Fic: 'Diary Of An Escape'
Title: Diary Of An Escape
Fandom: WLiiA? UK
Wordcount: 600
Rating: R
Character(s): Tony/John
Disclaimer: This is utter fantasy. I pen not a word of the truth.
Summary: Tony flees one city for another; John puts him up. Slash.
Notes: A collection of six related drabbles. My apologies. Drabbles are like chocolate - I shouldn’t indulge as often as I do.
“...so tired of it all, you know, John? So tired of London.”
Pause, that of John audibly refraining from a quotation. “Well... Why not come and stay with me?”
“In your tiny little flat?”
“You’ll love it. It’s quaint.”
Tony’s dubious silence. Then, strained, from John:
“I want you to come.”
And that was all that needed to be said, in the end. So, via a series of events ranging through various degrees of complication, to this. Tony’s early evening arrival, travel-weary and heartachingly discrete from the rest of the world, finally giving up and falling into John’s waiting arms.
...
Midnight café. Fast food. The lights and darknesses of the city blended and juxtaposed in flashes and snapshots - buses and taxis and snatches of song and brushes of hands. John and Tony, shambolically dressed - had done so post-coitally in the citylight, attention averted from each other. Not quite familiar enough for brusquity in the face of nakedness yet. Night still young, onto the street they had tumbled, arm in arm, still oversensitive from the clumsy, urgent sex in John’s rumpled bed. Everything had a texture - air against face, shirts against skin, lips on ear, hand in hand. Soft and rough.
...
Now, the scene: white-lit morning, an upmarket breakfast place, wood veneer and stools. The players: a pair of reasonably successful actor-comedians, recognisable faces; currently disarrayed and early-morning-ish, unshaven and uncombed. They sit in a sour haze of cigarette smoke. Tony, characteristically, has chosen an unashamedly absurd hot chocolate with all the trimmings, and has eaten all the whipped cream with a plastic spoon. It now sits abandoned. John, disdaining the sugar, is drinking bitter coffee. They aren’t looking at one another.
But they’re touching. Knees pressed together under the table; hands splayed on top, each’s fingertips just grazing the other’s.
...
For the first few days, they were content enough to inhabit each others’ body heat, sharing the same cramped quarters, fucking and falling asleep then waking up and fucking again to some semi-circadian rhythm. After the fourth night, however, something began to jarr. Some sort of synchronicity was lost.
Tony took long walks around the rain-slicked and short-tempered city streets, wrapped in his mac. Bars presented themselves as places to be his own man; in them, he drank Irish whiskey out of some kind of masochistic melancholy until he was drunk and heart-sick and lonely enough to return to John’s.
...
John sometimes wonders if he’s some kind of sadist. Times like now, for instance. What is it about him, what merciless instinct, that lets him drive people this far? It’s no excuse that he has had a few himself, in the solitude of his own flat while Tony was gone.
So to this clinch, this exquisite sight, and these bad vibes: Tony, half undressed underneath him on the living room floor, flushed and disoriented, short of breath and painfully hard, and John not letting him do anything about it. He wants to hear the boy beg.
Some kind of sadist?
...
Familiar, these expansive post-climax silences. They throb with darkness, the sound of breathing, the wee hours desolation of the street below. Soon, one or both of them will fall asleep. The other might get up, make coffee, smoke a cigarette leaning out of the kitchen window and feeling the night air on their face. Or they might just lie in the dark.
First, though, these words need to be said. Tony’s breathing gears up, he clears his throat, and he says, quietly, “I liked it.”
Then, John lets a bit of silence go by before asking: “When are you leaving?”
Fandom: WLiiA? UK
Wordcount: 600
Rating: R
Character(s): Tony/John
Disclaimer: This is utter fantasy. I pen not a word of the truth.
Summary: Tony flees one city for another; John puts him up. Slash.
Notes: A collection of six related drabbles. My apologies. Drabbles are like chocolate - I shouldn’t indulge as often as I do.
“...so tired of it all, you know, John? So tired of London.”
Pause, that of John audibly refraining from a quotation. “Well... Why not come and stay with me?”
“In your tiny little flat?”
“You’ll love it. It’s quaint.”
Tony’s dubious silence. Then, strained, from John:
“I want you to come.”
And that was all that needed to be said, in the end. So, via a series of events ranging through various degrees of complication, to this. Tony’s early evening arrival, travel-weary and heartachingly discrete from the rest of the world, finally giving up and falling into John’s waiting arms.
...
Midnight café. Fast food. The lights and darknesses of the city blended and juxtaposed in flashes and snapshots - buses and taxis and snatches of song and brushes of hands. John and Tony, shambolically dressed - had done so post-coitally in the citylight, attention averted from each other. Not quite familiar enough for brusquity in the face of nakedness yet. Night still young, onto the street they had tumbled, arm in arm, still oversensitive from the clumsy, urgent sex in John’s rumpled bed. Everything had a texture - air against face, shirts against skin, lips on ear, hand in hand. Soft and rough.
...
Now, the scene: white-lit morning, an upmarket breakfast place, wood veneer and stools. The players: a pair of reasonably successful actor-comedians, recognisable faces; currently disarrayed and early-morning-ish, unshaven and uncombed. They sit in a sour haze of cigarette smoke. Tony, characteristically, has chosen an unashamedly absurd hot chocolate with all the trimmings, and has eaten all the whipped cream with a plastic spoon. It now sits abandoned. John, disdaining the sugar, is drinking bitter coffee. They aren’t looking at one another.
But they’re touching. Knees pressed together under the table; hands splayed on top, each’s fingertips just grazing the other’s.
...
For the first few days, they were content enough to inhabit each others’ body heat, sharing the same cramped quarters, fucking and falling asleep then waking up and fucking again to some semi-circadian rhythm. After the fourth night, however, something began to jarr. Some sort of synchronicity was lost.
Tony took long walks around the rain-slicked and short-tempered city streets, wrapped in his mac. Bars presented themselves as places to be his own man; in them, he drank Irish whiskey out of some kind of masochistic melancholy until he was drunk and heart-sick and lonely enough to return to John’s.
...
John sometimes wonders if he’s some kind of sadist. Times like now, for instance. What is it about him, what merciless instinct, that lets him drive people this far? It’s no excuse that he has had a few himself, in the solitude of his own flat while Tony was gone.
So to this clinch, this exquisite sight, and these bad vibes: Tony, half undressed underneath him on the living room floor, flushed and disoriented, short of breath and painfully hard, and John not letting him do anything about it. He wants to hear the boy beg.
Some kind of sadist?
...
Familiar, these expansive post-climax silences. They throb with darkness, the sound of breathing, the wee hours desolation of the street below. Soon, one or both of them will fall asleep. The other might get up, make coffee, smoke a cigarette leaning out of the kitchen window and feeling the night air on their face. Or they might just lie in the dark.
First, though, these words need to be said. Tony’s breathing gears up, he clears his throat, and he says, quietly, “I liked it.”
Then, John lets a bit of silence go by before asking: “When are you leaving?”