[FIC] Cherry Wine
I've decided that enough time has passed that I can post my Secret Santa, so here it is. ^_^
Title: Cherry Wine
Author: Clay
Pairing: Ryan/Colin
Rating: PG
Summary: “I think for a moment that Ryan must taste of cherries, too...”
Word Count: 2,182
Author’s Notes: Written for knowyourlips for the Secret Santa. She wanted non angsty Ry/Col. ... I tried. Really, I did. Also, this is set pre-WL.
“Okay, so check this out,” Ryan says, literally stepping over the back of the couch. I almost topple over when he puts all his weight on his right leg and the springs take a sudden dive, but he catches me, and I’m laughing when he settles down cross-legged beside me.
He has a thin, deep crimson bottle in one hand. The other is still propping me up, palm warm on my shoulder.
“Cherry wine,” he says and thrusts the bottle into my hands. The glass is cool between my fingers. The overhead lights create splashes of red on my thighs.
“It tastes like you’ve just bitten into a fresh cherry,” Ryan’s continuing. I’m rolling the bottle between my hands, watching the shift and play of light and color. “My mom gave me some last time I was home. It’s great. You have to try it.”
“Wine?” I finally say, and he’s nodding emphatically.
“Yeah, um... here...” There’s an odd shaped lump in the pocket of his flannel which he reveals to be a cork screw. He takes the bottle from me and peels off the plastic seal before inexpertly jamming the metal screw into the cork.
When he’d told me he had something to show me, this was probably about the last thing I’d expected. Still, I’m intrigued. I settle back into the cushions and watch him work. It’s obvious he’s never opened a bottle of wine in his entire life, but it’s not hard, and minutes later he’s flinging the cork onto the coffee table. It bounces onto the carpet and rolls a few inches before stumbling to a halt.
Suddenly the bottle is right under my nose.
“Here. Taste it.”
I stifle a laugh and look up to Ryan with smiling eyes. “No glasses?”
“No.” He grins. “Drink.”
I’m outright laughing now, taking the bottle from him slowly. I feel like we’re teenagers who’ve broken into our father’s liquor cabinet. I need to bring a semblance of maturity back to the situation. “Shouldn’t we let the... um... what are they called.. tannins? Breathe? ...or something?”
Ryan grins at me quizzically. “Tan-what? No. Just drink.”
When I continue to hesitate, he grabs the bottom of the bottle and yanks up, spilling wine over my lips and chin.
“Drink!”
I try, but it’s hard when I can’t stop laughing. It’s nearly overwhelmingly sweet, decadent, and when Ryan finally drops the bottle I’m left spluttering, wine dribbling from the corners of my mouth. I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth. My collar is already stained a deep purple, so I figure it can’t hurt to dry my hand on my shirt.
And he’s right.
I’m left with the unmistakable taste of fresh cherries. My tongue and cheeks nearly ache from the sheer flavor. I lick my lips.
“Good, right?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes the bottle back, swigging as I nod. I’m still licking my lips; the flavor is fading and I need more. Unthinkingly I reach for the bottle, but he draws back.
“Wait!” One hand held up, his palm touching mine, wet with wine. “We should toast.”
“Toast?” I echo distractedly, swerving around his arm in my quest for the bottle, but his hand on my chest keeps me back. He pushes gently until I’m back in my seat proper.
“Yes,” he says. “Toast... to... to friendship.”
I just roll my eyes and make another grab for the bottle. “We can’t toast if we don’t have glasses.”
“Sure we can.” He lifts the corkscrew from where it lays forgotten in his lap, holds it for a moment and then reluctantly passes me the bottle. “To friendship.” He grins and clings the screw against the bottle.
“Friendship.” I laugh and mock salute him with the bottle before lifting it to my lips once more.
It takes him a few seconds to realize I’m chugging the wine, and he lets out an indignant squeak. “Hey! My turn!”
“Uh uh,” I say, or attempt to rather, but my lips are still wrapped around the bottle mouth. He reaches for it and I turn away. He chases, reaching around me to grip the bottle tight, but I’m stronger and his hands are slippery. I’m laughing; I can’t seem to stop.
Ryan gets up on his knees now and turns in his seat to face me. I’m scooting as far away as possible, but I’m already jammed up against the armrest. He leans over me, pressing me down with his weight and I nearly choke on the wine, but I don’t let up just yet.
