It's the morning after the night before
I’m dragged up out of a dreamless sleep by the sound of Sting wailing to Roxanne from the clock-radio somewhere to the left of me. With my eyes still shut, I grope blindly for the alarm (Should’ve turned the damn thing off last night…) and freeze when my hand makes contact with warm bare skin. My eyes snap open, the memory of last night hitting me like a speeding semi, and my heart rate doubles in a matter of seconds. I’m naked and tangled up with Wesley like a lover, aching in places that I haven’t been sore since college. Everything smells like sweat and sex and his cologne.
‘I won’t share you with another boy,’ Sting keens. I fumble for the off button, reaching carefully over Wesley and trying desperately not to wake him up. At least not until I’ve got my storyline straight. Oh my god, even my subconscious is making bad puns!
Not panicking, not panicking…
The slight alcohol haze has been replaced by a throbbing ache behind my eyes that’s threatening to turn into a full-blown hangover any time now. I work my way gingerly out of Wesley’s embrace, slinking out of bed and trying to find my jeans. Which are… in the other room? Oh. My. God. Yup, definitely panicking now.
I had been begging. Begging! Not exactly my typical modus operandi for establishing credibility as someone not to be messed with. Tugging on my jeans and fighting back the urge to make a run right the hell back to Nepal, I rub my hands over my face, trying to calm down. A weird little shock goes through me at the smell of him on my fingers, the reality of everything we'd done sinking in. Not so much what we'd done, as how we'd... okay, breathe. Remember to breathe.
A shower would clear my head and get the confusing scent of him off my skin. But the sound of the shower would wake him up, and then he’d most likely hit the panicking stage while I wasn’t around to talk him down. If there’s one thing overriding my own mortification at how far out of hand I let this get, it’s the realization that I need him. Without Wesley, all my plans are shot and I might as well punch a one-way ticket to the Home Office right now.
So I head to the kitchen and scrub my hands until all I can smell is the sharp nothingness of soap and water, wondering if the guy drinks coffee. He’s British, so… tea, right? Or is that a stereotype? Doesn’t really matter either way, since all I’ve got in my barely-stocked pantry in terms of hangover-killers is coffee.
With the coffee brewing, I head back into the main room to hunt for my shirt, wondering what the hell I’m going to say to him. Or if I’ll even be able to look him in the eye.
God, why the hell did I let my guard down like that? And why can’t I stop thinking about the way that he kissed me?
[Tag Wes]
‘I won’t share you with another boy,’ Sting keens. I fumble for the off button, reaching carefully over Wesley and trying desperately not to wake him up. At least not until I’ve got my storyline straight. Oh my god, even my subconscious is making bad puns!
Not panicking, not panicking…
The slight alcohol haze has been replaced by a throbbing ache behind my eyes that’s threatening to turn into a full-blown hangover any time now. I work my way gingerly out of Wesley’s embrace, slinking out of bed and trying to find my jeans. Which are… in the other room? Oh. My. God. Yup, definitely panicking now.
I had been begging. Begging! Not exactly my typical modus operandi for establishing credibility as someone not to be messed with. Tugging on my jeans and fighting back the urge to make a run right the hell back to Nepal, I rub my hands over my face, trying to calm down. A weird little shock goes through me at the smell of him on my fingers, the reality of everything we'd done sinking in. Not so much what we'd done, as how we'd... okay, breathe. Remember to breathe.
A shower would clear my head and get the confusing scent of him off my skin. But the sound of the shower would wake him up, and then he’d most likely hit the panicking stage while I wasn’t around to talk him down. If there’s one thing overriding my own mortification at how far out of hand I let this get, it’s the realization that I need him. Without Wesley, all my plans are shot and I might as well punch a one-way ticket to the Home Office right now.
So I head to the kitchen and scrub my hands until all I can smell is the sharp nothingness of soap and water, wondering if the guy drinks coffee. He’s British, so… tea, right? Or is that a stereotype? Doesn’t really matter either way, since all I’ve got in my barely-stocked pantry in terms of hangover-killers is coffee.
With the coffee brewing, I head back into the main room to hunt for my shirt, wondering what the hell I’m going to say to him. Or if I’ll even be able to look him in the eye.
God, why the hell did I let my guard down like that? And why can’t I stop thinking about the way that he kissed me?
[Tag Wes]