Hi, Society excerpts
OK, to make up for yesterday's mess, here are a couple of snippets, one from the original story and a second from their European Vaction.
*~*
Like the PBJ and gazebo and golf excerpts, this scene from the original story may not actually make the cut, at least not in this fashion. In fact, I can guarantee Toby discovers the scar considerably earlier in the story now, so consider this a scene left on the cutting room floor...
HI, SOCIETY -- Chapter Nine, Thursday (late): The Shirt Scene
[Background: Spurred by Giles' encouragement in Chpt. 3, Chris has resumed working on a novel based on his experiences covering the war in Spain. He will have been dealing with some of the material related to Federico Garcia Lorca, dredging up some memories -- possibly including getting wounded himself -- that have sent him outside in the middle of the night to brood.]
...Restless, Toby kicked back the sheet and blanket, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaning forward, resting his head in his hands. It wasn't exactly a mystery why he couldn't sleep. No, the source of this night's insomnia was just across the hall. So near and yet so far, he thought, sighing. Well, maybe not so far now.
He glanced at the bedside clock, noting it was half past midnight. Funny, it was just one week ago tonight that he and Chris had kissed for the first time. And it still amazed the hell out of him, in a really good way. Just as startling was how he could remember every kiss since then. Or, well, he supposed he might be a little foggy on a couple of them, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment at how he'd carried on in town last night. Toby didn't regret any of that, not exactly, not chasing after Chris, or even necessarily making a public spectacle of himself -- although he could see how that had been fairly exasperating to Chris. And maybe exasperating was putting it mildly, he considered, having another fuzzy memory of Chris telling him to 'Knock it the fuck off,' during the ride home. He sighed, scrubbed at his face. Well, he didn't regret socking Ronnie Barlog one bit, that was not up for debate. No, the only truly crucial question was if Chris might be reconsidering the kind of nut he was taking up with in Tobias Beecher.
Getting up from the bed, he walked over to the window, drawing back the curtain and looking out, his gaze immediately drawn to the sight of Chris down there on the patio. He leaned forward a little, feeling the cool night air on his skin as he greedily drank in this glimpse of his lover. Chris was leaning against a column, barefoot, hands in his pocket, sleeves rolled up over powerful forearms, and his shirt open to expose a chest and torso that Toby was convinced qualified as one of the great works of art. He stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the nightlight, apparently lost in thought.
Thoughts of what? Toby wondered, debating whether or not he should go down to him. It wasn't hard to talk himself into doing what he wanted, however, and throwing a robe on over his boxers, Toby slipped quietly out of his room and downstairs.
***
Chris turned at the soft, "Hey," smiling as he saw Toby, all mussed from bed. For a moment he just enjoyed that sight: the golden hair all ruffled, bare feet and legs showing, more skin revealed where the robe gaped so Chris could let his gaze linger on Toby's throat and chest. Feeling the hunger stirring again, he thought about what it meant that something had prompted Toby to come to him like this.
"You okay?" Toby asked, walking up to him.
"Yeah, just thinking."
Toby looked concerned, biting his lip, probably worrying about what he'd done this time. "You're not still bothered about Gen?"
"Toby, I told you I understand: she's the mother of your kids, you're always going to have a connection to her. You should be friendly with her."
"Good, because I mean it: there's nothing for you to be concerned about there." Toby touched his face. "I hate the thought of her marrying Vern, that's all."
Chris turned his face into Toby's hand, kissing the palm. "She tell you why she's doing it?"
"Yes."
Chris waited a moment for Toby to elaborate, feeling a stupid sense of disappointment when he didn't say anything more. "Yeah," he said, pulling away and leaning back against the column, arms folded over his chest, "guess you can't risk me writing that up for The Tattler." He hated the note of resentful bitterness in his voice but didn't know what to do about it.
"Chris..." Toby's hands slipped inside his shirt to grasp his shoulders, squeezing. "It's not that. I trust you, I do," he insisted when Chris fixed him a skeptical look. "What if you confided something in me, something you felt ashamed of, and I went and gabbed about it to Gen?"
Chris frowned, considering that, and guessed he could see Toby's point. "I suppose I wouldn't like it much."
"No, you wouldn't." Toby leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his mouth, relaxing into Chris' arms as they wrapped around him and letting his head rest of Chris' shoulder. "So you want to tell me what is troubling you then?"