With an exasperated growl, Ryan presses me further back. His fingers are still wrapped around the bottle, and it’s a good thing because I nearly drop it when he lowers his face toward mine and licks my cheeks.
My mouth leaves the bottle with a pop, wine slopping down my front before he rights it.
“Um, ew.” I rub the heel of my hand over my cheek, scowling.
“Hey, it worked!” And then he’s drinking, still practically on top of me, smug smile stretching his lips over the mouth of the bottle.
The wine is already half gone, and he looks to finish off the rest if I give him the chance. Like Hell.
I snake my right arm up and across his back, curling my fingers over the far side of his neck. The other hand grips the body of the bottle, and I bring my mouth up to Ryan’s, push our cheeks together until I’ve wedged a bit of the bottle from his lips. Wine spills down his chin, but I’m there, pressing the corner of my mouth to his so we both get our share of the alcohol.
His cheek is damp, scratchy with stubble. He smells like cherries. The wine is good. Damn good, and it leaves me feeling light headed and giddy. Ryan chuckles, yet more wine leaking out to seep into our shirts. His chest rumbles with the sound, and I feel it; I’m up against him, arm still around his back.
“Get off,” Ryan manages between fits of laughter. He rips the bottle away from us both and shoves me back, but my hand on his neck keeps me right there. I lurch forward and latch onto the bottle, drinking down a few more gulps before Ryan dislodges me.
If there were a wine connoisseur in the room, he’d be having a heart attack right about now, screaming about the injustice we’re doing to this wine, the fact that we’re wearing nearly as much as we’re drinking, that I haven’t savored a single drop since the very first. But we honestly couldn’t care less.
We spend the next five minutes fighting over the bottle, spilling as much as we’re getting down our throats until the wine is gone, and we’re both spattered from neck to thigh, and everything smells like cherries.
Only when the last few drops touch Ryan’s tongue do I relax, falling heavily into Ryan’s side, my head pillowed in the crook of his neck. He squints into the bottle mournfully and then drops it to the floor. It hits the carpet with a solid thud.
Ryan squirms until his legs are stretched out before him, slumped back into the couch, breathing peacefully. His arm goes around my shoulders to give me a light squeeze.
“You have to get more of that.”
He smiles. “I knew you’d like it.”
I lick my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, trying to get every last bit of flavor. I think for a moment that Ryan must taste of cherries, too, but that’s insane. I sigh and snuggle further into his side.
“You’re being really gay,” Ryan mumbles after a moment, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he pulls me closer.
“I don’t want to get up.”
Ryan laughs. “I didn’t think you were such a light weight.”
I blink up at his jaw, frowning. “We finished off an entire bottle of wine in ten minutes. What did you expect?”
“I expect you to get off and get back to your side of the couch.” He’s fiddling with the sleeve of my shirt, twisting and pulling before smoothing the material with long strokes.
“We are on my side of the couch,” I remind him.
“Oh, right.”
I wait a bit, but he’s still not moving. “So?”
“So what?”
“So you move.”
“Do I have to?”
Of course not, but I can’t say that. I can’t say that he makes a nice pillow, even if he’s too bony in places, so instead I look down at my shirt, pulling at a loose thread in the hem. “My shirt is ruined.”
Ryan giggles. “Take it off. We’ll wash it.”
And then I’m laughing, the sound muffled into his collar. “Now who’s being gay?”
He nudges me with his hip. “Hey, you’re the one whining about your shirt.”
We both laugh for a moment, lumped together on the couch. I can’t think of any reason to ever get up.
“Hey...” Ryan murmurs after another moment, his arm tightening around me. “Do you taste like cherries?”
I lick my lips again. “Yeah. Do you?”
“Yeah.”
He leans away and then turns, looking down to meet my eyes. Something in his makes me sit up straight. He’s not laughing now, not even smiling, just watching me.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
He stares at me another moment and then shakes his head, lips tilting up to share a very slight smile. “Nothing. Just... good wine.”
I think I know what’s going on his head, at least I hope I know. I lift my left hand from where it’s settled on his thigh to trail my fingers down his jaw, back up, threading through the thick curls at his nape and drawing him down.
He doesn’t resist, doesn’t even pretend to, so I kiss him. Softly at first, the barest brush of my lips over his, but it’s not enough. I want the cherries. I run my tongue along his lips, closing my eyes and savoring every hint of wine still clinging to his mouth.
