[lotrips] two to tango 2/2
co-written with shaenie, this part with cameo by sparcck
characters from lotr_porn
::
It's exactly like Jeet Kun Do, actually, or not exactly because it's a lot closer, he can feel Nic's breath hot on his neck and Nic's fingertips like little starbursts of unexpected sensation (except not unexpected, not really, just unexpectedly good sensation, pleasant, like sunshine on bare skin) where they are pressing into Bill's lower back (Nic's thumb has crept beneath the hem of his shirt, Bill isn't sure when, but the rest of the fingers on that hand are behaving themselves, so Bill decides not to say anything). Nic's other hand is higher up, the side of his thumb against the back of Bill's neck, the other four fingers splayed between his shoulder blades (long fingers, Bill thinks distractedly, because his left hand is in a similar position on Nic, mirrored and reversed, but similar, and his fingertips don't reach anywhere near as far).
It's like Jeet Kun Do because when Nic moves, Bill moves, reacts, counters, shifts, and it's easy to take the things Nic had shown him and just tweak them slightly, modify them for the differences in proximity and position, and he does that every time he trains, and he sweats like this, too, so he shouldn't be surprised, though it doesn't seem like he's actually been working all that hard, so maybe it's just the fact that Nic is fucking radiating heat. Bill has met people like Nic before, people that just run a few degrees hotter than everyone else, but he doesn't think he's ever been this close to one of them; maybe it's normal to react to people like that by running a little hotter yourself.
He isn't thinking of much of anything except the heavy pulse of music and the coordinated tangle of body parts shifting in time with it, his mind distant the way it is when he is sparring, barely participating, sort of along for the ride, like every sparring match, fight, or fuck Bill has ever been involved in.
Not until Nic shifts his hips a little differently, and Bill shifts in response, which ends up aligning their hips and tucking them together, and Nic makes a low sound, breathy like a sigh, but a little harsher than that, directly in Bill's ear.
Bill shivers, an inexplicable pulse of something twitching along his skin, something that originates right where Nic's breath had hissed warmly, right behind his ear, and slithers down to the base of his spine where it blooms into something hot and familiar.
What? he thinks (but he shouldn't be surprised, should he, because he's just bloody thought about it being like sparring or fighting or fucking, three things that Bill gets hard for, which he knows, which happens every time he does any of the three and he's learned to sort of ignore since it isn't something he can change, but he is surprised, he's fucking shocked because he, it seems, is not the only one; he can't quite think why that should surprise him either), and wait, but he only thinks it.
He doesn't actually give in to the impulse to scramble away from Nic.
He ignores it, instead, because that's what he's always done, and because if he does scramble away from Nic, well… That would mean something. That would make it mean something.
And it doesn't. It's just an involuntary reaction to a heightened level of certain chemicals in his blood.
It doesn't mean a bloody thing, so he ignores it.
::
"You're fine," Nic says, and he means it in all sorts of ways; Bill is fine, adept, even, now that he's shed the self-consciousness. He's still skittering his gaze away from Nic though--every time Nic looks, Bill averts his eyes, until he's distracted more by the sudden tenseness across Bill's shoulders, his almost-falter, and it takes a second to register.
And then another second before Nic clicks that he's hard, too, and well, that's really just par for the course, but it's interesting. And it mightn't mean anything, but it also might mean something, and Nic is nothing if not willing to press an advantage--or a hard-on for that matter--when it presents itself. His hand is light on Bill's back until he digs the heel of his hand gently in, canting Bill towards him a little more, and the friction is barely there but there, nonetheless, and good, and Nic can't help the little sound that escapes him.
He didn't actually want to use this as an opportunity, but Bill is more-or-less in his lap, and some chances are too good to pass up.
"You're fine," Nic murmurs again, his head tipped to one side so he can watch Bill's face, watch the flittering expressions, but this time his voice is deliberately close, as is the way he tightens his hand up through Bill's hair, cradling the back of his skull, tufts of hair feeling damp between Nic's fingers.
::
Wait, he thinks again, and are Nic's fingers threading into his hair?
Nic's eyes are glittering at him, tiny storms trapped in his irises, and he is smiling a little, but for a change it isn't exactly mocking or teasing, it's… something else, Bill doesn't know what the fuck it is, but he looks away from it deliberately, cuts his eyes away to some point over Nic's shoulder, and he can feel himself frowning, his mind suddenly very much involved in what had been something safely mindless three seconds previous.
Nic's hand is pressed firmly against his lower back. Nic's hand is pressed very firmly against his lower back.
Wait, he thinks one more time, and he no longer cares about moving away making this mean something. It's abruptly urgent that he get away from Nic, that's enough dancing, thanks very much, because he is too hot and he is uncomfortably aroused (which has nothing to do with anything dammit) and because he can feel Nic's eyes on him.
He glances back at Nic (his head is still slightly canted, and Bill realizes he's looking into Nic's eyes from closer than he's ever looked into another bloke's eyes -- if one didn't count the guy that had stabbed Bill his first year on the streets) and says, "Nic, wa--"
But Nic doesn't hear all of the sentence, because Nic doesn't wait, Nic kisses him, and Bill makes a choked sound of disbelief and dismay and just stands there, music forgotten, but with his hips still pressed up against Nic's firmly enough to cause prickling tingles of pleasure.
::
Maybe it's posture, but Nic has the tiniest of height advantages on Bill. He can't exactly maneuver him, but he can tilt Bill's jaw up so his mouth falls open, somewhere between outrage and expectation, because it hits him, suddenly, that it's not just some kind of diffuse lust that he feels. He wants to kiss Bill, properly, wants the kind of wet, open kiss that provokes a whimper.
And Bill is stupidly trying to talk to him, and hasn't anyone told Bill that this is about when most people shut up and give in?
Bill's mouth is still slightly open when Nic kisses him, somewhere in between leisurely and necessary. Nic slides his hand around to stretch his fingers across Bill's face, his thumb along Bill's jaw, and there is the loveliest of capitulations when Nic feels, actually feels the catch in Bill's breathing, the stop in his throat, rumbling underneath his hand.
Nic wants to groan, himself, when for the briefest of moments Bill's mouth warms open into his, and it feels like the kiss is going to go on and gloriously on.
::
Wait, Bill thinks again, but very faintly, and Nic's mouth is furnace hot and wet, and Nic has a deft and wicked tongue. Not that Bill would have expected less.
He kisses like Keira, balls out, his attention utterly devoted to it, but also not like Keira, as he's not girl-soft and he's… he's fucking aggressive and almost brutal, and Bill can feel the burn of Nic's stubble against his chin, can feel the long, warm curl of Nic's thumb along his jaw and, of course, he can feel the steely heat of Nic's erection jammed against his own, which is obviously very different, and…
Wait! and there is nothing faint about it this time, because he is… what the fuck is he… Jesus bloody Christ, Nic is fucking kissing him (and rumbling, Nic is rumbling at him, in his throat and in his chest, Bill can feel the subtle vibration of it), and that's just… that's not…
He jerks back, pulls away and shoves Nic at the same time, puts some distance (only a couple of feet for now, but that has to do because Bill is staggering and dizzy, his equilibrium lost somewhere along the line) between them, and drags the back of his hand along his lips harshly.
"You," he says, and, "what?" but neither of those words actually create an entire sentence, and Bill doesn't know what the fuck sentence he'd been going for anyway.
Doesn't matter, though, is absolutely irrelevant, because he's leaving now, he's fucking getting out of here, and he turns, looking for his boots and his keys and the fucking door because he's turned around, now, and he doesn't fucking know which direction he's facing.
::
If I grab him, thinks Nic, hazily disappointed but not really surprised, he'll freak out. And possibly break my nose.
"Bill," he says softly, "I told you, you were fine." He plants his palm in the middle of Bill's chest (which is rapidly rising and falling, he's breathing hard, and Nic is too, but there's almost something like panic in Bill's expression) and walks him backwards the two steps until he's against the wall. Nic lets his hand hover, quite willing to pin the recalcitrant fucker like a moth until he calms down.
"I'm sorry," he says, "about kissing you." He isn't, because he had to. But he is, because he should have known, shouldn't have been so bloody cocky, should have just left it for much, much longer. He shrugs. "I'm impatient."
Bill is glaring at him, furiously it would seem, but he hasn't bolted, and he hasn't thumped Nic.
Yet.
::
He brushes Nic's hand away from his chest, and Nic drops it, but it doesn't fall to his side. It stops about midway and hovers there, and if Bill didn't know better (if he didn't know Nic was smarter than that), he would think Nic was prepared to do that again.
The idea makes Bill snarl a little, and he shoves aside furious confusion long enough to take a good look at Nic's face, to try and read what he sees there.
