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Title: Lay of the Land
Author: Clay
Pairings: Greg/Colin, little bit of Greg/Ryan and some unrequited Colin/Ryan, Greg’s POV
Rating: NC-17
Summary: ”I’m sick of the fighting; I’m sick of hating him for no God damned reason. If just for today, I want to pretend that everything is okay.“
Author’s Notes: This is the sequel to Homestead, though I don’t think you need to read that to get this. Takes place the next morning. Oh, and there’s drug use. It’s just marijuana, but it’s kind of... a lot of the story. Oh, and I actually did an illustration for this story a while back.
Word Count: 4,278
Sunday, June 12 1994
The pounding’s been going on for a good five minutes, but there’s no way I’m getting up. Ryan grunts and rolls over, frowning in his sleep. The covers slip down his bare torso, painted a deep mauve from the light of dawn seeping through the drapes.
Suddenly his eyes pop open and he growls, “What the fuck is that noise?”
I stay stretched out on my side of the bed, arm folded beneath my head, eyes locked on the tobacco stained ceiling, and shrug. “The door.”
“Well fucking answer it.” He yanks the covers up around his ears and buries his face in the pillow.
“It’s six o’clock in the fucking morning. I’m not getting the door. You get it.”
“It’s your room. You get it.” His voice is muffled by the pillow and barely audible.
Honestly I just want to burrow my head under my own pillow and go back to sleep, but the asshole at the door doesn’t sound like he’s going to go away any time soon, and besides, a sleep deprived Ryan is a bitchy Ryan. Like Hell I’m going to deal with that the rest of the day.
With a very disgruntled sigh, I pull off the covers and sit up, turning to set my bare feet down on the carpet. It’s fucking cold in this room, and I make a vow right then and there, searching the clothes strewn over the floor for my boxers, to murder whoever it is that’s pulled me from my bed. The boxers are still tangled in the jeans I wore last night, so I pull on the whole mess before stumbling over to the door.
Tarnished yellow light spills under the door and through the peep hole, nearly blinding me when I squint into it.
“What the fuck...”
I yank open the door, jarred when it catches on the chain. I scowl at the intruder through the three inch gap.
“Go away.”
“I want to talk to Ryan,” Colin growls.
“Well tough shit.”
But he doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge me. He wraps his fingers around the edge of the door, and I briefly consider slamming it just for the pain it would cause.
“I know he’s there. Let me in.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Colin, it’s six in the morning. Go back to bed.”
“Let me see Ryan.”
“Ryan,” I snarl, rapidly losing any hold on my already fraying temper, “is sleeping. Go. Away.”
I am very much entertaining the idea of closing the door on his fingers now, and he must sense it because he jerks his hand back, frowning, his breathing harsh. I finally take a good look at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s still wearing the rumpled clothing he’d donned before adventuring out to the bar last night. I wonder if he’s seen his bed at all.
He doesn’t look as though he’s going to budge, but neither will I. Finally, with a sigh and a roll of my eyes, I say, “Fine. What do you want?”
“To talk to–“
“Yeah. I know. About what? I’ll give him the message.”
He frowns, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. He doesn’t want to tell me; it’s none of my business, but I don’t care. He’s not getting in this room. He knows it; he averts his eyes, staring at the doorjamb.
“I’m not going to be able to go out with him today.”
I scoff. “That’s it?”
“Yes.” He looks back to me, hatred darkening his eyes. “That’s it.”
“I’ll let him know.” And with a final smirk, I slam the door in his face.
I crawl back into bed without bothering to undress. I’d like more than anything to go back to sleep, but rather I’m disgustingly awake now. Well, I think, studying the curve of Ryan’s neck, might as well make use of it.
I sidle up behind him and start laying soft kisses along his spine at his nape. Ryan murmurs sleepily and then laughs, a gentle rumble in his chest.
“Not now, Greg. I’m tired. We only went to bed four hours ago.”
“But I’m awake now,” I whisper, moving to nibble his earlobe.
He hums in approval but a moment later is pulling away. “Who was at the door?”
“Nobody.”
He laughs again, turning on his back to look at me with sleep glazed eyes. “And what did Colin want?”
And fuck if his eyes don’t just light up when he speaks that name. “I don’t know,” I lie.
Ryan smiles curiously. He doesn’t believe me, but then a yawn rips through him, and he shuts his eyes and turns away once more. “Fine.”
“Did you have plans with him today?” I blurt it out, and it comes out angrier than I’d expected. Ryan’s back stiffens for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m not surprised. Just like I’m not surprised that he didn’t tell me about the plans in the first place. Why would he? It’s times like this that I feel like I’m nothing more than a fuck to him.
I spring off the bed and head toward the balcony, which is really just a generous term for a slab of concrete and rusting iron railing. This hotel’s the kind of place that was nice once, but now is just good enough for a channel 4 wannabe star. The paint on the railing is chipping. Yellow-green mold creeps up from under the edges of the concrete to mix with the rust stains in a rainbow of disease.
