Vanilla 3: Chores
Author: Regret
Rating: PG13
Challenge: Vanilla #3 - Chores
Word Count: 622
Summary: It's the morning after the night before, and Simon tries to take his mind off what might - or might not - have happened.
Notes: Managed to fend the cat off long enough to write this! \o/ It's the sequel (of sorts) to Vanilla 20 - Drinking.
The kitchen is a mess. There are empty bottles everywhere - on the table, on the floor, on one of the chairs... Even on the top of the wall cupboard, although God only knows how they got there - it’s not like I can remember. And the glasses... It looks like we got through every - single - one - in the cupboards.
So even though I’m pretty sure my brain’s trying to pound its way out my skull, probably by way of my ears, I slowly begin to pile the glassware into the sink.
Why can’t Jonathan buy a dishwasher? Oh, wait; that’s what I am.
I’m up to my elbows in warm, soapy water - it’s quite pleasant, actually - when I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. When you’re trying to avoid someone, even the most menial of jobs takes on a sudden, intense interest, doesn’t it? Cleaning these glasses is probably the most important thing in the world to my drink-addled brain right now.
But I can’t hear him any longer. He’s probably gone into the living room. And I hope his head hurts as much as mine, the bastard. (And I’m trying so hard not to think of remembering, and at the same time I think I really need to...)
So I carry on with the glasses.
I’ve got my wet and cloth-covered hand inside a whisky glass when suddenly a pair of arms wraps themselves about my stomach and a face nestles into the crook of my neck. The squeal I let out would make a pig blush and if I’d been drying the glass it’d be so many shards by now - as it is, it just slowly sinks to the bottom of the washing-up bowl. Jonathan’s soft voice whispers in my ear, “that was a good night, wasn’t it?”
“I- I- I-” Come on, Simon, now is not a good time to lock up! “I-”
“I wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime.” His breath is hot against my ear.
I daren’t turn to look at him. Never mind my brain, I think my heart is making a bid for freedom now. It’s nearly ricocheting around my ribcage. “I- I don’t-”
His long fingers move up to my chest, then back down to my stomach and it’s a real struggle not to break and run. His lips are nearly against my cheek and I’m trying desperately to hold down the second squeal trying to break free from me. “Or, at least,” he says, each word tickling my skin, “that’s what I would be saying if you’d done anything more than passing out and snoring last night.”
The spell is broken and, still clutching the cloth, I make a dash for the other side of the kitchen before his words finally sink into my panicked brain. “Wait - what did you say?”
Jonathan rests one elbow on the work top and grins broadly at me. “I don’t know what idea you had. But you passed out on the floor. I had to carry you up to bed!” He starts to laugh. “You weigh a ton for such a skinny guy and I was absolutely knackered, so I just flopped into bed next to you and went to sleep.”
I think my jaw has dropped, and my expression must be something because Jonathan takes a deep breath and starts to laugh even harder. I can’t believe this! “So you- So we- I...”
Now the bastard is laughing so hard he slumps down into one of the chairs. Tears are streaming from his eyes. How can he find this funny?! I thought-
He doesn’t even stop laughing when I hit him in the face with the wet dishcloth.
Rating: PG13
Challenge: Vanilla #3 - Chores
Word Count: 622
Summary: It's the morning after the night before, and Simon tries to take his mind off what might - or might not - have happened.
Notes: Managed to fend the cat off long enough to write this! \o/ It's the sequel (of sorts) to Vanilla 20 - Drinking.
The kitchen is a mess. There are empty bottles everywhere - on the table, on the floor, on one of the chairs... Even on the top of the wall cupboard, although God only knows how they got there - it’s not like I can remember. And the glasses... It looks like we got through every - single - one - in the cupboards.
So even though I’m pretty sure my brain’s trying to pound its way out my skull, probably by way of my ears, I slowly begin to pile the glassware into the sink.
Why can’t Jonathan buy a dishwasher? Oh, wait; that’s what I am.
I’m up to my elbows in warm, soapy water - it’s quite pleasant, actually - when I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. When you’re trying to avoid someone, even the most menial of jobs takes on a sudden, intense interest, doesn’t it? Cleaning these glasses is probably the most important thing in the world to my drink-addled brain right now.
But I can’t hear him any longer. He’s probably gone into the living room. And I hope his head hurts as much as mine, the bastard. (And I’m trying so hard not to think of remembering, and at the same time I think I really need to...)
So I carry on with the glasses.
I’ve got my wet and cloth-covered hand inside a whisky glass when suddenly a pair of arms wraps themselves about my stomach and a face nestles into the crook of my neck. The squeal I let out would make a pig blush and if I’d been drying the glass it’d be so many shards by now - as it is, it just slowly sinks to the bottom of the washing-up bowl. Jonathan’s soft voice whispers in my ear, “that was a good night, wasn’t it?”
“I- I- I-” Come on, Simon, now is not a good time to lock up! “I-”
“I wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime.” His breath is hot against my ear.
I daren’t turn to look at him. Never mind my brain, I think my heart is making a bid for freedom now. It’s nearly ricocheting around my ribcage. “I- I don’t-”
His long fingers move up to my chest, then back down to my stomach and it’s a real struggle not to break and run. His lips are nearly against my cheek and I’m trying desperately to hold down the second squeal trying to break free from me. “Or, at least,” he says, each word tickling my skin, “that’s what I would be saying if you’d done anything more than passing out and snoring last night.”
The spell is broken and, still clutching the cloth, I make a dash for the other side of the kitchen before his words finally sink into my panicked brain. “Wait - what did you say?”
Jonathan rests one elbow on the work top and grins broadly at me. “I don’t know what idea you had. But you passed out on the floor. I had to carry you up to bed!” He starts to laugh. “You weigh a ton for such a skinny guy and I was absolutely knackered, so I just flopped into bed next to you and went to sleep.”
I think my jaw has dropped, and my expression must be something because Jonathan takes a deep breath and starts to laugh even harder. I can’t believe this! “So you- So we- I...”
Now the bastard is laughing so hard he slumps down into one of the chairs. Tears are streaming from his eyes. How can he find this funny?! I thought-
He doesn’t even stop laughing when I hit him in the face with the wet dishcloth.