It's not challenge, though, which is what Bill half expects. Not really. He looks a little uncertain, and while not exactly repentant, he does look like he's aware that he's made Bill horribly (horribly horribly fucking horribly) uncomfortable.
And Bill still wants to get the fuck out of here, away from him, but he can't quite make himself do it.
Because Keira… because…
Because lots of reasons. Because he doesn't know why the fuck not, dammit.
"It's," he begins, thinking okay, but it's most certainly not okay (not remotely, Bill is yards and miles and fucking light years away from okay, for fuck's sake), and Bill shakes his head and takes a deep breath, and just says, "What the fuck, Nic? What the fuck?"
::
Fuck's sake.
"It's very simple," Nic says slowly. "You ask me to teach you to dance. With touching. Which, I recall, you instigated."
"And," Nic continues, bracing his arms on the wall either side of Bill, "Backstory. In which various non-orthodox sexual encounters underscore the ambiguity of... us." When in doubt, be a smartarse. Usually works.
"Also, Little Bill did not seem averse to my presence." Nic bites his bottom lip for a second. "And I, inexplicably, think you're fucking hot. But I'm also stupid enough to kiss a straight boy, so who knows about my judgment, eh?"
Nic runs out of arguments, so he kisses Bill again, presses him hard back against the wall and gasps wetly against his mouth when he pulls away, before Bill can push him.
::
It's brief, wet, and noisy this time (noisy because Nic makes a noise, a gasp-y sort of sound, not because Bill does), and Nic pulls back before Bill quite gets his hands up to shove him.
And smirks at Bill, his eyes bright with… with whatever the fuck it is that drives Nic to do shite like this, at any rate, Bill has no idea what that might be, and he just…
He just snaps, he almost fucking hears it in his head, brittle and abrupt, and he grabs Nic, his fingers skating a little along Nic's bare chest, which is damp and offers little purchase; he slides his foot between Nic's, hooking his ankle and propelling Nic, stumbling, face first into the wall as Bill steps smoothly aside.
Nic manages one step back before Bill arranges himself in a position offering maximum control with minimum effort, and slams the heel of his palm into the middle of Nic's back, bracing himself to hold him there. Nic's hands go up against the wall, to push off, but Bill has the leverage, and he's not going to fucking let go, not this time, not when all Nic wants to do is fuck with him, not when letting Nic go almost guarantees that Nic will respond with the sort of physicality that is not readily combated with Bill's superior strength and knowledge.
"What the fuck," Bill growls, punctuating it with a little shove that makes Nic huff a little, "is your bloody damage, mate. I'm not your fucking uncle, and I'm not someone at one of your little moonlighting soirees, Dominic. I'm not going to fucking take your bullshit. I'm not going to fucking let you play with me. This is not a fucking game."
And he isn't even sure what all of that means, what precisely he means, but he's certain he's angry, his blood is pounding in his ears (and in his cock, fighting and fucking, often not all that different in Bill's experience, so what does it say that he keeps fighting with Nic?), and he's furious with Nic, furious and he wants to fucking make sure he bloody knows it.
He removes his hand from Nic's back and takes a step away with that in mind, and he's more than fucking hoping that Nic is pissed off or hurt enough to come around swinging; he's fucking counting on it.
::
There's a point, outdoor climbing, where Nic's fear of heights (climbing helped bully it into submission, but it surfaces, occasionally) completely overwhelms him, and he freezes on the face and can do nothing but count his breaths until it passes. For some whacked-out reason, the same thing happens now. He's not scared--not in the least--he's just... stuck. How the fuck Bill knows about his deal with Oliver, how he twigs on about Ian (if that's what it is, Nic has no idea), it makes his breath catch and his heart double-thump, just like vertigo.
So he just has to breath, and count, and lean against the wall like it's some kind of forty-metre chimney route. He should be worried, concerned, that Bill knows details Nic would rather keep to himself, but what's making his blood thump hot is not that, but injustice, and frustration. Because Bill thinks Nic's playing with him, teasing him, whatever. Fucking idiot.
"I'm not fucking with you, Bill," Nic says, and where he gets the restraint to say it quietly, to resist spinning around and lashing out, never mind the (probably bloody) consequences, he has no idea. He doesn't want to turn around and look at Bill, because he's pretty sure he's fucked up whatever might have happened there, and well.
Nic is just not used to disappointment.
The thought occurs to him that he should probably just leave--never mind his shoes--and attempt to stay out of Bill's way in future. He doesn't have a clue why the man is here, really; he's too fucking smart, that's blatantly obvious, and he doesn't appear to have Nic's excuses for fucking around on his uncle's dime.
Leave, his brain says, but, uh, no. Curiosity, and cats, and he has to turn around against the wall, hands out (no weapon, comrade), and level his gaze to Bill's.
::
It only pisses him off more.
By all rights, Nic should at least fucking try to defend himself, and Bill can't help feeling that he's easy fucking pickings, and not only for Bill.
For his creepy fucking uncle and for the fuckers at the parties Nic gets dressed down and drugged up for, and it just pisses him off, that he fucking does that, that he fucking risks himself like that, without thought, without a single fucking thought to what could go wrong, what will go wrong eventually, because things like that always do.
Bill knows it, he's fucking seen it too many times, and he knows full well that he's angry because he's afraid for Nic, but that doesn't bear thinking about.
Homicide, Narcotics, and Vice are all the same in the end; you always end up cleaning up something heartbreaking, something that makes you wonder who the pretty girl with the tiny blue heart tattooed on her left shoulder blade -- the one who couldn't be more than seventeen -- had pissed off to deserve to die like that, and does her mother even know where she is?
And it's only worse the deeper into it you get, because it becomes all too clear how it happens, how easily, how quickly, when you meet a bright, beautiful boy-man with a blinding grin and melted chocolate eyes, who smiles and lounges and smirks at the danger that is too close for him to perceive, and you watch him fucking devolve into someone who shakes and cringes if you look at him right, who knows when to duck out of a room before the fucking starts if he doesn't want to end up part of the gang-bang, who knows how to lie and smile at the same time.
And as horrible as that is to see, even more terrible are the ones that have no idea of any of those things, the fringers, the ones who only dabble in that world and return to their safe little lives with no understanding of how it can be, those who are so toked up and blissed out that they don't see the danger until it's raping them in back alleys or in "private rooms" at "private parties."
Those are the ones that always look like they're sleeping to Bill, even stretched out on a slab with their skin faintly grey and their bodies so fucking still.
Nic is a fringer, slip-sliding across the line from the everyday world to the other one without thought or worry, oblivious to reality.
And Bill has dreamed about that fucking party again and again, and he doesn't know which is worse: the nights that he wakes up sweaty and hard and unable to get back to sleep, or the nights that he wakes up sweaty and fucking terrified with Nic's face behind his eyelids, still and grey, and not sleeping.
And he's still so fucking angry he could slide his hands around Nic's throat and squeeze, angry because he's young and thoughtless, angry because he's confusing and complicated, angry because he believes Nic when he says he isn't fucking with Bill, believes the look on his face right now, his open hands, and the hitch of hesitation in his voice when he had said it, and that just makes it worse.
He doesn't slide his hands around Nic's throat and squeeze, of course.
And he doesn't say, "Then never go back there, never toke up and strip down, never fucking let me catch you being so bloody stupid again," either.
He doesn't say anything.
And he doesn't step back, either, out of Nic's space.
He just stands there.
::
Huh.
Maybe Nic's too used to the company he keeps. Maybe he's been around people who live their lives however, whatever, wherever, without any kind of censure, and he's used to it.
Because it takes a little while - the entire time he's watching Bill's face, and the confusing little tempest of emotions that seem to cross it - but it slowly sinks in.
"Huh," he says. "Why don't you say what you really mean?" Nic tries not to, but the acid creeps into his voice.
Bill's eyebrows draw together a little, but he doesn't reply, because, well, Nic doesn't let him.
"Which is, not so much that you're averse to the idea--" he flicks his gaze down to Bill's crotch, which is unmistakably displaying an appreciable hard-on (and Nic isn't so pissed off not to feel smug about, ha, straight-boy, ha fucking ha) -- "but more that you're averse to me, the original slutty good-time boy--"
He pauses, and smiles tightly at Bill, and swallows.
"-- and I'm good enough to tolerate, and perhaps have a few laughs with, but definitely not good enough to satisfy whatever extra code of ethics you appear to have for men, because, Boyd, take a fucking look around you, at the people you work with, at the people you socialise with--"
And that is meant to include Keira, but it's also meant to include Orlando, because, well, fuck knows what's going on there.