Ryan sighs against my lips. His tongue slides out, touches mine hesitantly, immediately darting back inside his mouth, but I chase him, open up to him, feel more than hear the soft moan he breaths down my throat.
I don’t know how they got there, but suddenly his hands are at my sides, gripping my shirt, pulling me against him. He throws one leg between mine. The denim grates together, creates the most amazing friction against the insides of my thighs.
I break away with a gasp, but Ryan follows me, breathing against my open mouth, lips almost touching mine. He guides me back until I’m laid out beneath him, him kneeling between my legs.
This shouldn’t feel so good.
But it does, and then my arms are around him, and he’s too thin, all ribs and hot skin lost beneath the thick flannel. His shoulder blades are sharp beneath my hands, and I love every inch of him. He’s kissing me again, lying down, his belly against mine, hands tangled in my hair, and, oh God, his-
“Wait.” I can’t pull away; there’s nowhere to go, so the word gets muttered into his mouth.
I don’t know if I love him or hate him for respecting me enough to get up, back off, poise over top of me on his hands and knees, giving me room to breath and space to think.
“Yeah?” I see his lips move, but the word is said so softly that I’m sure I only imagined it.
What the Hell are we doing? is what I really want to ask, but I just roll off the couch, nearly knocking him over and then hitting the floor with a thud, narrowly avoiding the empty wine bottle. It’s not that I don’t want this; I shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t look so damned good with kiss darkened lips and green eyes half hidden beneath heavy lids. It’s too much and I can’t, not now. Not yet.
“I have to go.”
He doesn’t argue, which is a miracle in itself; he lays back where I had just been, eyes slamming shut, hands scrubbing over his face.
“Okay,” he mumbles through his fingers.
My coat’s on and I’m at the door in record time, but now I hesitate, watching him. He hasn’t moved.
“Ryan?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move his hands.
“That was just the wine, right?”
His hands finally drop from his face, but he doesn’t look at me. I follow his gaze to the cork resting peacefully on the thin tan carpet.
“Sure, Col. Just the wine.”
He’s got it all wrong, and I smile even though he’s still not looking.
“Do you think you could get more?”
His head swings around, and he meets my eyes, his own wide, questioning. He takes in my smile and then hesitantly, carefully returns one of his own, a slow spread over his face that lights up his eyes.
“Definitely.”
End
Title: Cherry Wine
Author: Clay
Pairing: Ryan/Colin
Rating: PG
Summary: “I think for a moment that Ryan must taste of cherries, too...”
Word Count: 2,182
Author’s Notes: Written for knowyourlips for the Secret Santa. She wanted non angsty Ry/Col. ... I tried. Really, I did. Also, this is set pre-WL.
“Okay, so check this out,” Ryan says, literally stepping over the back of the couch. I almost topple over when he puts all his weight on his right leg and the springs take a sudden dive, but he catches me, and I’m laughing when he settles down cross-legged beside me.
He has a thin, deep crimson bottle in one hand. The other is still propping me up, palm warm on my shoulder.
“Cherry wine,” he says and thrusts the bottle into my hands. The glass is cool between my fingers. The overhead lights create splashes of red on my thighs.
“It tastes like you’ve just bitten into a fresh cherry,” Ryan’s continuing. I’m rolling the bottle between my hands, watching the shift and play of light and color. “My mom gave me some last time I was home. It’s great. You have to try it.”
“Wine?” I finally say, and he’s nodding emphatically.
“Yeah, um... here...” There’s an odd shaped lump in the pocket of his flannel which he reveals to be a cork screw. He takes the bottle from me and peels off the plastic seal before inexpertly jamming the metal screw into the cork.
When he’d told me he had something to show me, this was probably about the last thing I’d expected. Still, I’m intrigued. I settle back into the cushions and watch him work. It’s obvious he’s never opened a bottle of wine in his entire life, but it’s not hard, and minutes later he’s flinging the cork onto the coffee table. It bounces onto the carpet and rolls a few inches before stumbling to a halt.
Suddenly the bottle is right under my nose.
“Here. Taste it.”
I stifle a laugh and look up to Ryan with smiling eyes. “No glasses?”
“No.” He grins. “Drink.”
I’m outright laughing now, taking the bottle from him slowly. I feel like we’re teenagers who’ve broken into our father’s liquor cabinet. I need to bring a semblance of maturity back to the situation. “Shouldn’t we let the... um... what are they called.. tannins? Breathe? ...or something?”