The sight makes me uncomfortable as I dig a pack of cigarettes out of my jeans and slam the glass door behind me. I wonder for just a moment how sturdy this balcony is. I imagine I can hear the concrete crumbling from beneath me.
I squint back through the glass, but Ryan hasn’t moved.
London is barely visible through the fog. It clings to the buildings and hangs low over the streets, obscuring my presence almost completely from those below.
Suddenly, there’s the click and swish of a lighter to my left. I must jump because when I turn, Colin is laughing quietly from two balconies over, leaning against the railing with his eyes trained on the fog. I blow out a breath and slump against the wall. I’m not up for this shit, these games we insist on playing.
When I don’t say anything, Colin looks to me over his shoulder. His cigarette is hanging from his lips, smoke blending with the fog.
“What?” he asks. “No witty retort?”
I open my mouth, ready to tell him just where he can shove his witty retort, but something stops me. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me, like he’s waiting for it, he wants it. He needs me to rip into him because he can’t keep justifying hating me unless he faces up to the fact that he’s in love with his best friend, and he’s far from ready to do that.
I’m not going to do it. I don’t have the energy. We’ve already sparred once today. Isn’t that enough? So I ignore him, lift my cigarette to my lips and pat down my pockets, searching for my lighter. I’ve left it inside, of course.
By now Colin has gone back to staring at what he can see of the city. It’s strangely difficult, but I keep my voice neutral as I shout, “Got a light?”
Colin turns to me again, curious, and for a moment I think he’s just going to laugh at me, but instead he lifts his left hand and the small purple Bic caught between his fingertips and says, “I’m not throwing it to you.”
There’s Ryan’s balcony and a good twenty feet between us, so I don’t blame him, but that sounds like an invitation if I’ve ever heard one. I hesitate. I’m shirtless and barefoot and very, very tired, but this is the closest we’ve ever come to actual civil conversation in as long as I can remember.
So I don’t let myself think about it. I just swing one leg over the railing, feeling my stomach drop when it sways under my weight, and stretch out until I’ve bridged the gap. Then I’m on Ryan’s balcony and eating up the distance between us in a few long strides.
Colin looks almost impressed. Almost. After all, I’m sure he’s done worse when he needed a cigarette. Wordlessly he passes me the lighter. We’re only a few feet apart now, still on separate balconies, and I let myself be amused at the fact that it’s me on Ryan’s.
I light my cigarette and hand him back the lighter, all the while fighting the urge to blow smoke in his face. It’s one of those things that has become nearly ritual over the past few months, but I don’t want to risk this fragile truce.
The next few minutes pass in relative silence. I finish my cigarette, and he lights another, passing the lighter back, unprompted, when I reach for my own pack. By now the weak sun is beginning to penetrate the fog, and it dissipates, showing me men and women swarming the streets below. Colin looks even worse than he had standing in the hallway: tired, worn, miserable.
“You look like shit.” But it’s just an observation, not a judgement, and he knows it.
Colin shrugs. He hasn’t met my eyes in nearly ten minutes. “I didn’t really sleep last night.”
Instinct would have me ask him why, find out what’s wrong, except that I don’t care. He’s not surprised when I don’t say anything.
After another moment of awkward silence, Colin flicks his cigarette over the railing and watches it fall. He turns to head back inside. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, see him pause with his fingers just brushing the glass of the door. He licks his lips and still doesn’t look at me. “I have some... pot.”
My lips twitch into a smile. Little Goody-Two-Shoes doing something illegal? “Do you now.”
We look at each other.
He licks his lips again and stares at me. “I don’t... know how to roll.”
It’s as close as he’s going to come to actually inviting me over, and I’m actually warmed by the sentiment, but fuck if I’m going to let him know that. I drop my cigarette and turn, leaning back against the railing, arms crossed over my chest, watching him.
“What makes you think I do?” It’s not what I really want to ask, though, so I don’t even give him the chance to answer. I follow it up immediately with “Does Ryan know you’ve picked up this dirty little habit?”
He knows as well as I that Ryan has no problem with drug use. We’ve had more than one night that’s ended with the two of us stumbling, giggling, into his bed, eyes blood shot and absolutely reeking of marijuana. Colin, though, he’s another matter altogether. Colin, I’m sure, in Ryan’s opinion, is far too good for that.
“No.”
“What makes you think I won’t tell him?”
It strikes me then that the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind; even as I ask, I know I won’t say a thing. There are just something things you don’t do.
Colin’s eyes dart down to my balcony, and he might be envisioning Ryan in my bed.
“I don’t know,” he says.
And now Colin is actually surprised when I climb over to his balcony and say, “Let’s do it, then.”
He stares at me, and he’s probably starting to think this was a bad idea, but I just don’t care. I’m sick of the fighting; I’m sick of hating him for no God damned reason. If just for today, I want to pretend that everything is okay.
He’s still staring at me a moment later, so I reach around him and yank open the door, inviting myself inside before he has the chance to back out. His room is an exact cookie cutter copy of mine, which shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. His bed is rumpled, unmade, and I almost expect to see Ryan’s tousled head sticking out from beneath the sheet. I wonder if Colin had lain in bed, imagining me fucking Ryan, unable to sleep.
