Alcohol and Suchlike, Part 2
Title: Alcohol and Suchlike - Part Two
Pairing: Belafarin
Rating: R
Summary: We all have dreams. NO matter how much those might differ, they're all dreams of perfection. And sometimes, you have to make mistakes to make your dreams come true.
A/N: This didn't turn out quite like I thought it would. Nevertheless, after over 4 months, here is Part Two.
Just as I’ve finished dressing, the doorbell rings. I storm out of the room to open it for the first guests, but only manage to run into Farin, who simply stares at me. Unsurprisingly, because my outfit is, even by my standards, let’s say ‘unusual’, but ‘devastatingly sexy’ is probably better.
Tight-as-sin black vinyl pants - I decided against the boxers once again. Over them a button-down longsleeve shirt, the burgundy colour of red wine, which is on the one hand hanging open to my solar plexus, baring my chest, but on the other hand hides the burns sufficiently. Resting on my hips is a belt made of heavy silver discs; its weight reminds me of strong hands wrapped around my waist, which is why I love it but seldomly wear it in public. Equally heavy, the black leather boots hugging three quarters of my calves. Fingernails painted black, heavy black eye makeup, hair hanging loosely into my face. I look and feel like a spoilt rock star whore, and this feeling doesn’t only thrill me.
Farin’s outfit is nothing compared to mine: He’s simply donned a loose white button-down shirt and black pants. Hehe, but his stare makes it all up. Let’s wait and see what the others’ll be wearing. I wouldn’t care if I was like a peacock in the middle of bats, anyway.
I briefly leer at him in a ‘that was an awfully quick wank’ fashion that obviously makes him uncomfortable, then eventually rush to open the door.
There’s Rodrigo, entirely in black, as is the majority of the guests he’s leading. “Hey guys, come in! Bela B is in da house throwin’ a party! Hello Rod, great to see you again, how was Chile? And…” I go on greeting everyone, and while doing that, I spot a bit of orange and white here and there, but apparently, judging from the 90 per cent dress code, we could be a mourning party. Well, hope the mood won’t be like that, or I’m gonna have to strip or something to lift everything. The mood, I mean. Do I? At that thought, I leer at the person standing closest to me, which is Farin again.
~+~
The following hours I spend among my guests, chatting and lifting the occasional drink. But since I want to be able to witness the fireworks, I restrict myself to a few glasses of red wine. Instead, I turn to chainsmoking outside on the balcony with some of the more attractive female guests, while I have no idea what’s going on inside. Anja, a girl Rod brought with him, about half my age, sticks to me all the time. Not that I didn’t enjoy her company, she’s really sweet and smart, very sexy in her almost Gwendoline- like shape and outfit, but somehow, she doen’t affect me as she maybe should. All she makes me feel in her vitality and youth is like an old fart who’s left the best parts of his life behind him. After a time, I excuse myself and get in, because I realize what I need.
And then I see him, sitting at a table, a battery of drained shots before him. Before Farin Urlaub, the most abstinent person I’ve ever known, whose eyes have become glassy by now, which is not so easy to detect as he’s swaying dangerously. Oh shit, he must really be fucked up to drink. And, I have the distinct feeling that it’s my fault.
Feeling guilty, I drag him up, and rather more carry than walk him upstairs to the bedroom, where he’s gonna have some rest - or at least I hope so. Hell, I should’ve watched him. Even if he’s supposed to be a responsible adult, but as you see, he fucking isn’t!
Having him tucked in at last, I closely regard him and compare the picture before me with the one of this morning. This morning, when he was in this bed the first time. The difference is terrifying. The peaceful expression has long gone, has been replaced with the blank alcohol-induced oblivion and already bloodshot eyes, accentuated by the deep circles underneath them. The lines on his face have become deeper, the light of the candles throwing his features into sharp relief. He’s become old tonight, I realize, and I’m not that far behind.
Terrified, I rummage through the drawers of the cupboards, desperate for a bottle of wine and a glass, and sigh in relief when my hunt is successful.
The liquid is almost black in the dim candlelight of the bedroom as I pour it into the glass, although I know that its colour is similar to my shirt’s.
The impression of the first gulp lingers, remining me of the metallic taste of my own blood just after the car crash, filling my mouth then as the wine does now. When for the first time the taste of blood scared me, when for the first time the taste of death crept up my tongue.
