(no subject)
Routine
Ray/Ray
840 words
PG13
for the Less Is More minichallenge
He's got his cell held a few inches from his ear as we come in the door and even I can hear Ma going on about why couldn't he have called sooner and how she made his very favorite for dinner tonight and she's amazed we haven't starved to death already and why does he insist on being such a disappointment to her. And yeah, I know Vecchio practically lives here now, but-- the way he toes his shoes off and hangs his jacket up and flops onto my couch (all while trying to placate his mother), he just acts like he's been here forever. Like he belongs here.
And isn't that exactly what I want? Gift horse, Kowalski. I take my boots off and kick them toward the wall. They land on their sides, next to his shoes.
I keep an eye on him from the kitchen while I order our usual from House Of Hunan. He's got his feet up on the coffee table-- bare. When did he get rid of his socks? He has good feet. Long and slim like the rest of him. Hairy toes, but yannow, guy. Nice ankles. He's a good dancer. Leads well. Follows well, too. No effort, just instinct. Fucking incredible turn on.
Mrs. Chen's shouting that it will be about twenty minutes brings me back to reality. Uh, oops. I thank her and crack open two bottles of Leinie's.
The tv is on now. The last inning or so (just to see exactly how badly the Cubs fuck it up), news at ten, the Simpsons, then bed. Best idea I've had all day. I drop down next to him, and he shoves his cell across the table with a foot to make room for my feet and the beer. "Food in twenty minutes."
"Great. I'm starving." He grabs a bottle and takes a mouthful. His tie hangs over the back of the couch where he tossed it and the two top buttons of his white dress shirt are undone, showing off his long neck and olive skin. Cuffs pushed up over lean forearms, brown bottle dangling from long fingers. God, the things I wanna do to him.
And then the buzzer goes downstairs. I must have been staring longer than I thought. Way longer. Right, food.
My face is flushed, I can feel it. Joey Chen smirks at me as I pay him. Shut the hell up, you little punk. See if I ever waive any of your parking tickets.
Vecchio's got chopsticks and more beer on the coffee table when I get back upstairs. "Let's go, come on, we haven't eaten since noon."
"Yeah, don't get your panties in a wad." I pull a container out and sniff it. "Sesame chicken. Yours." I hand him a container of rice too and he digs in. Guess he was starving.
In the middle of the news' obligatory family values feel-good story about some kid who, I dunno, collected box tops for school or something, Vecchio jumps up, swears loudly, and runs to the kitchen.
"What?"
"Shit!"
For Chrissake. I haul myself up and go see what his problem is. He's at the sink, shirt off, running it under cold water. I guess he dropped a piece of chicken; he never was too good with chopsticks.
"Here, let me do that. Go find something to wear." He hands the stained and dripping shirt to me with a little "thank-you" smile, and wanders back into the bedroom.
Cold water does the trick, and the sticky stain is gone in a few minutes. I hang his shirt up with a hanger on the shower curtain rod because he'll bitch if I just hang it over the rod like a normal person.
I hear the Simpsons theme starting up, so I go back out to the living room.
Where Vecchio is sitting.
On the couch.
In my Bulls t-shirt.
Jesus.
It's really old, so it kind of clings to the curves of his shoulders and chest, and the neckline is all stretched out of whack so I can see a little bit of chest hair, and-- fuck. He's wearing my Bulls shirt. My favorite shirt. The shirt he always whines about, the shirt I was convinced he'd burn if he ever got his hands on it.
I swallow. "Vecchio."
"Yeah?"
"You're wearing my shirt."
"Is that a problem?"
"I-- You hate that shirt."
"It was clean."
"Oh."
I sit down next to him. I can't quit looking at the faded black cotton lying on his upper arm, and how the "BULLS" logo is a little warped from years of stretching it with a shoulder holster, and I touch his shoulder before I even think about it. The fabric's soft from a million washings, and his skin is soft underneath it. I might actually be losing my mind.
"Kowalski."
I jerk my hand away. "What?"
"Eat your Chinese." But he smiles at me and it's full of a thousand promises.