{They talk about Spain and Garcia Lorca. Then...}
It was ridiculous, Toby knew that as he pushed the soft cotton away and looked at the faded, puckered scar; Chris was very definitely alive and well, but the thought that he had been hurt so bad, that he might have died before Toby ever had the chance to know him -- he couldn't help feeling a little emotional about that. Face scrunched up, he traced the scar with his fingers, then leaned close to brush his lips against the tender flesh, hearing Chris' sharp intake of air.
"Toby -- I'm okay," Chris said, voice pitched soft.
"I know. I just..." Toby looked at him, feeling tears stinging his eyes. "I can't imagine you not being here, in my life. I don't ever want to."
Chris' smile was sweet and rueful, combing his fingers back through Toby's hair. "You didn't even know I existed a week ago."
"Didn't I?" Toby pushed the shirt off Chris' shoulders, fingers tracing the crucifixion tattoo that decorated his left shoulder. "Maybe you're what I was waiting for all along, Chris. Maybe that's why it was never right with anyone else."
Predictably, Chris looked skeptical at that. "You think we were fated to meet, huh?"
"Why not?" Toby kissed his way along the tattoo to Chris' throat, letting his tongue softly trail along the collarbone before dipping his head to lap at a stiffened nipple for a moment. He wrapped his arms around Chris' waist then, holding him close as their mouths found each other with magnetic precision.
Freeing his mouth, he licked at Chris' ear and whispered, "Come back to bed with me."
Chris pulled back a little to look at him, hesitation shadowing his eyes. "Toby... You sure?"
"I'm sure -- and I'm sober," Toby promised, drawing his head back so he could kiss him some more --
Just as something screeched and something else yowled, and two furry bodies came streaking back, sending a flower pot crashing to the ground, loud enough to wake the dead -- or at least several members of the household.
"Toby?" Harrison called from his bedroom window. "What are you doing out there? What was that?"
"Nothing, Dad," Toby called back. "I'm just getting some air. I think that was Aunt Clara's cats."
"Well why are you playing with them at this time of night?"
"I'm not. I--" Toby sighed, not appeased by the laughter he could see bubbling up in Chris' face.
"And who's that with you?"
Chris stepped into view, all buttoned up now. "It's just me, sir."
"Well I think you boys should be in bed and not out there bothering Clara's cats."
Toby could see Chris was losing it by then and just called up, "We were just heading there, Dad." God, didn't anybody have anything better to do around here than be forever interrupting him and Chris?
==end this snippet==
And this is just a moment I had completely forgotten about...
“A HiSoc: European Holiday Excerpt”
~en route somewhere, on the Orient Express~
Restless, Toby shifted around some more in a futile
attempt to find a comfortable position. He stuck his
head over the side of the bunk and whispered, “Chris?
You awake?” His only answer was the sound of his
lover’s breathing. With a quiet hmph, Toby settled
back against his pillow, thinking about the unfairness
of people who could fall asleep anytime, anywhere.
Most of the time he couldn’t really put his finger on
what was driving his insomnia. This time he knew
exactly what was the matter, however. The source of
his sleepless night was stretched out comfortably
right underneath him, snoozing without a care in the
world when he ought to be *here* for Toby to snuggle
close to and be soothed off to dreamland by the
steady, rhythmic beat of Chris’ heart.
He huffed again, shifted around again, wrote a letter
in his head to the management of this train line,
pointing out that if you claimed to offer
top-of-the-line luxury travel then your high-priced
staterooms fucking well ought to come with double-beds
- and then kicked back the covers and dropped to the
carpeted floor.
“Hey,” he patted Chris on the shoulder, “move over.”
One eye cracked open a slit. “Wh--” … y-a-w-n… “-at?”
“Shove over,” Toby told him, giving him a push and
discovering, not for the first time, that budging 190
pounds of Keller was no easy task. “Please?”
Still half-asleep, Chris obliged, scooting over as far
as he could, making just enough room for Toby to crawl
in beside him. “Happy” … y-a-w-n… “now?”
Feet tangled with Chris’, one hand curved around
Chris’ waist, Toby burrowed his head under his lover’s
chin and sighed happily. “Umm hmm.”
