tarnished -- part one -- trekker |
Chapter Six | |
Altered Perceptions |
He awoke, once again, to a pounding headache and a disturbing lack of memory of the events of the night prior. Sick and dizzy, and yet, the first thing his hand encountered as he groped for his glasses was a plastic water bottle.
Mana from the gods.
Although, if he'd been as drunk last night as it felt like he had been, how had he had the foresight to put the water there? Not to mention how had he had the foresight to strip down to his boxers and to set his glasses safely aside?
He finished the water off quickly, feeling, if not better, then at least relieved to know that it was helping, and then he slipped on his glasses. Then he froze, a moment before looking at the mirror, suddenly quite sure he remembered that Ethan had played some role in the previous night's events.
Oh, god. He was a demon. Wasn't he?
He steeled himself, and looked.
No. Not a demon. Quite human, in fact, except for the blood-shot and shadowed eyes and the rampant five o' clock shadow. Then he noticed a slip of paper, tucked in the frame of the mirror.
He heaved himself up and staggered over, and plucked it out to read it.
"I do hope you remember the part where you were staggering down the streets singing Baktar demon sea shanties. Truly a memory to be cherished for a lifetime.
"Be seeing you."
Oh, dear lord.
He all but prayed that this was merely a representation of Ethan's horrid sense of humor.
But he had a sneaking suspicion it was not.
He crumpled the note and tossed it in the rubbish bin, then headed to the bathroom.
It wasn't until the hot water of the shower began to clear his head that he felt the first real twinge of fear. It wasn't fear of Ethan or anything Ethan may have done. It was fear of himself.
This was the third time since he'd got back to England that he'd drank enough to black out.
Not good. Also not wise and not safe, especially with Ethan hanging about like that stray cat you foolishly decided to feed once.
He told himself it wouldn't happen again.
***
Ethan leaned against the frame of his front door and smiled as he crested the stairs.
"Giles. Hope you've recovered."
"I'll live," Giles said, drily. "Why are you here?"
"Ah. I come bearing gifts," Ethan said. "Well, a gift, in any case."
He slipped his hand slightly out of his pocket to display a small ziplock bag half-filled with something shredded and plant-like. Giles raised one brow skeptically.
"Just how idiotic, exactly, do you think I am?"
"Oh, relax," Ethan said, standing up away from the wall, his 'gift' tucked away again, "It's not mystical in any way, I promise."
Giles stepped around him to unlock his door.
"And why should I trust you?"
"Well, I haven't lied to you lately. Or even tried to kill you."
"Ah, of course. How could I have even dreamed of doubting your intentions?"
Sarcasm still felt good. Ethan just huffed.
"Oh, come on. I'm just offering you a chance to relax for the night. Honestly."
He raised his hands as though to indicate he was unarmed, and, foolish though it was, Giles gave in as he pushed the door open and said, "Fine, fine. Come in."
"Wonderful," Ethan said, with cheer that sounded genuine.
***
A few hours later, Giles was sprawled on the floor of his living room, feeling the vibrations of The Who's greatest hits shivering through his floorboards. He tilted his head back and saw Ethan was still on the couch, arms stretched out, body melted over the back like one of Dali's watches. Upside-down to Giles' eyes, he looked rather amusing. Also, with the way his legs were spread, Giles had a perfect view of his crotch. Which was actually quite a good thing.
Giles smiled and took another drag. This was damn good stuff. Good enough that he actually didn't care if Ethan had enchanted it in some way. He felt good. Better than he had in ages.
"Y'know," he said, "This, this is real music. You heard the crap they call music these days? It's crap."
"I dunno," Ethan said. "Some of it's not bad."
Giles sat part way up and twisted around to look at Ethan right-side-up.
"Are you daft? That stuff isn't music. It's... it's a bunch of idiots banging on percussion instruments. Or occasionally some shallow git whining. This is real music, music that *means* something."
"I rather like modern dance music, actually," Ethan said, "Good beat."
Giles dropped painfully heavily down on his back again.
"Ow," he said, then giggled, then recaptured his train of thought and said, "Men do not dance, Ethan."
There was a thump and then Ethan crawled over and sat down by his shoulder.
"Are you implying I'm less than a man?" Ethan asked, looking down at him with an expression hard to decipher from the odd angle.
"Quite possibly," Giles said, forcing himself to sound serious.
Which didn't hold water for long, given that he couldn't help but giggle when Ethan said, "Would you like me to prove just how much a man I am?"
"No," he said.