The pain comes back, the smell of burning plastic and petrol over everything choking me, the sounds the ambulance makes deafening, and I want to scream, want to run, but I can’t; when everything fades to black, black like the wine that stains my lips red as blood…
A sudden, dry cough brings me back to reality.
My head snaps up. How long have I been lost in thought?
“Bela… whatta you doin here?”, Jan croaks.
“Taking care of you.” I say softly.
“Have to tell you something.”
The words hang in the silence between us for a moment.
“Jan… don’t, before… before you do something you’ll regret later. You’re drunk.”
“Know that. But sober I’m never gonna do it.”
“Try going to sleep. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“I don’t care. I love you. Always have.”
He’s said it. My turn to cough. I set down the wine glass on the bedside table, because my hands are shaking too much suddenly. I dare not look up at him, lest my eyes betray me; the last thing I want is to take advantage of this situation.
“You hate me now, don’t you.”, he mumbles.
My head shoots up.
“What?! No - no, I don’t…”
“You don’t have to pretend. It’s okay if you do. I s’pose I’d hate me, too, if I were you. Just wanted you to know, y’know.”
“Jan, I …”
He focuses his entire attention on the glass beside him.
“Fuck, Jan, listen to me…”
“I don’t want your pity. Or your understanding. Leave me. I’m drunk.”
As if to prove his point, he takes a hearty swig of the wine he’s clutching; but slightly misses, so that some of the liquid forms a little rivulet slowly making its way down his face. He doesn’t even notice - but I do. Not only the sparkling contrast of it against his too-pale skin, but the way his throat contracts and loosens as he swallows. This is so out of character for him, it’s scary.
But beneath all that, I feel the warm feeling of lust uncoil, spread slowly through my entire body, stiffening limbs and making me incredibly weak at the same time.
“Give me one reason why I should pity you.” I say softly into the silence.
“Because it’s the thing you’re supposed to do in the face of someone whose love is left unrequited.”
My voice is more than hoarse when I whisper, “Who tells you that it is unrequited, Jan?”
He slowly turns to face me. A small spark of hope lightens up his eyes - or is it suppressed tears gleaming in those blue eyes?
“You shouldn’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not.” “There you are again. I thought I told you I didn’t want your pity.”
The spark vanishes. What am I supposed to do, for god’s sake?
“It’s not my pity I would give you, Jan. It’s me.” I whisper straight into his ear. Then I place a soft kiss on the sensitive skin beneath it. And another one. And another, until I have practically washed the entire skin of the neck accessible to me with kisses. I deeply inhale his scent, now that I’m at the source; it’s deep, reminds me of the half-sweet and half- bitter aroma of coffee with cinnamon.
It’s only when I stop that I realize he’s not been moving an inch under my caresses. Not reacted to it in any way. He just stares at me wide-eyed.
“You still think I’m shitting you, right?”
Nothing. Just staring. Just lying there, petrified. For someone in a playful mood this would be the perfect opportunity to try and balance a book or ball on Jan’s forehead.
“Listen… let me make you understand. Let me show you what I mean. You can decide for yourself if it was pity or not afterwards. Don’t think. Just… feel.”
I lower my mouth on his again, tentatively. The bottom lip - it’s always fascinated me for some reason - gets attended to first; I nibble and suck on it as gently as I’m able to, while my arms snake around him. My tongue darts out in teasing little licks and eventually, I feel him melt into me, go pliant under my lips.
Finally, he responds. Tentatively, unsure of what to do, certainly, but he responds. Opens his lips wide enough for a proper kiss, giving me the chance to explore the cavern of his mouth with my tongue. I find innate delight in tracing his teeth, up and down, discovering every nook and cranny.
After some minutes, we’ve shifted position, so that I’m straddling his stomach. This allows me to touch him properly; now I can work open the buttons, can finally feel silky skin under my calloused hands. Jan shivers under the touch, arches up into it as my fingers follow the stream of muscles down to his navel. I fleetingly dip my fingers in the little dent, then continue to the waistband.
A choked sound makes me stop there. When I look up into his wide eyes, I realize I’m going too far for now.
“Sorry, Jan”, I mutter, pressing a small kiss on his navel. “I guess I’ve just become too used to the casual, fast thing in the past years…”
He nods, then reaches down to pull my head up into a kiss. His fingers work slowly on my shirt, those few buttons, strip it down with some difficulty, reluctant to break the kiss.