The train rumbled on and he closed his eyes,
comfortable and content, and exactly where he wanted
to be.
~that's all~
*~*
Like the PBJ and gazebo and golf excerpts, this scene from the original story may not actually make the cut, at least not in this fashion. In fact, I can guarantee Toby discovers the scar considerably earlier in the story now, so consider this a scene left on the cutting room floor...
HI, SOCIETY -- Chapter Nine, Thursday (late): The Shirt Scene
[Background: Spurred by Giles' encouragement in Chpt. 3, Chris has resumed working on a novel based on his experiences covering the war in Spain. He will have been dealing with some of the material related to Federico Garcia Lorca, dredging up some memories -- possibly including getting wounded himself -- that have sent him outside in the middle of the night to brood.]
...Restless, Toby kicked back the sheet and blanket, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaning forward, resting his head in his hands. It wasn't exactly a mystery why he couldn't sleep. No, the source of this night's insomnia was just across the hall. So near and yet so far, he thought, sighing. Well, maybe not so far now.
He glanced at the bedside clock, noting it was half past midnight. Funny, it was just one week ago tonight that he and Chris had kissed for the first time. And it still amazed the hell out of him, in a really good way. Just as startling was how he could remember every kiss since then. Or, well, he supposed he might be a little foggy on a couple of them, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment at how he'd carried on in town last night. Toby didn't regret any of that, not exactly, not chasing after Chris, or even necessarily making a public spectacle of himself -- although he could see how that had been fairly exasperating to Chris. And maybe exasperating was putting it mildly, he considered, having another fuzzy memory of Chris telling him to 'Knock it the fuck off,' during the ride home. He sighed, scrubbed at his face. Well, he didn't regret socking Ronnie Barlog one bit, that was not up for debate. No, the only truly crucial question was if Chris might be reconsidering the kind of nut he was taking up with in Tobias Beecher.
Getting up from the bed, he walked over to the window, drawing back the curtain and looking out, his gaze immediately drawn to the sight of Chris down there on the patio. He leaned forward a little, feeling the cool night air on his skin as he greedily drank in this glimpse of his lover. Chris was leaning against a column, barefoot, hands in his pocket, sleeves rolled up over powerful forearms, and his shirt open to expose a chest and torso that Toby was convinced qualified as one of the great works of art. He stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the nightlight, apparently lost in thought.
Thoughts of what? Toby wondered, debating whether or not he should go down to him. It wasn't hard to talk himself into doing what he wanted, however, and throwing a robe on over his boxers, Toby slipped quietly out of his room and downstairs.
***
Chris turned at the soft, "Hey," smiling as he saw Toby, all mussed from bed. For a moment he just enjoyed that sight: the golden hair all ruffled, bare feet and legs showing, more skin revealed where the robe gaped so Chris could let his gaze linger on Toby's throat and chest. Feeling the hunger stirring again, he thought about what it meant that something had prompted Toby to come to him like this.
"You okay?" Toby asked, walking up to him.
"Yeah, just thinking."
Toby looked concerned, biting his lip, probably worrying about what he'd done this time. "You're not still bothered about Gen?"
"Toby, I told you I understand: she's the mother of your kids, you're always going to have a connection to her. You should be friendly with her."
"Good, because I mean it: there's nothing for you to be concerned about there." Toby touched his face. "I hate the thought of her marrying Vern, that's all."
Chris turned his face into Toby's hand, kissing the palm. "She tell you why she's doing it?"
"Yes."
Chris waited a moment for Toby to elaborate, feeling a stupid sense of disappointment when he didn't say anything more. "Yeah," he said, pulling away and leaning back against the column, arms folded over his chest, "guess you can't risk me writing that up for The Tattler." He hated the note of resentful bitterness in his voice but didn't know what to do about it.
"Chris..." Toby's hands slipped inside his shirt to grasp his shoulders, squeezing. "It's not that. I trust you, I do," he insisted when Chris fixed him a skeptical look. "What if you confided something in me, something you felt ashamed of, and I went and gabbed about it to Gen?"
Chris frowned, considering that, and guessed he could see Toby's point. "I suppose I wouldn't like it much."
"No, you wouldn't." Toby leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his mouth, relaxing into Chris' arms as they wrapped around him and letting his head rest of Chris' shoulder. "So you want to tell me what is troubling you then?"