"--no-one here is exactly the fucking poster child for Christian family values, you know, and the flip side of that is that people know when to snog someone for fun because they can get away with it, but they also fucking know that when they kiss someone--" he pokes Bill in the chest "--they better bloody mean it, asshole, and I did, and maybe if you'd get the stick out of your arse for a minute you might be able to look beyond all this--"
Nic waves his arms around, trying to think of a word to encompass the make-believe, shiny, thing that Johnny creates, and fails miserably.
"--stuff," he concedes, "and not just assume that everyone is playing with you, or bullshitting you, or what-the-fuck-ever, and if you can't you're clearly in the wrong fucking place, mate."
He blinks, because, "And anyhow, why the fuck are you even here?" Nic can't stop, now, even though he knows he's ranting. "Why are you slumming it with the dregs, huh? You're too fucking smart to be a bloody secretary, or whatever it is that you are, and you know, the only reason I didn't smack you is it's pretty obvious you'd cause more damage than I could possibly hope to inflict, and what the fuck is someone like you getting out of this, mate?"
He has more to say, but he needs to breathe.
::
Bill lets him rant -- it's fairly clear to him that he'd managed to hurt Nic's feelings, which hadn't been his intention at all, and if someone had asked him if he thought it was even possible to do, Bill isn't sure what he'd have said -- and he can't help the dull throb of sympathetic pain that rises in his own chest as Nic spills out vitriol in typical Nic fashion, disorganized rambling that splashes his hurt all over the place.
He chooses to ignore the last few sentences of Nic's outburst; he can't answer those questions. He won't. So he shunts them out of his mind; he can deal with them later, if need be.
"I don't assume that everyone is fucking with me," he says, and his voice is an unsteady reflection of the nerves and adrenaline still coursing through his blood. "I assumed that you were, because that is what you fucking do, Nic. You've done it since the first time we spoke, and how the fuck am I supposed to be able to tell the bleeding difference now?"
Nic actually winces a little at that; Bill supposes (or hopes, maybe) that he recognizes the truth of that enough for it to sting a little.
"And I'm not bloody averse to you, Nic," he growls. "I don't give a rat's arse who you shag or how bloody often." Then he pauses for long seconds, because... well, because that's not true, is it? No. It's not. And he drags a hand through his hair, and looks at Nic hard for a moment (Nic's face is uncharacteristically solemn, his mouth drawn into a line; he doesn't look happy -- and Nic always looks happy -- and Bill feels an unexpectedly sharp pang of guilt over that), and then he sighs. "I think your uncle is very very bad for you," he says honestly, and Nic's eyes go wide for a moment, and then veil themselves completely enough that Bill can't guess what he's thinking. It's not something Bill would have expected from Nic, but... well, he doesn't suppose he should really be surprised. Nic is nothing if not unexpected.
"I think he's very very bad, period, actually, but that doesn't really matter to me, except as it concerns you." Which isn't totally true, but is true enough for the moment, maybe, is true in the sense that it's the thing that bothers Bill the most about McKellen right now. "And I think that you do stupid things without any real concept of how dangerous they are." Nic's eyes narrow slightly, and glitter with what might be anger. "Not all the time, but often enough to..." ... scare the shite out of me... "... worry me."
Nic makes a small sound, a kind of grunt (disbelief maybe) and shifts slightly to his left, like he's about to walk away, and Bill moves quickly, and his right hand slaps against the wall, blocking the way in that direction. Nic looks at Bill's arm for a moment, then looks back at Bill, brows furrowed in a way that makes Bill think about Nic's expression the other day in the editing room, when Nic's eyes had been clenched shut so hard that it had drawn his brows together in a similar fashion, and it's pointless to deny the very visceral reaction of his body to that expression.
"It doesn't have anything to do with your fucking morals and ethics, Nic. I understand very clearly that I am the one with the 'stick up my arse' in that department, and that has nothing to do with you... any of you, here. I... I'm not built for..." But he doesn't know the words for what he isn't built for, doesn't know how to say it without sounding demeaning, and he doesn't mean that at all.
"What I really think is that I don't understand you. You confuse me. You're unpredictable and that makes me nervous, and I don't deal very fucking well with being nervous."
And he doesn't know what else to say, and he isn't sure he's made a whole lot of sense anyhow, but he adds, "And I've never thought of you as slutty," because it's true.
::
Each time Nic opens his mouth to interrupt Bill, he doesn't know where to start. By the time Bill runs out of steam and is mentally toeing the ground, Nic feels the nagging need to resort to his compulsive listing habit, if only there were pen and paper, and he wouldn't look like a special-needs retard.
He scrubs one eye with his palm, not quite sure of himself, hating it, fucking detesting feeling unsure, inspecting his fingernails while his jaw clenches with something that feels horrifyingly like nervousness.
"You know nothing about Ian," Nic says, shaking his head, "I don't even... I don't have a clue what you think you know. But that's... that's not anything to do with me. Or you. Or me and you. Really."
Liar, liar, pants on fire Nic thinks, but there is too much about Bill that echoes of Ian for Nic's brain to cope with.
"But it's, uh, it's sweet that you give a shit. I mean that. Baffling, but sweet." He tries a frowny smile. "I can take care of myself. And I don't mean to be confusing. I thought I was pretty obvious."
"I'm pretty fucking confused now though. The last thing that made sense was the bit with the snogging. It all went downhill from there."
JUST SHUT UP, Nic's brain groans.
"What I mean, is, I still don't know exactly why you objected to the bit with the snogging. All this blah-blah like a couple of women--"
::
Take care of yourself my arse, Bill thinks, but he suspects saying it would only make this already extremely awkward situation exponentially more awkward.
"Nic," he interrupts, and Nic actually shuts up for a change, surprising him enough that he forgets for a moment what he had been going to say when he'd interrupted, and he rubs tiredly at his face with the hand that isn't still braced against the wall, still blocking Nic's most likely path of escape (even though he isn't sure why he wants to block Nic's escape, and it no longer looks much like Nic is going to be attempting escape), feeling scattered and stretched thin. He sighs. Then he remembers. "Even... even if I didn't object to the snogging on the principle that I'm much more inclined towards birds than blokes," he says, "much much more inclined, to the point where I've only ever snogged one bloke, who took me by surprise, and who is standing in this room with me right now--" which is maybe a little pointed, but is most certainly true "-- I would still object because I am seeing said bloke's best friend."
He pauses for a moment, and Nic is frowning at him, his eyes cloudy and dark.
"And I'm not at all confident in my ability to explain to her what I was doing snogging her best friend, and I'm not in a hurry to have to try it."
Which is true, although not even close to the whole truth, which involves so many other factors that Bill is hard pressed to imagine how the hell he could name them all and still sound even remotely coherent, though the one his mind seems to stumble back to quickest is the one he keeps dreaming about, the one in which Nic is oh so still and oh so grey and definitely not sleeping.
And I don't believe that bollocks about your uncle, Nic, and I don't think you do either. And, just for the record, you couldn't defend your way out of a paper bag.
::
It is so hard for Nic to stop smiling, and when that fails, it is even harder to stop the smile being a foolish, stupid, lip-biting grin that makes his cheeks quiver.
"She, uh," Nic has to look down again, because he's not going to take the chance that his expression (which probably looks a bit fucking smug) will piss Bill off and earn Nic a slap, or something, not that that's altogether bad, just probably not useful at this point in the campaign, "might not mind, you know, in fact, she might be, um, the opposite of minding?"
He reaches out to Bill's pocket, stops halfway (thinking better of that), and gestures to Bill's cell. "You could call her. Or I'll call her."
::
What? Bill thinks sharply, and finds himself taking a half step back. Nic catches his shirt in one hand, fingers curling into the slightly sweat-damp material and fisting there, and Bill just looks down at Nic's hand, feeling... almost disconnected with surprise and uncertainty, and, "What?" he says, frowning.
Nic is smiling, Bill can tell, even though he's looking down (and Nic had grabbed him without even looking up to do it, another indication that he has excellent spatial awareness as relates to himself, and would probably be pretty fucking useful in a fight, with some practice, and Bill is aware that this line of thought isn't anything but an attempt to distract himself from the matter at hand, and regretfully forces himself to dismiss it as unimportant at the moment), and he seems quite seriously willing to just give Keira a call.
And tell her what? Bill's brain demands disbelievingly, and Bill echoes it aloud again, because apparently when he's truly surprised (the kind that makes you feel like you've been kicked repeatedly in the bollocks), there is no barrier between thought and speech (which is a dangerous thing indeed.)
"And tell her what?"
::
Now he really wants to snicker.
"Uh... she can kill two birds with one stone?" Nic can't help it, and a choked laugh escapes.