But the need for air eventually draws us apart, and he’s staring at me, pupild dilated. Deeply into my eyes, into me, opening himself until he’s heartbreakingly vulnerable. Then his eyes flicker over my body, stick to the mass of burns that used to be my arm. The brilliant blue clouds as he regards the half-healed wounds.
A shiver runs through me when he touches the mulitated skin which has barely healed. His fingertips softly trace the outlines of the burns, as if afraid of hurting me.
“Oh my god.” he whispers. “I didn’t know it was so bad.”
I frown, uncomfortably exposed under his gaze. I don’t like anyone staring at these stigmata. “You saw it before. Like when you visited me in hospital. Or this morning.” “But it looks different now.” He tentatively reaches one hand out, touches me. I squirm involuntarily, but can restrain myself from flinching back.
A scared expression forms in his face.“Did I hurt you?”
“No. It’s just… strange. I let nobody touch me there after the accident, apart from the doctors and myself.”
“Not even Mareike.” It’s much more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah. Not even Mareike.”
“But you let me.” His voice is, though still slurred, lined with wonderment. And it’s true.
It could mean anything, nothing - everything. I don’t really know what to make out of this.
He sits up, with me still straddling his lap, and kisses my shoulder Down, over the small tattoo, to the area where skin changes to burns - and to the burns themselves, mouthing at them, licking, kissing. It’s a weird sensation, the touch feels different from how it would be on skin - the tissue is more textured, and strangely more and less sensitive at the same time than the rest. . Meanwhile, his hands rest on my thighs, lightly massaging them, and still insecure about how to deal with me.
He’s gentle, careful not to hurt me, and it makes me go weak just knowing that.
Our actions follow a natural course, we’re moving on slowly but steadily. Jan seems to sober up slightly with every minute of our touching, kissing, caressing - loving. His gaze however stays unfocused, his hands unsteady. It’s hard to say in which stadium of drunkenness he is.
And so I take the lead, take care of what’s happening. It’s easy to flip him over once there’s scarcely anything left of his former resistance.
I stab my tongue into him, once, twice, vary with broad swipes, and I hear him moan, feel his back arch and his ass push up to me. I chuckle at his needy reaction, but my actions are having a rather heavy effect on me, too. Rimming always does this to me, whether I’m receiving or giving, and doing it to Jan is certainly more than pleasurable.
I pull away before it gets too much, but instead of doing what he’s expecting, maybe fearing - we’ve never actually talked about this - so, fucking him, I quickly prepare myself, and lower myself onto his proud erection. He groans as small stars explode behind my eyelids, the sensation is incredible, even if he’s doing nothing apart from coming undone. I force my eyes open, lock gazes with him. On a sudden impulse, I lean forward to lick up the shell of his ear, which forces another shudder from his body.
“Just let go” I whisper.
He moans deeply in his throat and bucks up, his hips pounding into me restraintlessly on their own accord, and that does it for me, too.
Fireworks.
I wake up in a distinctly familiar room, with a head that feels like someone’s hitting it with white-hot iron staffs, and a tongue that tastes like crap. With every smallest movement, my vision begins to swim and my head begins to swirl, so I just keep lying there, stiff as a board, hoping the room will chease rotating.
That’s when I feel a warm, obviously naked body stir next to me in the king-sized bed that isn’t mine, in a room that is the opposite of my own bedroom: in dark tones, with dark red and black drapings, and many burnt-down candles on antique-looking metal holders, not my simple, clean white walls and floor. I snap my eyes shut, the rotation is just too much for me.
The person next to me cuddles closer, until an arm is flung possessively across my chest. Cautiously, I open one eye to peer down, hoping to catch a hint with whom I’ve spent the previous night.
A skull leers at me from the tattooed skin, another monster sits on the shoulder, while a dark, ruffled head is nestled into my armpit.
And I’m just having the biggest déjà-vu of my lifetime.
When he raises his head to look at me sleepily, I stare at him for a second, then tentatively stretch out my hand, caressing the side of his face, tracing the cheekbones, combing through his hair.
“What’re you brooding ‘bout, Jan?”, he mumbles at the hand he’s been leaning into. I answer him with a kiss.
Part I