Ryan grins at me quizzically. “Tan-what? No. Just drink.”
When I continue to hesitate, he grabs the bottom of the bottle and yanks up, spilling wine over my lips and chin.
“Drink!”
I try, but it’s hard when I can’t stop laughing. It’s nearly overwhelmingly sweet, decadent, and when Ryan finally drops the bottle I’m left spluttering, wine dribbling from the corners of my mouth. I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth. My collar is already stained a deep purple, so I figure it can’t hurt to dry my hand on my shirt.
And he’s right.
I’m left with the unmistakable taste of fresh cherries. My tongue and cheeks nearly ache from the sheer flavor. I lick my lips.
“Good, right?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes the bottle back, swigging as I nod. I’m still licking my lips; the flavor is fading and I need more. Unthinkingly I reach for the bottle, but he draws back.
“Wait!” One hand held up, his palm touching mine, wet with wine. “We should toast.”
“Toast?” I echo distractedly, swerving around his arm in my quest for the bottle, but his hand on my chest keeps me back. He pushes gently until I’m back in my seat proper.
“Yes,” he says. “Toast... to... to friendship.”
I just roll my eyes and make another grab for the bottle. “We can’t toast if we don’t have glasses.”
“Sure we can.” He lifts the corkscrew from where it lays forgotten in his lap, holds it for a moment and then reluctantly passes me the bottle. “To friendship.” He grins and clings the screw against the bottle.
“Friendship.” I laugh and mock salute him with the bottle before lifting it to my lips once more.
It takes him a few seconds to realize I’m chugging the wine, and he lets out an indignant squeak. “Hey! My turn!”
“Uh uh,” I say, or attempt to rather, but my lips are still wrapped around the bottle mouth. He reaches for it and I turn away. He chases, reaching around me to grip the bottle tight, but I’m stronger and his hands are slippery. I’m laughing; I can’t seem to stop.
Ryan gets up on his knees now and turns in his seat to face me. I’m scooting as far away as possible, but I’m already jammed up against the armrest. He leans over me, pressing me down with his weight and I nearly choke on the wine, but I don’t let up just yet.
With an exasperated growl, Ryan presses me further back. His fingers are still wrapped around the bottle, and it’s a good thing because I nearly drop it when he lowers his face toward mine and licks my cheeks.
My mouth leaves the bottle with a pop, wine slopping down my front before he rights it.
“Um, ew.” I rub the heel of my hand over my cheek, scowling.
“Hey, it worked!” And then he’s drinking, still practically on top of me, smug smile stretching his lips over the mouth of the bottle.
The wine is already half gone, and he looks to finish off the rest if I give him the chance. Like Hell.
I snake my right arm up and across his back, curling my fingers over the far side of his neck. The other hand grips the body of the bottle, and I bring my mouth up to Ryan’s, push our cheeks together until I’ve wedged a bit of the bottle from his lips. Wine spills down his chin, but I’m there, pressing the corner of my mouth to his so we both get our share of the alcohol.
His cheek is damp, scratchy with stubble. He smells like cherries. The wine is good. Damn good, and it leaves me feeling light headed and giddy. Ryan chuckles, yet more wine leaking out to seep into our shirts. His chest rumbles with the sound, and I feel it; I’m up against him, arm still around his back.
“Get off,” Ryan manages between fits of laughter. He rips the bottle away from us both and shoves me back, but my hand on his neck keeps me right there. I lurch forward and latch onto the bottle, drinking down a few more gulps before Ryan dislodges me.
If there were a wine connoisseur in the room, he’d be having a heart attack right about now, screaming about the injustice we’re doing to this wine, the fact that we’re wearing nearly as much as we’re drinking, that I haven’t savored a single drop since the very first. But we honestly couldn’t care less.
We spend the next five minutes fighting over the bottle, spilling as much as we’re getting down our throats until the wine is gone, and we’re both spattered from neck to thigh, and everything smells like cherries.
Only when the last few drops touch Ryan’s tongue do I relax, falling heavily into Ryan’s side, my head pillowed in the crook of his neck. He squints into the bottle mournfully and then drops it to the floor. It hits the carpet with a solid thud.
Ryan squirms until his legs are stretched out before him, slumped back into the couch, breathing peacefully. His arm goes around my shoulders to give me a light squeeze.
“You have to get more of that.”
He smiles. “I knew you’d like it.”