Actually, Nic doesn't have a clue what Keira would really think about some kind of... thing, but he knows her pretty well, and it's a ninety-percenter that the idea isn't unappealing. Nic finds himself wishing he'd had a chance to have a yarn to her lately, although he might not have actually said how's about a threesome, he might have asked if he could molest Bill a tiny bit, and, well. She knows what I'm like, Nic thinks, and if Josh could figure it out, Keira must have seen it coming a mile away.
Nic tries to compose himself before looking up. Bill hasn't shied away yet--his skin is just there, fingertips distance, warm and probably freckled or something else utterly incongruous and adorable, tempting--thank Christ, but Nic gets the feeling Bill is expecting a proper answer.
"I don't think she would have the objections you think she might," Nic says softly, like trying to coax a kitten, "but you're right. You should tell her. Ask her. I should ask her."
Just bloody do something, you twit, Nic wants to say, so I can stop fannying around here and get you back up against this wall.
::
"Ask her if it's okay if you snog me?" Bill demands, and he's actually smiling a little, because... well because it's the most bloody ridiculous thing he's ever said out loud. "Ask her if...? I don't... I'm not... I mean... um."
::
"You don't have to," Nic says, in a rush (come on come on come on), "I will. Phone. Give. Unless you have other objections--no, don't answer that, I'm sure you think you do, unless you have important--"
It's at this point where Bill tips forward, unbalanced because Nic has tugged a little on his shirt, that Nic stops, because Bill's hand has moved towards his pocket, consciously or unconsciously, Nic doesn't really give too much of a fuck anymore.
"--nope, good, so we'll just take it for granted she'll be fine and you can come here, and," Nic tucks his fingers firmly in the belt-loops of Bill's jeans, and pulls him in, firm and snug and oh yes, hard, nice, and regards him for a few seconds of satisfaction, and leans in to kiss him, but.
He doesn't kiss him, he stops, a tiny distance away, Nic stops, because this is the point where Bill has to want it, or Nic has fucked up royally, and his chest feels so fucking tight, breathing hurts, because all this has to be for something, and Nic wants that little distance to disappear so much it fucking aches.
::
Oh, Bill thinks, because he hadn't exactly expected that, and Nic is really, really bloody warm. And the urge to jerk away, retreat from Nic's heat -- not to mention the hard length of Nic, which is now firmly wedged against the hard length of him -- is there, but Nic's got his fingers hooked in Bill's beltloops, and it seems fairly pointless to attempt it.
Not that he can't get away if he wants to; of course he can. Could. Theoretically.
But Nic is looking at him, and he looks more serious than Bill can ever remember seeing him, almost solemn, his eyes wide and watching Bill with that deep intent, that little furrow between his brows, and there is tension around Nic's lips, in the set of his crooked jaw, and Bill can't figure what the fuck is going on.
Wait, he thinks, and closes his eyes for a second, because seeing Nic from so close is really fucking distracting, and he can't fucking think. It's not that much better with his eyes closed, actually. He can feel Nic's breath wafting hot across his face, across his lips, and Nic is... not trembling, exactly, but tight and tense, nearly fucking vibrating, and it's no wonder the bloke runs so bloody hot, his molecules must be rubbing against one another at ungodly speeds or something, and friction creates heat.
As though Nic can read his mind -- perish the fucking thought! -- Nic's hips press slightly forward, and yes, friction, yes, heat, and Bill lets out a heavy, gusting breath (apparently he had been holding his breath, color him surprised), and Nic says, "Just... just come on," but it's less a demand and more a plea, and his voice makes Bill shiver.
And yes, okay, yes, Nic is different than any other bloke Bill's ever met, and he affects Bill like no other bloke Bill has ever met, and maybe he's never been all that interested in men, but Nic is different, and it seems pretty fucking stupid to deny that (and impossible, for that matter, he's been fucking trying).
"Nic," he says, and opens his eyes.
"Bill," Nic says, his voice a throaty whisper, and Bill shivers again (what the fuck, what's with all the fucking shivering?).
"If Keira gets pissed off at me, I'm kicking your bloody arse."
Nic grins at him, bright and fierce, for an instant, and Bill doesn't quite have the presence of mind (or the desire, some helpfully honest bit of his mind points out, bugger it) to pull back, and actually he's tipping his face up slightly and one of his hands has snuck out to brush fingertips across Nic's naked chest, and Nic is kissing him again, except this time Bill is kissing back, and Nic's mouth is just as bloody hot as the rest of him.
::
"Almost," Nic breathes, and kisses Bill again, properly definitely amazingly finally kisses him, open-mouthed and pushy, and he steers Bill around (who is beautifully pliable and fluid under Nic's hands, and maybe this is Johnny's kick, direction), and shoves him, murmurs, "perfect," one hand curled about Bill's hip and the other about his collarbone, "right there. Against the wall."
Bill opens his mouth, and it is pink and wet and stupidly girlish, but the set of Bill's jaw is not, and his dick is most definitely not when Nic grinds up against him as obscenely as he possibly can. Gonna show you he thinks above the urgent need in his cock, and his buzzing fingertips, gonna spoil you, although for what or who Nic doesn't know.
He's perfectly capable of being gentle, but not now, not when his pulse races at the thought that Bill has never been kissed by a bloke before, that Bill doesn't know how fucking competitive and consuming and aggressive and honest it can be, and Nic shudders hard into him, because that thought spikes demanding lust all down his spine, Bill in his hands, his head tipped back, eyes half-closed and gorgeous, so fucking sharp and gorgeous.
::
Nic doesn't shut up even while he's snogging apparently, and some distant part of Bill that isn't actually involved in the snogging is amused.
The rest of him isn't remotely amused, because Nic keeps pulling back to shift them around, and that involves Nic stopping to look at Bill (what the fuck is he looking at, then?), which requires Nic to stop, and just at the moment the not stopping seems vitally fucking important to Bill.
As long as he's actually involved in it, for one, he doesn't have to think about it, and that's good. Not only that, but it's really fucking good, nothing, fucking nothing like what he'd thought (not that he'd actually really thought much about it), and Nic is just standing there directing the storm-grey intensity of his gaze at Bill, demonstrating once again that weirdly Nic-centric focus, and it's starting to fucking aggravate him.
"Stop stopping," Bill growls, and it's not all that different to curl his fingers into Nic's hair than it is to do it to Keira, except it seems a lot easier to pull (and far harder than it would ever occur to him to pull Keira's hair), and Nic makes a short, gruff little sound (and Bill's hips are apparently connected to those kinds of sounds on some level, as they jerk forward, and Nic grinds against him hard in response, knees bent, and whoa, oh, bugger that is good) as Bill jerks him close, and Nic gasps into Bill's mouth, which feels impossibly and recklessly triumphant for some reason.
Nic's hand on his hip jerks at the waist of Bill's jeans, tugging the material down enough to slide the side of his thumb along the angle of Bill's hip bone, and he is shocked breathless by how that feels, because it's just his fucking thumb, but Bill's eyes flutter closed and he shivers (more fucking shivers, but he's finding that a bit less annoying now, considering the circumstances) and Nic surges forward full body, whether intentionally or reactionary, Bill doesn't really care. He barely feels his head thump back against the wall, and realizes at the same time that his hands are traveling up Nic's ribs, and that he can feel the hard ridges of them beneath the flexing muscles of Nic's abdomen under his fingertips, and it sends brutally urgent messages to his cock.
"Bugger," he hears himself mutter, and has no idea why.
::
Part of Nic would be quite content to keep Bill pinned here for the next three hours, feeling every little rumble and whimper and jerk that he could coax out of Bill, kissing him unhurriedly and thoroughly. Bill kisses like--like a series of locks, ratcheting up and plateauing, and it's addictive to find what pushes him upwards, the little surge of adrenaline when Nic bites down into Bill's lip, when he evades Bill's mouth for a second too long to hear the little stuttery sound of frustration caught in Bill's throat.
But then. Here they are, and, well, talk about your fucking foreplay, and Nic has been looking at Bill's dick for too fucking long, and feeling it for not long enough, even though his own cock would agree that the snugged up friction going on is pretty bloody good, but--nothing would top off Nic's evening like wrapping his hand around Bill's cock and bringing him off. Nic has no illusions about reciprocation, but he does want to push and see where he gets, even if he tries to tell himself it's just instinct (haha, gay urges) when he twists his wrist around and breaches jeans and boxers and whoa, skin, and--
"Huh," he groans, sighs, and leans his forehead on Bill's cheek.
::
"Fuck!" Bill bites out, except it comes out a lot fainter than he'd expected, barely a breath, as Nic hand curls, hot and strong, around his cock.