{They talk about Spain and Garcia Lorca. Then...}
It was ridiculous, Toby knew that as he pushed the soft cotton away and looked at the faded, puckered scar; Chris was very definitely alive and well, but the thought that he had been hurt so bad, that he might have died before Toby ever had the chance to know him -- he couldn't help feeling a little emotional about that. Face scrunched up, he traced the scar with his fingers, then leaned close to brush his lips against the tender flesh, hearing Chris' sharp intake of air.
"Toby -- I'm okay," Chris said, voice pitched soft.
"I know. I just..." Toby looked at him, feeling tears stinging his eyes. "I can't imagine you not being here, in my life. I don't ever want to."
Chris' smile was sweet and rueful, combing his fingers back through Toby's hair. "You didn't even know I existed a week ago."
"Didn't I?" Toby pushed the shirt off Chris' shoulders, fingers tracing the crucifixion tattoo that decorated his left shoulder. "Maybe you're what I was waiting for all along, Chris. Maybe that's why it was never right with anyone else."
Predictably, Chris looked skeptical at that. "You think we were fated to meet, huh?"
"Why not?" Toby kissed his way along the tattoo to Chris' throat, letting his tongue softly trail along the collarbone before dipping his head to lap at a stiffened nipple for a moment. He wrapped his arms around Chris' waist then, holding him close as their mouths found each other with magnetic precision.
Freeing his mouth, he licked at Chris' ear and whispered, "Come back to bed with me."
Chris pulled back a little to look at him, hesitation shadowing his eyes. "Toby... You sure?"
"I'm sure -- and I'm sober," Toby promised, drawing his head back so he could kiss him some more --
Just as something screeched and something else yowled, and two furry bodies came streaking back, sending a flower pot crashing to the ground, loud enough to wake the dead -- or at least several members of the household.
"Toby?" Harrison called from his bedroom window. "What are you doing out there? What was that?"
"Nothing, Dad," Toby called back. "I'm just getting some air. I think that was Aunt Clara's cats."
"Well why are you playing with them at this time of night?"
"I'm not. I--" Toby sighed, not appeased by the laughter he could see bubbling up in Chris' face.
"And who's that with you?"
Chris stepped into view, all buttoned up now. "It's just me, sir."
"Well I think you boys should be in bed and not out there bothering Clara's cats."
Toby could see Chris was losing it by then and just called up, "We were just heading there, Dad." God, didn't anybody have anything better to do around here than be forever interrupting him and Chris?
==end this snippet==
And this is just a moment I had completely forgotten about...
“A HiSoc: European Holiday Excerpt”
~en route somewhere, on the Orient Express~
Restless, Toby shifted around some more in a futile
attempt to find a comfortable position. He stuck his
head over the side of the bunk and whispered, “Chris?
You awake?” His only answer was the sound of his
lover’s breathing. With a quiet hmph, Toby settled
back against his pillow, thinking about the unfairness
of people who could fall asleep anytime, anywhere.
Most of the time he couldn’t really put his finger on
what was driving his insomnia. This time he knew
exactly what was the matter, however. The source of
his sleepless night was stretched out comfortably
right underneath him, snoozing without a care in the
world when he ought to be *here* for Toby to snuggle
close to and be soothed off to dreamland by the
steady, rhythmic beat of Chris’ heart.
He huffed again, shifted around again, wrote a letter
in his head to the management of this train line,
pointing out that if you claimed to offer
top-of-the-line luxury travel then your high-priced
staterooms fucking well ought to come with double-beds
- and then kicked back the covers and dropped to the
carpeted floor.
“Hey,” he patted Chris on the shoulder, “move over.”
One eye cracked open a slit. “Wh--” … y-a-w-n… “-at?”
“Shove over,” Toby told him, giving him a push and
discovering, not for the first time, that budging 190
pounds of Keller was no easy task. “Please?”
Still half-asleep, Chris obliged, scooting over as far
as he could, making just enough room for Toby to crawl
in beside him. “Happy” … y-a-w-n… “now?”
Feet tangled with Chris’, one hand curved around
Chris’ waist, Toby burrowed his head under his lover’s
chin and sighed happily. “Umm hmm.”
The train rumbled on and he closed his eyes,
comfortable and content, and exactly where he wanted
to be.
~that's all~