I want to laugh at that, to gloat and tell him exactly how Ryan sounds when he’s calling my name, but instead I keep my mouth shut and perch on the edge of the bed, just watching Colin as he comes inside and shuts the door and curtains behind him, leaving the room awash in dim pink light. I don’t know if I can roll properly in such bad lighting, but then again, I don’t know if I can roll with Colin watching me either.
He hesitates again, eyes locked on my hands laying limply on the bed at my sides, and then, with a simple nod to himself, he’s going over to his overnight case and pulling out a zip locked back and a small, unopen pack of papers.
This I can do. This is my territory. I look around and snatch up a beat up copy of Ender’s Game from his night stand, smoothing down the creased cover and waiting for him to give me the baggy without meeting his eyes. He watches me as I work, hovering just to my right, standing over me now, still clutching the pack of papers, and I can’t look at him. I fumble, hands shaking, and growl, “Sit the fuck down,” and he does, and I can breathe properly again.
If Ryan finds out about this, he’s going to blame me, and that’s fine.
Once the joint is rolled, I stare at it for a moment and then methodically wipe Colin’s book clean and replace it on the table. He’s still watching my hands, but now that I have nothing to do with them, I’m at a loss. We need to talk about this, and I don’t know how.
Eventually I scoot back on the bed until I’m resting against the headboard, and Colin follows suit. I’m still not looking at him, but I can feel him, can feel the excitement, the tension, in his body next to mine.
“You’ve done this before, right?”
He seems startled when I speak and gives a jerky nod. “A couple times.” I hold out my hand for his lighter, which he recognizes after a moment and hurries to comply. He’s speaking again, softly, quickly, in a need to fill the silence. “Back in Vancouver. I had this friend in college. He was my roommate, actually, and he–“
“I didn’t ask for your fucking life story,” I ground out. I don’t know why, but he needs to shut up. I need to not know it’s him beside me.
So he gives another jerky nod and falls silent, content to go back to watching me. He’s abnormally subdued. I don’t like him like this, bending to my will so easily, so I focus on lighting the joint, sucking the smoke deep into my lungs, and it makes this a little easier. I pass it to him, and he stares at it awkwardly and then plucks it from my fingers and inexpertly takes a drag.
I shake my head and blow out a breath of smoke. “No. You’re smoking it like a cigarette. You have to hold it in.” I look at him for the first time in minutes, startled to find him facing me as well. I can’t help it; I look away.
But he nods and tries again, choking slightly on the acrid smoke. It’s been a while for me, and I’m already feeling the affects, almost giggling when he coughs and hands the joint back to me. When I look at him again, and he’s still watching me; I find it a little easier to hold his eyes, showing him the way I bring the smoke into my mouth before swallowing it into my lungs and holding it there. He tries to copy me, and it works a little better. He doesn’t even cough this time, and I nod encouragingly. “That’s it. You’re getting it now.”
He seems oddly pleased by my words. I let him take another drag before taking the joint back. Now we can’t seem to take our eyes off each other. I hold the smoke in my lungs and watch him, twirling the joint between my fingers. He puts out his hand so I can give it back, but I shake my head and hold up a finger, and he waits with the utmost patience for me to blow out the smoke so I can speak.
“Do you want a shot gun?”
He blinks and frowns. “I don’t–“
I wave my hand, cutting him off, and pull up my legs until they’re crossed beneath me. I scoot around to face him properly, and he does the same, eagerly following my lead, the excitement back and palpable, even if he has no idea what I’m doing.
“Just purse your lips,” I say, “and breath in as deep as you can.”
He nods, watching me curiously as I turn the joint around, putting the cherry in my mouth and then lean toward him until my nose actually bumps his and blow. Smoke rushes out in a thick snake, and he gulps it down, jerking back after only a few seconds, startled at the force of the hit. His eyes are actually watering. I sit back lazily, leaning back on one arm and pulling the joint out of my mouth as I watch him. I turn it around and take another hit.
Another few seconds and he’s coughing up a lung, and I’m laughing again. When he catches his breath, he turns to face front once more and leans back against the headboard with a goofy grin.
“Wow,” is all he can get out, and I find myself giggling, twisting around to lean against the headboard myself, slipping a little until my shoulder bumps his. I murmur some sort of acknowledgment and pass the joint back.
He takes it, eyes half closed, a small smile on his lips, and says, “What’s it like to kiss another man?”
Had I been even remotely sober, I might have been startled by the question, but as it is, I just shrug, leaning more heavily against him, oddly pleased at how warm he is against my bare shoulder.
“Like kissing a girl,” I say and then chuckle. “But with more stubble.”
He nods and takes a hit and relaxes against me. “What’s it like kissing Ryan?” he asks when he’s passing the joint back. It’s getting small now, and my fingers stumble and brush against his, and we’re both laughing by the time I get a proper hold on it.
I smile and lift it to my lips. “Absolutely amazing.”