I lick my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, trying to get every last bit of flavor. I think for a moment that Ryan must taste of cherries, too, but that’s insane. I sigh and snuggle further into his side.
“You’re being really gay,” Ryan mumbles after a moment, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he pulls me closer.
“I don’t want to get up.”
Ryan laughs. “I didn’t think you were such a light weight.”
I blink up at his jaw, frowning. “We finished off an entire bottle of wine in ten minutes. What did you expect?”
“I expect you to get off and get back to your side of the couch.” He’s fiddling with the sleeve of my shirt, twisting and pulling before smoothing the material with long strokes.
“We are on my side of the couch,” I remind him.
“Oh, right.”
I wait a bit, but he’s still not moving. “So?”
“So what?”
“So you move.”
“Do I have to?”
Of course not, but I can’t say that. I can’t say that he makes a nice pillow, even if he’s too bony in places, so instead I look down at my shirt, pulling at a loose thread in the hem. “My shirt is ruined.”
Ryan giggles. “Take it off. We’ll wash it.”
And then I’m laughing, the sound muffled into his collar. “Now who’s being gay?”
He nudges me with his hip. “Hey, you’re the one whining about your shirt.”
We both laugh for a moment, lumped together on the couch. I can’t think of any reason to ever get up.
“Hey...” Ryan murmurs after another moment, his arm tightening around me. “Do you taste like cherries?”
I lick my lips again. “Yeah. Do you?”
“Yeah.”
He leans away and then turns, looking down to meet my eyes. Something in his makes me sit up straight. He’s not laughing now, not even smiling, just watching me.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
He stares at me another moment and then shakes his head, lips tilting up to share a very slight smile. “Nothing. Just... good wine.”
I think I know what’s going on his head, at least I hope I know. I lift my left hand from where it’s settled on his thigh to trail my fingers down his jaw, back up, threading through the thick curls at his nape and drawing him down.
He doesn’t resist, doesn’t even pretend to, so I kiss him. Softly at first, the barest brush of my lips over his, but it’s not enough. I want the cherries. I run my tongue along his lips, closing my eyes and savoring every hint of wine still clinging to his mouth.
Ryan sighs against my lips. His tongue slides out, touches mine hesitantly, immediately darting back inside his mouth, but I chase him, open up to him, feel more than hear the soft moan he breaths down my throat.
I don’t know how they got there, but suddenly his hands are at my sides, gripping my shirt, pulling me against him. He throws one leg between mine. The denim grates together, creates the most amazing friction against the insides of my thighs.
I break away with a gasp, but Ryan follows me, breathing against my open mouth, lips almost touching mine. He guides me back until I’m laid out beneath him, him kneeling between my legs.
This shouldn’t feel so good.
But it does, and then my arms are around him, and he’s too thin, all ribs and hot skin lost beneath the thick flannel. His shoulder blades are sharp beneath my hands, and I love every inch of him. He’s kissing me again, lying down, his belly against mine, hands tangled in my hair, and, oh God, his-
“Wait.” I can’t pull away; there’s nowhere to go, so the word gets muttered into his mouth.
I don’t know if I love him or hate him for respecting me enough to get up, back off, poise over top of me on his hands and knees, giving me room to breath and space to think.
“Yeah?” I see his lips move, but the word is said so softly that I’m sure I only imagined it.
What the Hell are we doing? is what I really want to ask, but I just roll off the couch, nearly knocking him over and then hitting the floor with a thud, narrowly avoiding the empty wine bottle. It’s not that I don’t want this; I shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t look so damned good with kiss darkened lips and green eyes half hidden beneath heavy lids. It’s too much and I can’t, not now. Not yet.
“I have to go.”
He doesn’t argue, which is a miracle in itself; he lays back where I had just been, eyes slamming shut, hands scrubbing over his face.
“Okay,” he mumbles through his fingers.
My coat’s on and I’m at the door in record time, but now I hesitate, watching him. He hasn’t moved.
“Ryan?”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move his hands.
“That was just the wine, right?”
His hands finally drop from his face, but he doesn’t look at me. I follow his gaze to the cork resting peacefully on the thin tan carpet.
“Sure, Col. Just the wine.”
He’s got it all wrong, and I smile even though he’s still not looking.
“Do you think you could get more?”
His head swings around, and he meets my eyes, his own wide, questioning. He takes in my smile and then hesitantly, carefully returns one of his own, a slow spread over his face that lights up his eyes.
“Definitely.”
End