(no subject)
Title: An ill-advised romantic liaison
Pairing: David Posner/Don Scripps
Rating: PG-13 - sexual references and copious swearing
Summary: The morning after the night before.
Word count: 700ish
Disclaimer: The History Boys belongs to its creators, and I am but a penniless student.
Don wakes up to the sound of bells. Specifically, bells ringing incredibly loudly, jarring his hangover into a new dimension of pain. He pinches at the bridge of his nose and tries to burrow back under the quilt, before two pieces of information abruptly wallop him over the head.
Firstly, he’s missed church. The bells are ringing. They do that after Sunday service.
…
Fuck.
Secondly, and somehow infinitely more worrying, there is someone in bed with him.
That and they both seem to be naked, though that’s technically three things.
Fucking hell. How can so much have gone wrong in the few minutes after waking? He’d bloody well known it’d been a bad idea to go out drinking with Pos, but He’d felt obliged. Pos had been dogging after someone else - unrequitedly of course - and had failed one of his modules for the year.
The person next to him groans a little in their sleep and flings a bony arm across his waist.
Don flinches, and something wasn’t right there, because the groan sounded distinctly male, and even worse, it sounded distinctly David Posner-like.
Don pulls back the quilt next to him just to confirm, and yep. Yep, he was right. He freezes. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking…fuck.
He’s naked - he peers under the quilt again - Fuck! Okay, both of them are naked. In bed. His head is pounding, and Pos is clinging to him like a particularly affectionate limpet and Jesus, how did they even get here?
Did they-
Bloody hell. Did anything happen last night, between the greasy takeaway food and the fourth bottle of red they’d had?
(One look at the floor reveals a trail of clothes, flung in all directions. A pair of boxers - his pair of boxers - hangs forlornly on a tasselled lampshade. He tries not to think about how they got there.)
As Sundays go, this is possibly the worst one he has ever had, including the time his cat died.
At least Tabby didn’t throw his faith, celibacy, possibly sexuality and boxers into disarray when she quietly croaked it by the fire.
But we didn’t do anything, did we?
Shut up.
Did w-
Fuck, shut up, brain.
Right. Time to steel yourself, Don, he thinks, and a useless and possibly still drunk part of his brain makes a joke about steel yourself and the fact he comes from Sheffield, before he silences it.
He lifts the arm - Posner’s arm - oh, Christ - sorry, God - and manages to move his body out from beneath it. Don tucks it back under the quilt. Thankfully, David doesn’t stir again, just drags the warm quilt towards him and pushes his face into it. Jesus.
It’s all going well, really. He has his underwear, trousers and shirt on.
Almost there he thinks, eyeing the door when -
He goes to pick up his bag from the floor, not noticing the strap caught on something, and the stupid tassel - why does Pos even have a lamp like that- goes crashing to the floor with a loud thud and rattle.
David jerks awake, nearly falling off the bed in the process. He wriggles out of the quilt, arms flailing a little, and bollocks, Don should have used the crash as cover to leg it out the door, because Pos looks at him, takes in how hastily he’s dressed himself and then -
-looks absolutely stricken.
He opens his mouth to say something, and Don just shakes his head, making for the door.
“I’m sorry, Pos, I can’t -“ he doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence, so it just hangs there, incomplete.
Pos still has that horrible look, and nods at him, just once. He seems to shrink a bit, which should be impossible, because he’s fucking small anyway, but -
Don forces himself not to look back again, picks up his bag, and leaves.