The first thing he thinks is that there really is quite a marked difference between a bloke's hand and a girl's hand. Nic's hand is harder, and Nic's not afraid to fucking squeeze (not that Keira is, she's quite proficient with her hands, obviously, but Nic is stronger), not afraid to twist his wrist and slide his thumb carefully over the head of Bill's cock, pushing back foreskin and smoothing the dampness there around the crown, and Bill's knees threaten to buckle at the hard grind of pleasure clenching in his middle.
Nic breathes heavily along his jaw and neck, and Bill can't quite pry his eyes open. He's also making a noise, a quiet, choked sound unlike nothing he can recall ever hearing pass his lips before.
And Nic smells so fucking good.
The second thing he thinks is, he's probably got about a minute to stop this before he can't anymore.
And he thinks Nic is probably right, he thinks Keira wouldn't be all that bothered to find out that Nic and Bill had engaged in a little recreational snogging, but this... this is too far, and besides that...he's not quite certain of where this is going and whether or not he wants it to go there (except for the part of him that Nic's hand is currently curled around, stroking at a slow, steady pace that probably shouldn't be pushing Bill toward a sticky mess in his jeans quite so quickly -- that part of him is all for where this is going), and it takes a whole lot of fucking effort to uncurl his hand from around the back of Nic's neck and move it down to Nic's wrist instead, stilling Nic's hand.
Nic's breath stills for a moment, and he pulls back, brows furrowed, a clear question in his eyes. "I don't think--" Bill says, and then pauses to rephrase. "I'm not sure..." He sighs. "I can't do this," he manages. "Keira... I..."
Nic is nodding, showing what seems like an amazing display of good sense to Bill, though he doesn't actually move away, doesn't actually uncurl his hand from around Bill's cock. He nuzzles at Bill's cheek a little instead, and Bill's head tips to the side all on it's own, giving Nic free access.
As soon as he realizes it, his cheeks heat up, and he clears his throat gruffly.
::::::
It's been a long long time since Ian has been high like this, and he watches Dominic's face bubble up and brown on the edges. Maggie's letter is already dust, lovely fine-grained black dust that he considers rolling his last ball of opium in. His body goes next in a long line, down down to his soft cock and Ian feels a shudder in his chest right around where his heart is, like he's dying, perhaps.
Or maybe burning away. In thin layers over the years, he's burned each leathered, useless topskin away, compressing, perhaps, diamond-hard.
Mixing metaphors. Stephen would be appalled.
The opium keeps away the need to crush and smash, and his hands are loose and steady when he feeds the flames the rest of his beautiful nephew.
His mobile is hard and shiny in his palm, the screen a mosaic of digital plum blossoms that he can't figure out how to remove after Dominic had got to it. He presses 1, watches Dominic's name scroll across the tiny display.
"Dominic," he murmurs aloud and his lips feel thick and lovely.
Come home. I have a surprise for you.
::
The vibration against his arse is pleasantly peripheral until it seeps into Nic's consciousness that that's actually his phone ringing. He's tempted to ignore it, but Bill is still--not rigid, exactly, but clearly hesitant--against him, and Nic is not going to make Bill unhappy if he can at all help it.
Nic can wait. Nic and Bill can wait, because he wants Bill to talk to Keira, doesn't like misunderstanding, doesn't like discomfort or sneakiness or mistrust, and he wants Bill to be comfortable. Preferably on a soft surface, heh.
A little squeeze, and he smoothes his hand out from Bill's pants, reluctant to leave the humid, silky skin there, storing up the sensation for later perusal. "Sorry," he murmurs into Bill's neck, shifting his weight back into Bill full-length, ready to brush off whoever is calling.
He doesn't even look at the number on his phone, just jams his thumb on the tiny button.
"Hallo, 'm busy," he says, and he almost wants to yawn.
::
He'd figured Dominic was possibly at the production offices or with that girl, nevertheless his languid, just-fucked voice makes all the hairs on Ian's neck stand up, but the opium keeps him plateaued, and the cheeky answer forces a surprised chuckle out of Ian.
"No, my darling boy, it's your uncle."
::
"I remember you," Nic says, and he's smiling, remembering (operant conditioning to Ian's voice, or something), "where are you?"
Sorry, he mouths at Bill, stepping back slightly to lay his free hand across Bill's stomach, flat under the shirt, reluctant to not touch.
::
Something like mild anxiety crawls through Ian, but it feels more like a combination of desire and dominance and a spiraling despair. "Just the question I was calling to ask you. It's a lovely night and it's been so long since we spent one together."
::
Inexplicably, Nic feels his cheeks heat up, and he turns to lean against the wall, trying not to feel like he's been caught with his pants down. Metaphorically or otherwise.
He can't quite bring himself to look at Bill, not after what he'd said about Ian. And not now.
"Did you have anything particular you wanted to do?" he says to Ian, opportunity for entendre deliberate; not that he doesn't want to see Ian--Christ, he really does--but a little resolution to his current over-stimulated situation might be a bonus.
::
He likes that, Ian decides, he very much fucking likes that, because there's submission in that growly voice, perhaps not enough for the untrained ear, but enough for him. The anxiousness spirals out, makes his fingers and toes prickle almost pleasantly, and he lets himself sink into the lounger, unbuttoning the top two buttons to slide his fingers over his own collarbone, imagining what he'll do to Dominic's when he comes home.
When he comes home.
"Dominic," he says slowly. "I always have something particular in mind I want to do."
::
Hook, line, sinker, fried fucking mackerel, and Nic feels reeled in, every time, but it's the kind of pull he can't resist. Too much promise, too exciting and unpredictable, and Ian is so much more than Nic feels like he could ever be.
"Do you," he starts, "shall I bring anything home, then?" He clears his throat slightly, still not looking at Bill. "Anything to pick up?"
::
It's not until Nic turns away to lean against the wall and his hand falls away from its warm resting place against Bill's belly that Bill starts to prickle uncomfortably. He steps away, rudimentary politeness dredged up from some distant boyhood lesson, but he doesn't step far enough away that he can't hear the conversation, and he doesn't look away from Nic's flushed cheeks.
Nic lifts one arm and rubs at the back of his neck, and Bill watches the smooth play of muscle beneath Nic's California-boy tan. It doesn't help the thumping, urgent need in his groin and lower belly, but he does it anyway.
He'd just spent well over ten minutes liplocked with the bloke -- and there it is again, that bloody shiver -- and he's not willing to do that and then refuse to look at him.
But it isn't until Nic mentions home that Bill figures out who the hell he's talking to, and he tightens furiously, and the pulse he'd been feeling in his cock for the last several minutes travels up to his temples. He's hands curl into fists -- McKellen, fucking McKellen, Ian fucking McKellen, Bill thinks, and Nic is going home to him, and there is a gruff, purring kind of rumble in Nic's voice that Bill now recognizes very well as Nic's turned-on voice, and he is not exactly surprised by the bluewhite jealousy (it's the same, the exact same way it feels to watch Keira talk to Mortensen, he notes, but distantly, there will be time to consider what that means later), but he isn't quite prepared for it either. He clenches his fisted hands, and his knuckles crack very loudly.
Nic finally glances over at him, and the way his eyes cut quickly away just knots Bill's belly up even more, and not in the good way in which it had previously been knotted.
"Nic," he says, and doesn't fucking bother to keep his voice down. Let McKellen fucking hear. "I'm going to Keira's."
::
It's rather queer, the wicked spike that seems to gently sink into and pierce Ian's chest and the non-reaction he has, everything slowed down but not quite dulled by the opium, still sweet and spicy in his mouth. That voice, Scottish and sharp, too sharp, the same possessiveness he hears in his own voice when he talks to Dominic, about Dominic, when he looks at him, thinks about him.
Ian's first reaction would never have been this drowning despair, this utter betrayal if not for the drug, and maybe he should send the deed to a small country to Depp in thanks, because for once, his comfortable trust in himself and, more importantly, in Dominic would have failed him.
Bloody cunting Scotsman, he can see him in his head, the softness on that craggy face and the devotion on Dominic's, he must have been bloody blind.
Barely a pause to take this all in, one Dominic would have felt, and it's enough. "Am I interrupting something, love? Because if you have other plans..."
::
"Uh..." No. It appears that if Nic did have other plans, they're looking for their keys. Nic feels his stomach lurch when he catches the stormy look on Bill's face; no mere displeasure at being interrupted, but something far worse, far more intimate. It's flattering, almost--got your attention now, boyo, haven't I runs through his head before he frowns at his own smugness--but Nic still has no clue why Bill might disapprove of Ian so very much.
Exact nature of their relationship aside, he's Nic's uncle, his family, and it's frustrating. Nic can't help but feel... irked.