He nods, not laughing now, not even smiling, and definitely not looking at me. “Tell me about it.” It’s almost a plea, whispered and wistful.
The subject is starting to make me uncomfortable, but I push that thought away and bury it. I take a hit, give the joint back and settle in to tell a story.
“He’s very...” I close my eyes, envisioning Ryan and the way he looked pounding into me last night. “...assertive. He, um... he uses a lot of tongue... but not in a bad way.... and his hands...” I trail off. I can see him in my mind, clutching at my hips, eyes shut tight, lips parted and panting.
Colin makes a little noise deep in his throat and nudges me, and I open my eyes to see him passing the joint back. When I take it, his hand settles low on his stomach; he tilts his head back, resting it against the headboard, and closes his eyes.
“Go on.”
And I can’t help it; my eyes drift down of their own accord, and I see that he’s actually getting hard. I think that I might pity him again; he can only acknowledge these feelings when he’s stoned off his ass.
I take one last hit and then stub the joint out in the ashtray on his bedside table before settling down, facing him, my head propped up in one hand.
And I close my eyes again and get lost in the memory. “He likes control, I think. He likes to hold me still when he’s fucking me.” Colin makes another noise, and I hear the rustle of clothes. “He, um...” And I think I might be getting a little hard now, too, but I can deal with that. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll go back and wake Ryan. “...he likes to fuck before shows. It relaxes him. It’s great. He’s so keyed up. He likes it when I go down on him in his dressing room...”
I distinctly hear a zipper being tugged down and open my eyes again to see Colin pulling himself free not two feet from my face. He’s nice, too -- bigger than I would have expected, and without thinking I reach out and put my hand over his.
Colin starts, and his eyes flip open. I think he’d forgotten just where he was and who he was with. He stares at me in shock, and I’m actually laughing again. Colin is fucking adorable. I’d never let myself think
that before, but here, with his cheeks flushed, lips dark and cock achingly hard beneath my hand, I know that, on some level, I’ve always thought so.
He starts to stutter something, an apology, I assume, but I cut him off, licking my lips and saying, “Let me.”
Part of him looks like he wants to slap me, but a larger part, the part that’s still imagining Ryan fucking him, makes him nod. His hand falls away, relinquishing control.
And, God, he smells good as I lower my mouth over him. He’s naturally sweet and musky, like incense. He’s thick and hot against my tongue, and he makes this absolutely gorgeous sound when I suck, hard. I immediately know that he’s going to be far more vocal than Ryan, and I think I like that.
His hand goes to my shoulder and grasps it tightly every time I do something right. When I do something perfectly, he gasps, a choked sound that borders on a whimper. It makes it worth while, knowing what I’m doing to him.
When he comes, he tries to warn me. His hand tightens nearly painfully on my should, mumbling something that doesn’t quite make sense. And I’m ready. I want to taste him. He’s bitter from nicotine, but I’m used to that, and I find that I love the way he tastes. I love the way he stops breathing for a fraction of a second, and then his chest hitches and he’s gulping in lungfuls of air, his hand falling from my shoulder to lay limply on the bed beside him.
“Fuck...” I breathe. Just listening to him has me almost there myself. I don’t think I can last until I get out of here and back to Ryan. I roll onto my back, fumbling with the button on my jeans, but then Colin’s hand is over mind, mirroring our positions from only a moment ago.
He snakes his way down the bed until he’s lying beside me, aligned, and hesitates before leaning in and kissing me. I sure as Hell wouldn’t be kissing him back, wet and messy, but I need this right now, and he’ll do.
“Can I?” he asks, breathing against my mouth, and his hand is slipping inside my jeans.
“Fuck, yes.”
It only takes a few strokes before I’m crying out, groaning into his open mouth. He lingers over top of me, lips absently brushing mine with every breath before he pulls his hand back up to look curiously at my semen coating his hand. Experimentally he sticks his tongue out, lapping at one of his fingers, and the sight nearly has me hard again.
“Fuck, Col...” I slam my eyes shut and just focus on breathing.
Minutes pass before he speaks again. He tucks me back into my pants and zips me up before taking care of himself, and I just lie there and breathe. Finally he says, “We probably shouldn’t have done that.”
I smirk and open my eyes, grinning at him. “A little late for regrets, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just averts his eyes and stares at the blank television set. “You’re with Ryan.” It’s not bitter, just resigned.
And he’s right, but I’m not going to tell Ryan. Not about any of this. “It can be our secret,” I say. I hope he understands what I’m actually saying. I think he does. He looks back to me, curious again, and I give him a genuine smile. “Want to be friends?”
He smiles back, bright and honest, and just the sight of it makes me happy. “Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly, “I’d like that.”
“Fabulous.” I’m back to sarcastic, but the sentiment hasn’t changed. I pull myself up and straighten myself before hopping off the bed.
“I have to get back, but, uh..” I smirk again and shake my head before heading to the glass door, fully intending to balcony hop back to my own room. “...we’ll have to do this again some time.”
We won’t. We both know it, but something’s changed. He laughs and nods, and that’s the last I see of him before heading back to Ryan.
