
(Anyway, it was another new theory that he’d been trying out lately, fucking up on purpose before he could fuck up accidentally. At least this way he always saw it coming.)
“Want to make out with me?” he asked Buddy, trying not to think about his own greasy hair, his unwashed clothes…
“What, here?”
“You got somewhere better in mind?”
They both knew where they stood. Fisher was a homeless punk pretending to be a city kid, and Buddy with his clean hands and nervous eyes seemed a whole lot like a university student slumming for kicks. For the ‘experience’. This lousy bathroom with its flickering lights and weird chemical smell was about the only place in the city where something like this could work. No Man’s Land.
Buddy squared his shoulders with a funny little intake of breath and Fisher had just enough time to wonder how old he really was before Buddy sighed “What the hell” and reeled him in to kiss him without pretense this time. Fisher happily licked the sharp sweet taste from his mouth, made a noise expressing a different kind of hunger when Buddy hooked his calf around Fisher’s thigh to tug him in closer. He had his hands tangled in Buddy’s clean dark hair when the door banged open.
They looked at the flushed partier hesitating in the doorway, and he looked at them.
“Hey, don’t mind us,” Fisher said cheerfully.
The partier rolled his eyes and headed for the urinals, making a very deliberate show of pretending not to see them. Buddy’s cheeks had gone pink, but he was clearly fighting off dope-induced giggles, and… audience or no… Fisher had to kiss him again. There was still too damn much room between them, so Fisher tugged Buddy off his perch on the counter to press him up against the tiled wall instead.
“Sink’s all yours, if you want it,” Fisher called over to the guy at the urinal, making Buddy shudder with suppressed laughter again. Fisher bit his ear lightly, trying to memorize the way Buddy’s fingers tightened against his jacket, the hesitant friction of his hips…
“I can’t remember your name,” he mumbled apologetically against his cheek and got bumped in the chin when Buddy shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m Sol.”
Sol. He’d try to remember, but knew his own mind well enough not to bet on it. It was never very much, these almost-anonymous encounters in the strangest places, but it was enough. It had to be enough.
One more dose of portable sunshine for the road.
* * *
940 words, rated... shall we say PG-14 for drugs, swearing, and making out in unhygienic places?
From the 'One-Way Streets' world again. Concrit is greatly appreciated.
Fishsticks’ Theory of Portable Sunshine
* * *
“So I figure, the trick is to live the hell out of every minute and take the good bits with you for when you need them.” Fisher paused to complete the increasingly fiddly maneuver of swapping his new buddy’s cigarette for the last of the joint. “Because it’s not going to be good all the time, right? So you need to store up, like, portable sunshine.” Pleased with the sentiment, he tapped ash into the sink between them, leaning back against the cracked mirror to take a celebratory drag.
“Too fuckin’ right,” his buddy murmured, intent on the weed.
Fisher really had tried to remember the guy’s name… Joel? Jay?... but the casual introduction had gotten tangled up in the music and the welcome heat of the guy’s fingers around Fisher’s wrist as they cut through the impromptu party towards the washrooms and it had gone right out of his head again. Which sucked, because they’d long since passed the point where Fisher could’ve asked him to repeat it without looking like a real first-class brain-lag. Whatever his name was, he had great eyes, thick-lashed and dark, and the best hands that Fisher had ever seen. They were really clean, even under his nails.
“That’s why I’m here,” Fisher continued, only realizing that he was talking again a few seconds after he’d begun. “You find a party, you party.”
“Until the Hands shut you down,” Buddy concluded. “Share?”
Fisher nodded and hopped off the countertop, swaying like an amateur for a moment before finding his legs and moving over to stand between Buddy’s knees. Buddy took the last hit off the roach and flicked it into the sink to join its fallen comrades congealing in the drain. He cupped Fisher’s face, an unexpectedly sweet gesture, and tilted his head to bring his mouth against Fisher’s, breathing out the smoke in a steady stream. His lips were hot and slightly sticky, and Fisher found himself clutching his thigh through the denim of his jeans, losing his balance with his eyes closed. He wobbled precariously.
“You okay?” Buddy asked.
Fisher opened his eyes and shot him a grin before exhaling. “Strong stuff,” he lied, because as sweet as this guy was, admitting that you hadn’t exactly eaten in a few days was always embarrassing.
The food issue was why he’d been topside this fine evening in the first place. There was no question that the guys were going to bust his balls if they figured out he’d been mooching drugs and kisses off dark-eyed city boys instead.
Screw it. Let Reni deal with trying to track down some cheap eats. K.R.’s approval meant more to Reni than it ever would to Fisher anyway. K.R., the tacit leader of their little gang, who called Fisher ‘Fishsticks’ because he was too tall and too pale and because sometimes it made Reni laugh…
Fisher loved them like family, would take the fall for them any day, would even fucking die for them if it ever came down to that. He just didn’t always like them.
(Anyway, it was another new theory that he’d been trying out lately, fucking up on purpose before he could fuck up accidentally. At least this way he always saw it coming.)
“Want to make out with me?” he asked Buddy, trying not to think about his own greasy hair, his unwashed clothes…
“What, here?”
“You got somewhere better in mind?”
They both knew where they stood. Fisher was a homeless punk pretending to be a city kid, and Buddy with his clean hands and nervous eyes seemed a whole lot like a university student slumming for kicks. For the ‘experience’. This lousy bathroom with its flickering lights and weird chemical smell was about the only place in the city where something like this could work. No Man’s Land.
Buddy squared his shoulders with a funny little intake of breath and Fisher had just enough time to wonder how old he really was before Buddy sighed “What the hell” and reeled him in to kiss him without pretense this time. Fisher happily licked the sharp sweet taste from his mouth, made a noise expressing a different kind of hunger when Buddy hooked his calf around Fisher’s thigh to tug him in closer. He had his hands tangled in Buddy’s clean dark hair when the door banged open.
They looked at the flushed partier hesitating in the doorway, and he looked at them.
“Hey, don’t mind us,” Fisher said cheerfully.
The partier rolled his eyes and headed for the urinals, making a very deliberate show of pretending not to see them. Buddy’s cheeks had gone pink, but he was clearly fighting off dope-induced giggles, and… audience or no… Fisher had to kiss him again. There was still too damn much room between them, so Fisher tugged Buddy off his perch on the counter to press him up against the tiled wall instead.
“Sink’s all yours, if you want it,” Fisher called over to the guy at the urinal, making Buddy shudder with suppressed laughter again. Fisher bit his ear lightly, trying to memorize the way Buddy’s fingers tightened against his jacket, the hesitant friction of his hips…
“I can’t remember your name,” he mumbled apologetically against his cheek and got bumped in the chin when Buddy shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m Sol.”
Sol. He’d try to remember, but knew his own mind well enough not to bet on it. It was never very much, these almost-anonymous encounters in the strangest places, but it was enough. It had to be enough.
One more dose of portable sunshine for the road.
* * *