He smiles tightly, Bill just out of arm's reach. Ignores Ian's spot-on guess (bastard), and shrugs. "No plans, it seems." Nic looks the question at Bill, but there's a blank response.
How did this go all pear-shaped so quickly?
::
Bill jerks his head slightly, and his neck cracks.
No plans, Bill thinks, and crushes the sting of it down, lets the anger well up there instead. He nods shortly.
"All right," he says, or growls, more like. "If you change your mind, that's where I'll be." Then, softer, "Don't bother if you go there first."
Nic frowns heavily, his eyes deeply dark, brows contracted fiercely; Bill sees that his knuckles have gone pale with exertion where his fingers are curled around his phone. Nic doesn't do anger often enough for Bill to be familiar with it, but he recognizes it nonetheless. Well. So be it.
"Your choice," Bill murmurs, but because he's an arsehole, and because he might not get another chance, he leans in and kisses Nic hard, the first kiss he's initiated himself, the first deliberate advance (and maybe the last), and it's hard and furious and on the phone with his uncle or not, Nic's mouth slides open beneath Bill's, slick and sweet, and Bill doesn't hesitate to take advantage of that because no matter what else happens, he doesn't fucking want Nic to forget it.
He doesn't look back when he walks out, but he listens to Nic's quick, harsh breathing for as long as he can hear it.
::
characters from lotr_porn
::
It's exactly like Jeet Kun Do, actually, or not exactly because it's a lot closer, he can feel Nic's breath hot on his neck and Nic's fingertips like little starbursts of unexpected sensation (except not unexpected, not really, just unexpectedly good sensation, pleasant, like sunshine on bare skin) where they are pressing into Bill's lower back (Nic's thumb has crept beneath the hem of his shirt, Bill isn't sure when, but the rest of the fingers on that hand are behaving themselves, so Bill decides not to say anything). Nic's other hand is higher up, the side of his thumb against the back of Bill's neck, the other four fingers splayed between his shoulder blades (long fingers, Bill thinks distractedly, because his left hand is in a similar position on Nic, mirrored and reversed, but similar, and his fingertips don't reach anywhere near as far).
It's like Jeet Kun Do because when Nic moves, Bill moves, reacts, counters, shifts, and it's easy to take the things Nic had shown him and just tweak them slightly, modify them for the differences in proximity and position, and he does that every time he trains, and he sweats like this, too, so he shouldn't be surprised, though it doesn't seem like he's actually been working all that hard, so maybe it's just the fact that Nic is fucking radiating heat. Bill has met people like Nic before, people that just run a few degrees hotter than everyone else, but he doesn't think he's ever been this close to one of them; maybe it's normal to react to people like that by running a little hotter yourself.
He isn't thinking of much of anything except the heavy pulse of music and the coordinated tangle of body parts shifting in time with it, his mind distant the way it is when he is sparring, barely participating, sort of along for the ride, like every sparring match, fight, or fuck Bill has ever been involved in.
Not until Nic shifts his hips a little differently, and Bill shifts in response, which ends up aligning their hips and tucking them together, and Nic makes a low sound, breathy like a sigh, but a little harsher than that, directly in Bill's ear.
Bill shivers, an inexplicable pulse of something twitching along his skin, something that originates right where Nic's breath had hissed warmly, right behind his ear, and slithers down to the base of his spine where it blooms into something hot and familiar.
What? he thinks (but he shouldn't be surprised, should he, because he's just bloody thought about it being like sparring or fighting or fucking, three things that Bill gets hard for, which he knows, which happens every time he does any of the three and he's learned to sort of ignore since it isn't something he can change, but he is surprised, he's fucking shocked because he, it seems, is not the only one; he can't quite think why that should surprise him either), and wait, but he only thinks it.
He doesn't actually give in to the impulse to scramble away from Nic.
He ignores it, instead, because that's what he's always done, and because if he does scramble away from Nic, well… That would mean something. That would make it mean something.
And it doesn't. It's just an involuntary reaction to a heightened level of certain chemicals in his blood.
It doesn't mean a bloody thing, so he ignores it.
::
"You're fine," Nic says, and he means it in all sorts of ways; Bill is fine, adept, even, now that he's shed the self-consciousness. He's still skittering his gaze away from Nic though--every time Nic looks, Bill averts his eyes, until he's distracted more by the sudden tenseness across Bill's shoulders, his almost-falter, and it takes a second to register.
And then another second before Nic clicks that he's hard, too, and well, that's really just par for the course, but it's interesting. And it mightn't mean anything, but it also might mean something, and Nic is nothing if not willing to press an advantage--or a hard-on for that matter--when it presents itself. His hand is light on Bill's back until he digs the heel of his hand gently in, canting Bill towards him a little more, and the friction is barely there but there, nonetheless, and good, and Nic can't help the little sound that escapes him.
He didn't actually want to use this as an opportunity, but Bill is more-or-less in his lap, and some chances are too good to pass up.
"You're fine," Nic murmurs again, his head tipped to one side so he can watch Bill's face, watch the flittering expressions, but this time his voice is deliberately close, as is the way he tightens his hand up through Bill's hair, cradling the back of his skull, tufts of hair feeling damp between Nic's fingers.
::
Wait, he thinks again, and are Nic's fingers threading into his hair?
Nic's eyes are glittering at him, tiny storms trapped in his irises, and he is smiling a little, but for a change it isn't exactly mocking or teasing, it's… something else, Bill doesn't know what the fuck it is, but he looks away from it deliberately, cuts his eyes away to some point over Nic's shoulder, and he can feel himself frowning, his mind suddenly very much involved in what had been something safely mindless three seconds previous.
Nic's hand is pressed firmly against his lower back. Nic's hand is pressed very firmly against his lower back.
Wait, he thinks one more time, and he no longer cares about moving away making this mean something. It's abruptly urgent that he get away from Nic, that's enough dancing, thanks very much, because he is too hot and he is uncomfortably aroused (which has nothing to do with anything dammit) and because he can feel Nic's eyes on him.
He glances back at Nic (his head is still slightly canted, and Bill realizes he's looking into Nic's eyes from closer than he's ever looked into another bloke's eyes -- if one didn't count the guy that had stabbed Bill his first year on the streets) and says, "Nic, wa--"
But Nic doesn't hear all of the sentence, because Nic doesn't wait, Nic kisses him, and Bill makes a choked sound of disbelief and dismay and just stands there, music forgotten, but with his hips still pressed up against Nic's firmly enough to cause prickling tingles of pleasure.
::
Maybe it's posture, but Nic has the tiniest of height advantages on Bill. He can't exactly maneuver him, but he can tilt Bill's jaw up so his mouth falls open, somewhere between outrage and expectation, because it hits him, suddenly, that it's not just some kind of diffuse lust that he feels. He wants to kiss Bill, properly, wants the kind of wet, open kiss that provokes a whimper.
And Bill is stupidly trying to talk to him, and hasn't anyone told Bill that this is about when most people shut up and give in?
Bill's mouth is still slightly open when Nic kisses him, somewhere in between leisurely and necessary. Nic slides his hand around to stretch his fingers across Bill's face, his thumb along Bill's jaw, and there is the loveliest of capitulations when Nic feels, actually feels the catch in Bill's breathing, the stop in his throat, rumbling underneath his hand.
Nic wants to groan, himself, when for the briefest of moments Bill's mouth warms open into his, and it feels like the kiss is going to go on and gloriously on.
::
Wait, Bill thinks again, but very faintly, and Nic's mouth is furnace hot and wet, and Nic has a deft and wicked tongue. Not that Bill would have expected less.
He kisses like Keira, balls out, his attention utterly devoted to it, but also not like Keira, as he's not girl-soft and he's… he's fucking aggressive and almost brutal, and Bill can feel the burn of Nic's stubble against his chin, can feel the long, warm curl of Nic's thumb along his jaw and, of course, he can feel the steely heat of Nic's erection jammed against his own, which is obviously very different, and…
Wait! and there is nothing faint about it this time, because he is… what the fuck is he… Jesus bloody Christ, Nic is fucking kissing him (and rumbling, Nic is rumbling at him, in his throat and in his chest, Bill can feel the subtle vibration of it), and that's just… that's not…
He jerks back, pulls away and shoves Nic at the same time, puts some distance (only a couple of feet for now, but that has to do because Bill is staggering and dizzy, his equilibrium lost somewhere along the line) between them, and drags the back of his hand along his lips harshly.
"You," he says, and, "what?" but neither of those words actually create an entire sentence, and Bill doesn't know what the fuck sentence he'd been going for anyway.
Doesn't matter, though, is absolutely irrelevant, because he's leaving now, he's fucking getting out of here, and he turns, looking for his boots and his keys and the fucking door because he's turned around, now, and he doesn't fucking know which direction he's facing.