I eat my Chinese.
Ray/Ray
840 words
PG13
for the Less Is More minichallenge
He's got his cell held a few inches from his ear as we come in the door and even I can hear Ma going on about why couldn't he have called sooner and how she made his very favorite for dinner tonight and she's amazed we haven't starved to death already and why does he insist on being such a disappointment to her. And yeah, I know Vecchio practically lives here now, but-- the way he toes his shoes off and hangs his jacket up and flops onto my couch (all while trying to placate his mother), he just acts like he's been here forever. Like he belongs here.
And isn't that exactly what I want? Gift horse, Kowalski. I take my boots off and kick them toward the wall. They land on their sides, next to his shoes.
I keep an eye on him from the kitchen while I order our usual from House Of Hunan. He's got his feet up on the coffee table-- bare. When did he get rid of his socks? He has good feet. Long and slim like the rest of him. Hairy toes, but yannow, guy. Nice ankles. He's a good dancer. Leads well. Follows well, too. No effort, just instinct. Fucking incredible turn on.
Mrs. Chen's shouting that it will be about twenty minutes brings me back to reality. Uh, oops. I thank her and crack open two bottles of Leinie's.
The tv is on now. The last inning or so (just to see exactly how badly the Cubs fuck it up), news at ten, the Simpsons, then bed. Best idea I've had all day. I drop down next to him, and he shoves his cell across the table with a foot to make room for my feet and the beer. "Food in twenty minutes."
"Great. I'm starving." He grabs a bottle and takes a mouthful. His tie hangs over the back of the couch where he tossed it and the two top buttons of his white dress shirt are undone, showing off his long neck and olive skin. Cuffs pushed up over lean forearms, brown bottle dangling from long fingers. God, the things I wanna do to him.
And then the buzzer goes downstairs. I must have been staring longer than I thought. Way longer. Right, food.
My face is flushed, I can feel it. Joey Chen smirks at me as I pay him. Shut the hell up, you little punk. See if I ever waive any of your parking tickets.
Vecchio's got chopsticks and more beer on the coffee table when I get back upstairs. "Let's go, come on, we haven't eaten since noon."
"Yeah, don't get your panties in a wad." I pull a container out and sniff it. "Sesame chicken. Yours." I hand him a container of rice too and he digs in. Guess he was starving.
In the middle of the news' obligatory family values feel-good story about some kid who, I dunno, collected box tops for school or something, Vecchio jumps up, swears loudly, and runs to the kitchen.
"What?"
"Shit!"
For Chrissake. I haul myself up and go see what his problem is. He's at the sink, shirt off, running it under cold water. I guess he dropped a piece of chicken; he never was too good with chopsticks.
"Here, let me do that. Go find something to wear." He hands the stained and dripping shirt to me with a little "thank-you" smile, and wanders back into the bedroom.
Cold water does the trick, and the sticky stain is gone in a few minutes. I hang his shirt up with a hanger on the shower curtain rod because he'll bitch if I just hang it over the rod like a normal person.
I hear the Simpsons theme starting up, so I go back out to the living room.
Where Vecchio is sitting.
On the couch.
In my Bulls t-shirt.
Jesus.
It's really old, so it kind of clings to the curves of his shoulders and chest, and the neckline is all stretched out of whack so I can see a little bit of chest hair, and-- fuck. He's wearing my Bulls shirt. My favorite shirt. The shirt he always whines about, the shirt I was convinced he'd burn if he ever got his hands on it.
I swallow. "Vecchio."
"Yeah?"
"You're wearing my shirt."
"Is that a problem?"
"I-- You hate that shirt."
"It was clean."
"Oh."
I sit down next to him. I can't quit looking at the faded black cotton lying on his upper arm, and how the "BULLS" logo is a little warped from years of stretching it with a shoulder holster, and I touch his shoulder before I even think about it. The fabric's soft from a million washings, and his skin is soft underneath it. I might actually be losing my mind.
"Kowalski."
I jerk my hand away. "What?"
"Eat your Chinese." But he smiles at me and it's full of a thousand promises.
I eat my Chinese.