End.
Author: Clay
Pairings: Greg/Colin, little bit of Greg/Ryan and some unrequited Colin/Ryan, Greg’s POV
Rating: NC-17
Summary: ”I’m sick of the fighting; I’m sick of hating him for no God damned reason. If just for today, I want to pretend that everything is okay.“
Author’s Notes: This is the sequel to Homestead, though I don’t think you need to read that to get this. Takes place the next morning. Oh, and there’s drug use. It’s just marijuana, but it’s kind of... a lot of the story. Oh, and I actually did an illustration for this story a while back.
Word Count: 4,278
Sunday, June 12 1994
The pounding’s been going on for a good five minutes, but there’s no way I’m getting up. Ryan grunts and rolls over, frowning in his sleep. The covers slip down his bare torso, painted a deep mauve from the light of dawn seeping through the drapes.
Suddenly his eyes pop open and he growls, “What the fuck is that noise?”
I stay stretched out on my side of the bed, arm folded beneath my head, eyes locked on the tobacco stained ceiling, and shrug. “The door.”
“Well fucking answer it.” He yanks the covers up around his ears and buries his face in the pillow.
“It’s six o’clock in the fucking morning. I’m not getting the door. You get it.”
“It’s your room. You get it.” His voice is muffled by the pillow and barely audible.
Honestly I just want to burrow my head under my own pillow and go back to sleep, but the asshole at the door doesn’t sound like he’s going to go away any time soon, and besides, a sleep deprived Ryan is a bitchy Ryan. Like Hell I’m going to deal with that the rest of the day.
With a very disgruntled sigh, I pull off the covers and sit up, turning to set my bare feet down on the carpet. It’s fucking cold in this room, and I make a vow right then and there, searching the clothes strewn over the floor for my boxers, to murder whoever it is that’s pulled me from my bed. The boxers are still tangled in the jeans I wore last night, so I pull on the whole mess before stumbling over to the door.
Tarnished yellow light spills under the door and through the peep hole, nearly blinding me when I squint into it.
“What the fuck...”
I yank open the door, jarred when it catches on the chain. I scowl at the intruder through the three inch gap.
“Go away.”
“I want to talk to Ryan,” Colin growls.
“Well tough shit.”
But he doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge me. He wraps his fingers around the edge of the door, and I briefly consider slamming it just for the pain it would cause.
“I know he’s there. Let me in.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Colin, it’s six in the morning. Go back to bed.”
“Let me see Ryan.”
“Ryan,” I snarl, rapidly losing any hold on my already fraying temper, “is sleeping. Go. Away.”
I am very much entertaining the idea of closing the door on his fingers now, and he must sense it because he jerks his hand back, frowning, his breathing harsh. I finally take a good look at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s still wearing the rumpled clothing he’d donned before adventuring out to the bar last night. I wonder if he’s seen his bed at all.
He doesn’t look as though he’s going to budge, but neither will I. Finally, with a sigh and a roll of my eyes, I say, “Fine. What do you want?”
“To talk to–“
“Yeah. I know. About what? I’ll give him the message.”
He frowns, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. He doesn’t want to tell me; it’s none of my business, but I don’t care. He’s not getting in this room. He knows it; he averts his eyes, staring at the doorjamb.
“I’m not going to be able to go out with him today.”
I scoff. “That’s it?”
“Yes.” He looks back to me, hatred darkening his eyes. “That’s it.”
“I’ll let him know.” And with a final smirk, I slam the door in his face.
I crawl back into bed without bothering to undress. I’d like more than anything to go back to sleep, but rather I’m disgustingly awake now. Well, I think, studying the curve of Ryan’s neck, might as well make use of it.
I sidle up behind him and start laying soft kisses along his spine at his nape. Ryan murmurs sleepily and then laughs, a gentle rumble in his chest.
“Not now, Greg. I’m tired. We only went to bed four hours ago.”
“But I’m awake now,” I whisper, moving to nibble his earlobe.
He hums in approval but a moment later is pulling away. “Who was at the door?”
“Nobody.”
He laughs again, turning on his back to look at me with sleep glazed eyes. “And what did Colin want?”
And fuck if his eyes don’t just light up when he speaks that name. “I don’t know,” I lie.
Ryan smiles curiously. He doesn’t believe me, but then a yawn rips through him, and he shuts his eyes and turns away once more. “Fine.”
“Did you have plans with him today?” I blurt it out, and it comes out angrier than I’d expected. Ryan’s back stiffens for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. I’m not surprised. Just like I’m not surprised that he didn’t tell me about the plans in the first place. Why would he? It’s times like this that I feel like I’m nothing more than a fuck to him.
I spring off the bed and head toward the balcony, which is really just a generous term for a slab of concrete and rusting iron railing. This hotel’s the kind of place that was nice once, but now is just good enough for a channel 4 wannabe star. The paint on the railing is chipping. Yellow-green mold creeps up from under the edges of the concrete to mix with the rust stains in a rainbow of disease.