::
If I grab him, thinks Nic, hazily disappointed but not really surprised, he'll freak out. And possibly break my nose.
"Bill," he says softly, "I told you, you were fine." He plants his palm in the middle of Bill's chest (which is rapidly rising and falling, he's breathing hard, and Nic is too, but there's almost something like panic in Bill's expression) and walks him backwards the two steps until he's against the wall. Nic lets his hand hover, quite willing to pin the recalcitrant fucker like a moth until he calms down.
"I'm sorry," he says, "about kissing you." He isn't, because he had to. But he is, because he should have known, shouldn't have been so bloody cocky, should have just left it for much, much longer. He shrugs. "I'm impatient."
Bill is glaring at him, furiously it would seem, but he hasn't bolted, and he hasn't thumped Nic.
Yet.
::
He brushes Nic's hand away from his chest, and Nic drops it, but it doesn't fall to his side. It stops about midway and hovers there, and if Bill didn't know better (if he didn't know Nic was smarter than that), he would think Nic was prepared to do that again.
The idea makes Bill snarl a little, and he shoves aside furious confusion long enough to take a good look at Nic's face, to try and read what he sees there.
It's not challenge, though, which is what Bill half expects. Not really. He looks a little uncertain, and while not exactly repentant, he does look like he's aware that he's made Bill horribly (horribly horribly fucking horribly) uncomfortable.
And Bill still wants to get the fuck out of here, away from him, but he can't quite make himself do it.
Because Keira… because…
Because lots of reasons. Because he doesn't know why the fuck not, dammit.
"It's," he begins, thinking okay, but it's most certainly not okay (not remotely, Bill is yards and miles and fucking light years away from okay, for fuck's sake), and Bill shakes his head and takes a deep breath, and just says, "What the fuck, Nic? What the fuck?"
::
Fuck's sake.
"It's very simple," Nic says slowly. "You ask me to teach you to dance. With touching. Which, I recall, you instigated."
"And," Nic continues, bracing his arms on the wall either side of Bill, "Backstory. In which various non-orthodox sexual encounters underscore the ambiguity of... us." When in doubt, be a smartarse. Usually works.
"Also, Little Bill did not seem averse to my presence." Nic bites his bottom lip for a second. "And I, inexplicably, think you're fucking hot. But I'm also stupid enough to kiss a straight boy, so who knows about my judgment, eh?"
Nic runs out of arguments, so he kisses Bill again, presses him hard back against the wall and gasps wetly against his mouth when he pulls away, before Bill can push him.
::
It's brief, wet, and noisy this time (noisy because Nic makes a noise, a gasp-y sort of sound, not because Bill does), and Nic pulls back before Bill quite gets his hands up to shove him.
And smirks at Bill, his eyes bright with… with whatever the fuck it is that drives Nic to do shite like this, at any rate, Bill has no idea what that might be, and he just…
He just snaps, he almost fucking hears it in his head, brittle and abrupt, and he grabs Nic, his fingers skating a little along Nic's bare chest, which is damp and offers little purchase; he slides his foot between Nic's, hooking his ankle and propelling Nic, stumbling, face first into the wall as Bill steps smoothly aside.
Nic manages one step back before Bill arranges himself in a position offering maximum control with minimum effort, and slams the heel of his palm into the middle of Nic's back, bracing himself to hold him there. Nic's hands go up against the wall, to push off, but Bill has the leverage, and he's not going to fucking let go, not this time, not when all Nic wants to do is fuck with him, not when letting Nic go almost guarantees that Nic will respond with the sort of physicality that is not readily combated with Bill's superior strength and knowledge.
"What the fuck," Bill growls, punctuating it with a little shove that makes Nic huff a little, "is your bloody damage, mate. I'm not your fucking uncle, and I'm not someone at one of your little moonlighting soirees, Dominic. I'm not going to fucking take your bullshit. I'm not going to fucking let you play with me. This is not a fucking game."
And he isn't even sure what all of that means, what precisely he means, but he's certain he's angry, his blood is pounding in his ears (and in his cock, fighting and fucking, often not all that different in Bill's experience, so what does it say that he keeps fighting with Nic?), and he's furious with Nic, furious and he wants to fucking make sure he bloody knows it.
He removes his hand from Nic's back and takes a step away with that in mind, and he's more than fucking hoping that Nic is pissed off or hurt enough to come around swinging; he's fucking counting on it.
::
There's a point, outdoor climbing, where Nic's fear of heights (climbing helped bully it into submission, but it surfaces, occasionally) completely overwhelms him, and he freezes on the face and can do nothing but count his breaths until it passes. For some whacked-out reason, the same thing happens now. He's not scared--not in the least--he's just... stuck. How the fuck Bill knows about his deal with Oliver, how he twigs on about Ian (if that's what it is, Nic has no idea), it makes his breath catch and his heart double-thump, just like vertigo.
So he just has to breath, and count, and lean against the wall like it's some kind of forty-metre chimney route. He should be worried, concerned, that Bill knows details Nic would rather keep to himself, but what's making his blood thump hot is not that, but injustice, and frustration. Because Bill thinks Nic's playing with him, teasing him, whatever. Fucking idiot.
"I'm not fucking with you, Bill," Nic says, and where he gets the restraint to say it quietly, to resist spinning around and lashing out, never mind the (probably bloody) consequences, he has no idea. He doesn't want to turn around and look at Bill, because he's pretty sure he's fucked up whatever might have happened there, and well.
Nic is just not used to disappointment.
The thought occurs to him that he should probably just leave--never mind his shoes--and attempt to stay out of Bill's way in future. He doesn't have a clue why the man is here, really; he's too fucking smart, that's blatantly obvious, and he doesn't appear to have Nic's excuses for fucking around on his uncle's dime.
Leave, his brain says, but, uh, no. Curiosity, and cats, and he has to turn around against the wall, hands out (no weapon, comrade), and level his gaze to Bill's.
::
It only pisses him off more.
By all rights, Nic should at least fucking try to defend himself, and Bill can't help feeling that he's easy fucking pickings, and not only for Bill.
For his creepy fucking uncle and for the fuckers at the parties Nic gets dressed down and drugged up for, and it just pisses him off, that he fucking does that, that he fucking risks himself like that, without thought, without a single fucking thought to what could go wrong, what will go wrong eventually, because things like that always do.
Bill knows it, he's fucking seen it too many times, and he knows full well that he's angry because he's afraid for Nic, but that doesn't bear thinking about.
Homicide, Narcotics, and Vice are all the same in the end; you always end up cleaning up something heartbreaking, something that makes you wonder who the pretty girl with the tiny blue heart tattooed on her left shoulder blade -- the one who couldn't be more than seventeen -- had pissed off to deserve to die like that, and does her mother even know where she is?
And it's only worse the deeper into it you get, because it becomes all too clear how it happens, how easily, how quickly, when you meet a bright, beautiful boy-man with a blinding grin and melted chocolate eyes, who smiles and lounges and smirks at the danger that is too close for him to perceive, and you watch him fucking devolve into someone who shakes and cringes if you look at him right, who knows when to duck out of a room before the fucking starts if he doesn't want to end up part of the gang-bang, who knows how to lie and smile at the same time.
And as horrible as that is to see, even more terrible are the ones that have no idea of any of those things, the fringers, the ones who only dabble in that world and return to their safe little lives with no understanding of how it can be, those who are so toked up and blissed out that they don't see the danger until it's raping them in back alleys or in "private rooms" at "private parties."
Those are the ones that always look like they're sleeping to Bill, even stretched out on a slab with their skin faintly grey and their bodies so fucking still.
Nic is a fringer, slip-sliding across the line from the everyday world to the other one without thought or worry, oblivious to reality.
And Bill has dreamed about that fucking party again and again, and he doesn't know which is worse: the nights that he wakes up sweaty and hard and unable to get back to sleep, or the nights that he wakes up sweaty and fucking terrified with Nic's face behind his eyelids, still and grey, and not sleeping.
And he's still so fucking angry he could slide his hands around Nic's throat and squeeze, angry because he's young and thoughtless, angry because he's confusing and complicated, angry because he believes Nic when he says he isn't fucking with Bill, believes the look on his face right now, his open hands, and the hitch of hesitation in his voice when he had said it, and that just makes it worse.
He doesn't slide his hands around Nic's throat and squeeze, of course.
And he doesn't say, "Then never go back there, never toke up and strip down, never fucking let me catch you being so bloody stupid again," either.
He doesn't say anything.
And he doesn't step back, either, out of Nic's space.
He just stands there.
::
Huh.
Maybe Nic's too used to the company he keeps. Maybe he's been around people who live their lives however, whatever, wherever, without any kind of censure, and he's used to it.
