Wicked- Drawing Dead.
Title: Drawing Dead.
Author:top_hatted_girl .
Rating: PG-13.
Characters/Pairings: Crope/Tibbett.
Summary: They'd been playing a game for years, and now the rules were changing.
Prompts: "Gamble" for wicked_prompts.
Warnings: Sexual implications.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the situations themselves.
The group of boys sat in a cluster on the floor of the dormitory. The dim light cast by the merrily growling fire fell across all of them as the rain fell loudly against the glass of the window. It was midnight, but they’d given up study and sleep a few hours ago.
“Ha,” Avaric laughed, throwing his hand of cards down on Tibbett, who was lying in the middle of the circle to serve as a playing table. “I believe that, my friends, is the game.” Reaching out with one hand, he scooped an enormous amount of the chips they’d nicked from a teacher’s desk drawer over to his section of Tibbett’s chest.
Boq moaned and threw his cards in the air. “It’s impossible to win at anything when you’re around. I’m going to bed.”
“Spoilsport,” Avaric called after him. Boq made an uncharacteristically lewd gesture behind his head and threw himself across his bed with exhausted gusto. The other boys began to yawn in general agreement and headed off to their respective cots. “Ah, damn you all anyway.” Avaric waved his hand dismissively and stalked off to the bathroom, leaving Crope and Tibbett alone on the floor.
“I always manage to lose,” Crope pouted, pushing chips off Tibbett and onto the floor.
“At least you didn’t have to be the playing area again.” Tibbett shifted and blinked sleepily up at his friend.
“If you didn’t make bets on whether or not Avaric could hold you down in wrestling, this wouldn’t happen. You never fail to lose.”
“Don’t be so jealous.” He smiled winningly up at Crope, who fell on top of him with a sigh of exasperation. “You’re squashing me, idiot!” Tibbett yelped, trying vainly to push him off.
Crope rolled over onto his chest so that their faces were only an inch apart. His hair fell into Tibbett’s face. “And what are you going to do about it, my dear?”
Their lips met for a moment, as they often tended to do. The other boys pretended not to notice. To them, it was just Crope and Tibbett being themselves, queerlings that they were. It was a game.
It meant slightly more to the two of them, but the others didn’t necessarily need to know that.
--
Crope had to take Tibbett back to school that night after the Philosophy Club. He could barely stand and kept tumbling into Crope, moaning softly under his breath. Eventually, they had to stop so that he could lean against a wall. The sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and there was a fear, a removal, in his eyes that scared Crope. They’d shared everything since they arrived at Shiz, and this was something he couldn’t touch.
“Tibbett?” he whispered, touching the side of his face. The others caught up with them and stood in a semicircle behind him, looking drunk but frightened.
His head swung down to rest on Crope’s shoulder. “I want to go home,” he slurred, his first words since they’d hobbled out of that disgusting place. “Can I go home now?”
“Yes. Yes, don’t worry. We’ll be home soon.” He wasn’t going to cry. This was just a game, and they had to play together to win.
Tibbett’s lips pressed against the side of Crope’s neck in what was almost a kiss and almost a sob at the same time. “I’m tired,” he said softly.
And that was the last time they ever had a conversation that wasn’t one-sided, a conversation that wasn’t Crope trying to engage a weary, blank mental patient in the playful banter they used to have and then giving up in tears. The game had changed forever, and now neither of them knew how to play.
Author:top_hatted_girl .
Rating: PG-13.
Characters/Pairings: Crope/Tibbett.
Summary: They'd been playing a game for years, and now the rules were changing.
Prompts: "Gamble" for wicked_prompts.
Warnings: Sexual implications.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the situations themselves.
The group of boys sat in a cluster on the floor of the dormitory. The dim light cast by the merrily growling fire fell across all of them as the rain fell loudly against the glass of the window. It was midnight, but they’d given up study and sleep a few hours ago.
“Ha,” Avaric laughed, throwing his hand of cards down on Tibbett, who was lying in the middle of the circle to serve as a playing table. “I believe that, my friends, is the game.” Reaching out with one hand, he scooped an enormous amount of the chips they’d nicked from a teacher’s desk drawer over to his section of Tibbett’s chest.
Boq moaned and threw his cards in the air. “It’s impossible to win at anything when you’re around. I’m going to bed.”
“Spoilsport,” Avaric called after him. Boq made an uncharacteristically lewd gesture behind his head and threw himself across his bed with exhausted gusto. The other boys began to yawn in general agreement and headed off to their respective cots. “Ah, damn you all anyway.” Avaric waved his hand dismissively and stalked off to the bathroom, leaving Crope and Tibbett alone on the floor.
“I always manage to lose,” Crope pouted, pushing chips off Tibbett and onto the floor.
“At least you didn’t have to be the playing area again.” Tibbett shifted and blinked sleepily up at his friend.
“If you didn’t make bets on whether or not Avaric could hold you down in wrestling, this wouldn’t happen. You never fail to lose.”
“Don’t be so jealous.” He smiled winningly up at Crope, who fell on top of him with a sigh of exasperation. “You’re squashing me, idiot!” Tibbett yelped, trying vainly to push him off.
Crope rolled over onto his chest so that their faces were only an inch apart. His hair fell into Tibbett’s face. “And what are you going to do about it, my dear?”
Their lips met for a moment, as they often tended to do. The other boys pretended not to notice. To them, it was just Crope and Tibbett being themselves, queerlings that they were. It was a game.
It meant slightly more to the two of them, but the others didn’t necessarily need to know that.
--
Crope had to take Tibbett back to school that night after the Philosophy Club. He could barely stand and kept tumbling into Crope, moaning softly under his breath. Eventually, they had to stop so that he could lean against a wall. The sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and there was a fear, a removal, in his eyes that scared Crope. They’d shared everything since they arrived at Shiz, and this was something he couldn’t touch.
“Tibbett?” he whispered, touching the side of his face. The others caught up with them and stood in a semicircle behind him, looking drunk but frightened.
His head swung down to rest on Crope’s shoulder. “I want to go home,” he slurred, his first words since they’d hobbled out of that disgusting place. “Can I go home now?”
“Yes. Yes, don’t worry. We’ll be home soon.” He wasn’t going to cry. This was just a game, and they had to play together to win.
Tibbett’s lips pressed against the side of Crope’s neck in what was almost a kiss and almost a sob at the same time. “I’m tired,” he said softly.
And that was the last time they ever had a conversation that wasn’t one-sided, a conversation that wasn’t Crope trying to engage a weary, blank mental patient in the playful banter they used to have and then giving up in tears. The game had changed forever, and now neither of them knew how to play.