The sight makes me uncomfortable as I dig a pack of cigarettes out of my jeans and slam the glass door behind me. I wonder for just a moment how sturdy this balcony is. I imagine I can hear the concrete crumbling from beneath me.
I squint back through the glass, but Ryan hasn’t moved.
London is barely visible through the fog. It clings to the buildings and hangs low over the streets, obscuring my presence almost completely from those below.
Suddenly, there’s the click and swish of a lighter to my left. I must jump because when I turn, Colin is laughing quietly from two balconies over, leaning against the railing with his eyes trained on the fog. I blow out a breath and slump against the wall. I’m not up for this shit, these games we insist on playing.
When I don’t say anything, Colin looks to me over his shoulder. His cigarette is hanging from his lips, smoke blending with the fog.
“What?” he asks. “No witty retort?”
I open my mouth, ready to tell him just where he can shove his witty retort, but something stops me. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me, like he’s waiting for it, he wants it. He needs me to rip into him because he can’t keep justifying hating me unless he faces up to the fact that he’s in love with his best friend, and he’s far from ready to do that.
I’m not going to do it. I don’t have the energy. We’ve already sparred once today. Isn’t that enough? So I ignore him, lift my cigarette to my lips and pat down my pockets, searching for my lighter. I’ve left it inside, of course.
By now Colin has gone back to staring at what he can see of the city. It’s strangely difficult, but I keep my voice neutral as I shout, “Got a light?”
Colin turns to me again, curious, and for a moment I think he’s just going to laugh at me, but instead he lifts his left hand and the small purple Bic caught between his fingertips and says, “I’m not throwing it to you.”
There’s Ryan’s balcony and a good twenty feet between us, so I don’t blame him, but that sounds like an invitation if I’ve ever heard one. I hesitate. I’m shirtless and barefoot and very, very tired, but this is the closest we’ve ever come to actual civil conversation in as long as I can remember.
So I don’t let myself think about it. I just swing one leg over the railing, feeling my stomach drop when it sways under my weight, and stretch out until I’ve bridged the gap. Then I’m on Ryan’s balcony and eating up the distance between us in a few long strides.
Colin looks almost impressed. Almost. After all, I’m sure he’s done worse when he needed a cigarette. Wordlessly he passes me the lighter. We’re only a few feet apart now, still on separate balconies, and I let myself be amused at the fact that it’s me on Ryan’s.
I light my cigarette and hand him back the lighter, all the while fighting the urge to blow smoke in his face. It’s one of those things that has become nearly ritual over the past few months, but I don’t want to risk this fragile truce.
The next few minutes pass in relative silence. I finish my cigarette, and he lights another, passing the lighter back, unprompted, when I reach for my own pack. By now the weak sun is beginning to penetrate the fog, and it dissipates, showing me men and women swarming the streets below. Colin looks even worse than he had standing in the hallway: tired, worn, miserable.
“You look like shit.” But it’s just an observation, not a judgement, and he knows it.
Colin shrugs. He hasn’t met my eyes in nearly ten minutes. “I didn’t really sleep last night.”
Instinct would have me ask him why, find out what’s wrong, except that I don’t care. He’s not surprised when I don’t say anything.
After another moment of awkward silence, Colin flicks his cigarette over the railing and watches it fall. He turns to head back inside. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, see him pause with his fingers just brushing the glass of the door. He licks his lips and still doesn’t look at me. “I have some... pot.”
My lips twitch into a smile. Little Goody-Two-Shoes doing something illegal? “Do you now.”
We look at each other.
He licks his lips again and stares at me. “I don’t... know how to roll.”
It’s as close as he’s going to come to actually inviting me over, and I’m actually warmed by the sentiment, but fuck if I’m going to let him know that. I drop my cigarette and turn, leaning back against the railing, arms crossed over my chest, watching him.
“What makes you think I do?” It’s not what I really want to ask, though, so I don’t even give him the chance to answer. I follow it up immediately with “Does Ryan know you’ve picked up this dirty little habit?”
He knows as well as I that Ryan has no problem with drug use. We’ve had more than one night that’s ended with the two of us stumbling, giggling, into his bed, eyes blood shot and absolutely reeking of marijuana. Colin, though, he’s another matter altogether. Colin, I’m sure, in Ryan’s opinion, is far too good for that.
“No.”
“What makes you think I won’t tell him?”
It strikes me then that the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind; even as I ask, I know I won’t say a thing. There are just something things you don’t do.
Colin’s eyes dart down to my balcony, and he might be envisioning Ryan in my bed.
“I don’t know,” he says.
And now Colin is actually surprised when I climb over to his balcony and say, “Let’s do it, then.”
He stares at me, and he’s probably starting to think this was a bad idea, but I just don’t care. I’m sick of the fighting; I’m sick of hating him for no God damned reason. If just for today, I want to pretend that everything is okay.
He’s still staring at me a moment later, so I reach around him and yank open the door, inviting myself inside before he has the chance to back out. His room is an exact cookie cutter copy of mine, which shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. His bed is rumpled, unmade, and I almost expect to see Ryan’s tousled head sticking out from beneath the sheet. I wonder if Colin had lain in bed, imagining me fucking Ryan, unable to sleep.