But Ethan was already slithering down to the floor beside him, nuzzling at the open V of Giles' half-unbuttoned shirt. Then sliding down lower, 'til his face was buried in Giles' crotch, his mouth moving along Giles' cock through his slacks.
"Oh, fuck," Giles said, "Your mouth is bloody amazing."
"Well, your prick is inspiring," Ethan answered. This time, they both broke down in giggles.
And Ethan's laughter against his cock was even better than his tongue had been, and somehow, now, acknowledging that with a hearty, appreciative groan really didn't seem so bad, after all.
Especially not since it seemed to inspire Ethan to go back to his ministrations.
Though now Giles wanted something a bit different.
"Get up here, you bastard," he growled, and Ethan looked up and then climbed up his body, dropping down over him when they were eye to eye. Eye to pretty eye. God, Ethan had gorgeous eyes. Dark and deep. Giles lifted one hand and buried it in Ethan's longish hair, flicked his gaze up and down, taking in the changes in his old lover's face.
Deeper lines around his mouth and eyes, and that goatee were the obvious differences. Still, the sameness now seemed more captivating. That same gleefully wicked sparkle in his eyes, those same smooth pink lips, those same high-cheekbones that had so captivated him when he was younger.
That still did captivate him now.
He didn't mind. Felt light and free and... happy.
"You *did* do something to this stuff," he said, then, gesturing with the joint.
"I most certainly did not," Ethan said, still weighing Giles down, still close enough that his breath caressed Giles' cheek. "It's nothing more magical than damn good hash."
"It's not like I don't have grounds for suspicion. Wouldn't be the first time you've put a spell on me."
And for some reason, that set Ethan off giggling again, which was actually quite a pleasant sensation on Giles' end, what with the nice warm body wriggling against his own. Ethan looked up again, still grinning, and sang, badly, "I put a spell on you."
"Oh, dear god," Giles gasped, "You can't sing. Please, stop."
Once that fit of amusement had finally managed to pass, the album had quit playing (possibly because even the recording was so horrified by Ethan's attempt at musicality that it simply gave up), and Giles said, "I'm hungry."
"Yes, well, that'd be the drugs," Ethan said, knowingly.
"Yes, I know, thank you, Ethan."
Then they were both quiet, lying there together in the middle of his living room floor, amongst the boxes shoved aside for the occasion.
After a moment, Ethan wet his lips and leaned down.
And kissed him.
Giles clenched his hand in Ethan's hair and pulled him closer.
***
Sometime later, Giles grimaced and shifted his hips, his bare arse catching tackily on the polished wood floor, his ankles tangled in his slacks, his shirt open, and his stomach sticky with semen.
"This is disgusting," he said.
Ethan just rolled his eyes and then rolled another joint.
"You're entirely too prim these days, Ripper."
"I'm going to have bruises all over the place tomorrow," he muttered. "And my back is probably ruined for life."
Ethan handed over the now-lit joint and Giles accepted it without protest, hoisting himself up on one elbow and taking a drag. He was far too sober at the moment. He handed it back.
Ethan had pulled his trousers up, but hadn't bothered to button or zip them, and his shirt was gone, shoved halfway under the couch, leaving him completely bare from the waist up. Somehow, this looked perfectly normal on him, as if being dressed was not his natural state of being. Looking him over, Giles noticed for the first time the ugly scar above the crook of his elbow. Besides that, though, Ethan didn't just look natural as he leaned back against the coffee table, one arm bent up to hold the joint to his lips, the other braced on the floor, his legs loosely folded, he looked amazingly good, like some debauched creature from Greek mythology.
Suddenly their hurried frottage seemed deeply unsatisfying, and Giles found himself reaching out, touching the closest bit of flesh he could reach, the smooth skin of Ethan's flank.
Ethan looked down at Giles' fingers, took another drag, then set it aside and got down again, bracing himself over Giles on hands and knees. Giles leaned up and Ethan leaned down and their lips met in the middle, parted, and Ethan let the mouthful of sweet smoke trickle from him to Giles. Intimate... Giles shut his eyes and breathed it in and let his head drop back as Ethan kissed down his throat, his chest, then began to lick their come off Giles' stomach.
Giles moaned, and ached for a dizzying variety of things.
"Ethan..." he said, and the name tasted like fine wine as it rolled across his tongue.
Ethan just hummed distractedly and then, having finished with Giles' stomach, took Giles' cock in hand and began lapping at the head.
"Ethan," Giles gasped, "Bed. Bed now."
tarnished -- part one -- trekker |