I want to laugh at that, to gloat and tell him exactly how Ryan sounds when he’s calling my name, but instead I keep my mouth shut and perch on the edge of the bed, just watching Colin as he comes inside and shuts the door and curtains behind him, leaving the room awash in dim pink light. I don’t know if I can roll properly in such bad lighting, but then again, I don’t know if I can roll with Colin watching me either.
He hesitates again, eyes locked on my hands laying limply on the bed at my sides, and then, with a simple nod to himself, he’s going over to his overnight case and pulling out a zip locked back and a small, unopen pack of papers.
This I can do. This is my territory. I look around and snatch up a beat up copy of Ender’s Game from his night stand, smoothing down the creased cover and waiting for him to give me the baggy without meeting his eyes. He watches me as I work, hovering just to my right, standing over me now, still clutching the pack of papers, and I can’t look at him. I fumble, hands shaking, and growl, “Sit the fuck down,” and he does, and I can breathe properly again.
If Ryan finds out about this, he’s going to blame me, and that’s fine.
Once the joint is rolled, I stare at it for a moment and then methodically wipe Colin’s book clean and replace it on the table. He’s still watching my hands, but now that I have nothing to do with them, I’m at a loss. We need to talk about this, and I don’t know how.
Eventually I scoot back on the bed until I’m resting against the headboard, and Colin follows suit. I’m still not looking at him, but I can feel him, can feel the excitement, the tension, in his body next to mine.
“You’ve done this before, right?”
He seems startled when I speak and gives a jerky nod. “A couple times.” I hold out my hand for his lighter, which he recognizes after a moment and hurries to comply. He’s speaking again, softly, quickly, in a need to fill the silence. “Back in Vancouver. I had this friend in college. He was my roommate, actually, and he–“
“I didn’t ask for your fucking life story,” I ground out. I don’t know why, but he needs to shut up. I need to not know it’s him beside me.
So he gives another jerky nod and falls silent, content to go back to watching me. He’s abnormally subdued. I don’t like him like this, bending to my will so easily, so I focus on lighting the joint, sucking the smoke deep into my lungs, and it makes this a little easier. I pass it to him, and he stares at it awkwardly and then plucks it from my fingers and inexpertly takes a drag.
I shake my head and blow out a breath of smoke. “No. You’re smoking it like a cigarette. You have to hold it in.” I look at him for the first time in minutes, startled to find him facing me as well. I can’t help it; I look away.
But he nods and tries again, choking slightly on the acrid smoke. It’s been a while for me, and I’m already feeling the affects, almost giggling when he coughs and hands the joint back to me. When I look at him again, and he’s still watching me; I find it a little easier to hold his eyes, showing him the way I bring the smoke into my mouth before swallowing it into my lungs and holding it there. He tries to copy me, and it works a little better. He doesn’t even cough this time, and I nod encouragingly. “That’s it. You’re getting it now.”
He seems oddly pleased by my words. I let him take another drag before taking the joint back. Now we can’t seem to take our eyes off each other. I hold the smoke in my lungs and watch him, twirling the joint between my fingers. He puts out his hand so I can give it back, but I shake my head and hold up a finger, and he waits with the utmost patience for me to blow out the smoke so I can speak.
“Do you want a shot gun?”
He blinks and frowns. “I don’t–“
I wave my hand, cutting him off, and pull up my legs until they’re crossed beneath me. I scoot around to face him properly, and he does the same, eagerly following my lead, the excitement back and palpable, even if he has no idea what I’m doing.
“Just purse your lips,” I say, “and breath in as deep as you can.”
He nods, watching me curiously as I turn the joint around, putting the cherry in my mouth and then lean toward him until my nose actually bumps his and blow. Smoke rushes out in a thick snake, and he gulps it down, jerking back after only a few seconds, startled at the force of the hit. His eyes are actually watering. I sit back lazily, leaning back on one arm and pulling the joint out of my mouth as I watch him. I turn it around and take another hit.
Another few seconds and he’s coughing up a lung, and I’m laughing again. When he catches his breath, he turns to face front once more and leans back against the headboard with a goofy grin.
“Wow,” is all he can get out, and I find myself giggling, twisting around to lean against the headboard myself, slipping a little until my shoulder bumps his. I murmur some sort of acknowledgment and pass the joint back.
He takes it, eyes half closed, a small smile on his lips, and says, “What’s it like to kiss another man?”
Had I been even remotely sober, I might have been startled by the question, but as it is, I just shrug, leaning more heavily against him, oddly pleased at how warm he is against my bare shoulder.
“Like kissing a girl,” I say and then chuckle. “But with more stubble.”
He nods and takes a hit and relaxes against me. “What’s it like kissing Ryan?” he asks when he’s passing the joint back. It’s getting small now, and my fingers stumble and brush against his, and we’re both laughing by the time I get a proper hold on it.
I smile and lift it to my lips. “Absolutely amazing.”
He nods, not laughing now, not even smiling, and definitely not looking at me. “Tell me about it.” It’s almost a plea, whispered and wistful.
The subject is starting to make me uncomfortable, but I push that thought away and bury it. I take a hit, give the joint back and settle in to tell a story.
“He’s very...” I close my eyes, envisioning Ryan and the way he looked pounding into me last night. “...assertive. He, um... he uses a lot of tongue... but not in a bad way.... and his hands...” I trail off. I can see him in my mind, clutching at my hips, eyes shut tight, lips parted and panting.
Colin makes a little noise deep in his throat and nudges me, and I open my eyes to see him passing the joint back. When I take it, his hand settles low on his stomach; he tilts his head back, resting it against the headboard, and closes his eyes.
“Go on.”
And I can’t help it; my eyes drift down of their own accord, and I see that he’s actually getting hard. I think that I might pity him again; he can only acknowledge these feelings when he’s stoned off his ass.
I take one last hit and then stub the joint out in the ashtray on his bedside table before settling down, facing him, my head propped up in one hand.
And I close my eyes again and get lost in the memory. “He likes control, I think. He likes to hold me still when he’s fucking me.” Colin makes another noise, and I hear the rustle of clothes. “He, um...” And I think I might be getting a little hard now, too, but I can deal with that. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll go back and wake Ryan. “...he likes to fuck before shows. It relaxes him. It’s great. He’s so keyed up. He likes it when I go down on him in his dressing room...”
I distinctly hear a zipper being tugged down and open my eyes again to see Colin pulling himself free not two feet from my face. He’s nice, too -- bigger than I would have expected, and without thinking I reach out and put my hand over his.
Colin starts, and his eyes flip open. I think he’d forgotten just where he was and who he was with. He stares at me in shock, and I’m actually laughing again. Colin is fucking adorable. I’d never let myself think
that before, but here, with his cheeks flushed, lips dark and cock achingly hard beneath my hand, I know that, on some level, I’ve always thought so.
He starts to stutter something, an apology, I assume, but I cut him off, licking my lips and saying, “Let me.”
Part of him looks like he wants to slap me, but a larger part, the part that’s still imagining Ryan fucking him, makes him nod. His hand falls away, relinquishing control.
And, God, he smells good as I lower my mouth over him. He’s naturally sweet and musky, like incense. He’s thick and hot against my tongue, and he makes this absolutely gorgeous sound when I suck, hard. I immediately know that he’s going to be far more vocal than Ryan, and I think I like that.
His hand goes to my shoulder and grasps it tightly every time I do something right. When I do something perfectly, he gasps, a choked sound that borders on a whimper. It makes it worth while, knowing what I’m doing to him.
When he comes, he tries to warn me. His hand tightens nearly painfully on my should, mumbling something that doesn’t quite make sense. And I’m ready. I want to taste him. He’s bitter from nicotine, but I’m used to that, and I find that I love the way he tastes. I love the way he stops breathing for a fraction of a second, and then his chest hitches and he’s gulping in lungfuls of air, his hand falling from my shoulder to lay limply on the bed beside him.
“Fuck...” I breathe. Just listening to him has me almost there myself. I don’t think I can last until I get out of here and back to Ryan. I roll onto my back, fumbling with the button on my jeans, but then Colin’s hand is over mind, mirroring our positions from only a moment ago.
He snakes his way down the bed until he’s lying beside me, aligned, and hesitates before leaning in and kissing me. I sure as Hell wouldn’t be kissing him back, wet and messy, but I need this right now, and he’ll do.
“Can I?” he asks, breathing against my mouth, and his hand is slipping inside my jeans.
“Fuck, yes.”
It only takes a few strokes before I’m crying out, groaning into his open mouth. He lingers over top of me, lips absently brushing mine with every breath before he pulls his hand back up to look curiously at my semen coating his hand. Experimentally he sticks his tongue out, lapping at one of his fingers, and the sight nearly has me hard again.
“Fuck, Col...” I slam my eyes shut and just focus on breathing.
Minutes pass before he speaks again. He tucks me back into my pants and zips me up before taking care of himself, and I just lie there and breathe. Finally he says, “We probably shouldn’t have done that.”
I smirk and open my eyes, grinning at him. “A little late for regrets, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just averts his eyes and stares at the blank television set. “You’re with Ryan.” It’s not bitter, just resigned.
And he’s right, but I’m not going to tell Ryan. Not about any of this. “It can be our secret,” I say. I hope he understands what I’m actually saying. I think he does. He looks back to me, curious again, and I give him a genuine smile. “Want to be friends?”
He smiles back, bright and honest, and just the sight of it makes me happy. “Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly, “I’d like that.”
“Fabulous.” I’m back to sarcastic, but the sentiment hasn’t changed. I pull myself up and straighten myself before hopping off the bed.
“I have to get back, but, uh..” I smirk again and shake my head before heading to the glass door, fully intending to balcony hop back to my own room. “...we’ll have to do this again some time.”
We won’t. We both know it, but something’s changed. He laughs and nods, and that’s the last I see of him before heading back to Ryan.
End.
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