Because it takes a little while - the entire time he's watching Bill's face, and the confusing little tempest of emotions that seem to cross it - but it slowly sinks in.
"Huh," he says. "Why don't you say what you really mean?" Nic tries not to, but the acid creeps into his voice.
Bill's eyebrows draw together a little, but he doesn't reply, because, well, Nic doesn't let him.
"Which is, not so much that you're averse to the idea--" he flicks his gaze down to Bill's crotch, which is unmistakably displaying an appreciable hard-on (and Nic isn't so pissed off not to feel smug about, ha, straight-boy, ha fucking ha) -- "but more that you're averse to me, the original slutty good-time boy--"
He pauses, and smiles tightly at Bill, and swallows.
"-- and I'm good enough to tolerate, and perhaps have a few laughs with, but definitely not good enough to satisfy whatever extra code of ethics you appear to have for men, because, Boyd, take a fucking look around you, at the people you work with, at the people you socialise with--"
And that is meant to include Keira, but it's also meant to include Orlando, because, well, fuck knows what's going on there.
"--no-one here is exactly the fucking poster child for Christian family values, you know, and the flip side of that is that people know when to snog someone for fun because they can get away with it, but they also fucking know that when they kiss someone--" he pokes Bill in the chest "--they better bloody mean it, asshole, and I did, and maybe if you'd get the stick out of your arse for a minute you might be able to look beyond all this--"
Nic waves his arms around, trying to think of a word to encompass the make-believe, shiny, thing that Johnny creates, and fails miserably.
"--stuff," he concedes, "and not just assume that everyone is playing with you, or bullshitting you, or what-the-fuck-ever, and if you can't you're clearly in the wrong fucking place, mate."
He blinks, because, "And anyhow, why the fuck are you even here?" Nic can't stop, now, even though he knows he's ranting. "Why are you slumming it with the dregs, huh? You're too fucking smart to be a bloody secretary, or whatever it is that you are, and you know, the only reason I didn't smack you is it's pretty obvious you'd cause more damage than I could possibly hope to inflict, and what the fuck is someone like you getting out of this, mate?"
He has more to say, but he needs to breathe.
::
Bill lets him rant -- it's fairly clear to him that he'd managed to hurt Nic's feelings, which hadn't been his intention at all, and if someone had asked him if he thought it was even possible to do, Bill isn't sure what he'd have said -- and he can't help the dull throb of sympathetic pain that rises in his own chest as Nic spills out vitriol in typical Nic fashion, disorganized rambling that splashes his hurt all over the place.
He chooses to ignore the last few sentences of Nic's outburst; he can't answer those questions. He won't. So he shunts them out of his mind; he can deal with them later, if need be.
"I don't assume that everyone is fucking with me," he says, and his voice is an unsteady reflection of the nerves and adrenaline still coursing through his blood. "I assumed that you were, because that is what you fucking do, Nic. You've done it since the first time we spoke, and how the fuck am I supposed to be able to tell the bleeding difference now?"
Nic actually winces a little at that; Bill supposes (or hopes, maybe) that he recognizes the truth of that enough for it to sting a little.
"And I'm not bloody averse to you, Nic," he growls. "I don't give a rat's arse who you shag or how bloody often." Then he pauses for long seconds, because... well, because that's not true, is it? No. It's not. And he drags a hand through his hair, and looks at Nic hard for a moment (Nic's face is uncharacteristically solemn, his mouth drawn into a line; he doesn't look happy -- and Nic always looks happy -- and Bill feels an unexpectedly sharp pang of guilt over that), and then he sighs. "I think your uncle is very very bad for you," he says honestly, and Nic's eyes go wide for a moment, and then veil themselves completely enough that Bill can't guess what he's thinking. It's not something Bill would have expected from Nic, but... well, he doesn't suppose he should really be surprised. Nic is nothing if not unexpected.
"I think he's very very bad, period, actually, but that doesn't really matter to me, except as it concerns you." Which isn't totally true, but is true enough for the moment, maybe, is true in the sense that it's the thing that bothers Bill the most about McKellen right now. "And I think that you do stupid things without any real concept of how dangerous they are." Nic's eyes narrow slightly, and glitter with what might be anger. "Not all the time, but often enough to..." ... scare the shite out of me... "... worry me."
Nic makes a small sound, a kind of grunt (disbelief maybe) and shifts slightly to his left, like he's about to walk away, and Bill moves quickly, and his right hand slaps against the wall, blocking the way in that direction. Nic looks at Bill's arm for a moment, then looks back at Bill, brows furrowed in a way that makes Bill think about Nic's expression the other day in the editing room, when Nic's eyes had been clenched shut so hard that it had drawn his brows together in a similar fashion, and it's pointless to deny the very visceral reaction of his body to that expression.
"It doesn't have anything to do with your fucking morals and ethics, Nic. I understand very clearly that I am the one with the 'stick up my arse' in that department, and that has nothing to do with you... any of you, here. I... I'm not built for..." But he doesn't know the words for what he isn't built for, doesn't know how to say it without sounding demeaning, and he doesn't mean that at all.
"What I really think is that I don't understand you. You confuse me. You're unpredictable and that makes me nervous, and I don't deal very fucking well with being nervous."
And he doesn't know what else to say, and he isn't sure he's made a whole lot of sense anyhow, but he adds, "And I've never thought of you as slutty," because it's true.
::
Each time Nic opens his mouth to interrupt Bill, he doesn't know where to start. By the time Bill runs out of steam and is mentally toeing the ground, Nic feels the nagging need to resort to his compulsive listing habit, if only there were pen and paper, and he wouldn't look like a special-needs retard.
He scrubs one eye with his palm, not quite sure of himself, hating it, fucking detesting feeling unsure, inspecting his fingernails while his jaw clenches with something that feels horrifyingly like nervousness.
"You know nothing about Ian," Nic says, shaking his head, "I don't even... I don't have a clue what you think you know. But that's... that's not anything to do with me. Or you. Or me and you. Really."
Liar, liar, pants on fire Nic thinks, but there is too much about Bill that echoes of Ian for Nic's brain to cope with.
"But it's, uh, it's sweet that you give a shit. I mean that. Baffling, but sweet." He tries a frowny smile. "I can take care of myself. And I don't mean to be confusing. I thought I was pretty obvious."
"I'm pretty fucking confused now though. The last thing that made sense was the bit with the snogging. It all went downhill from there."
JUST SHUT UP, Nic's brain groans.
"What I mean, is, I still don't know exactly why you objected to the bit with the snogging. All this blah-blah like a couple of women--"
::
Take care of yourself my arse, Bill thinks, but he suspects saying it would only make this already extremely awkward situation exponentially more awkward.
"Nic," he interrupts, and Nic actually shuts up for a change, surprising him enough that he forgets for a moment what he had been going to say when he'd interrupted, and he rubs tiredly at his face with the hand that isn't still braced against the wall, still blocking Nic's most likely path of escape (even though he isn't sure why he wants to block Nic's escape, and it no longer looks much like Nic is going to be attempting escape), feeling scattered and stretched thin. He sighs. Then he remembers. "Even... even if I didn't object to the snogging on the principle that I'm much more inclined towards birds than blokes," he says, "much much more inclined, to the point where I've only ever snogged one bloke, who took me by surprise, and who is standing in this room with me right now--" which is maybe a little pointed, but is most certainly true "-- I would still object because I am seeing said bloke's best friend."
He pauses for a moment, and Nic is frowning at him, his eyes cloudy and dark.
"And I'm not at all confident in my ability to explain to her what I was doing snogging her best friend, and I'm not in a hurry to have to try it."
Which is true, although not even close to the whole truth, which involves so many other factors that Bill is hard pressed to imagine how the hell he could name them all and still sound even remotely coherent, though the one his mind seems to stumble back to quickest is the one he keeps dreaming about, the one in which Nic is oh so still and oh so grey and definitely not sleeping.
And I don't believe that bollocks about your uncle, Nic, and I don't think you do either. And, just for the record, you couldn't defend your way out of a paper bag.
::
It is so hard for Nic to stop smiling, and when that fails, it is even harder to stop the smile being a foolish, stupid, lip-biting grin that makes his cheeks quiver.
"She, uh," Nic has to look down again, because he's not going to take the chance that his expression (which probably looks a bit fucking smug) will piss Bill off and earn Nic a slap, or something, not that that's altogether bad, just probably not useful at this point in the campaign, "might not mind, you know, in fact, she might be, um, the opposite of minding?"
He reaches out to Bill's pocket, stops halfway (thinking better of that), and gestures to Bill's cell. "You could call her. Or I'll call her."
::
What? Bill thinks sharply, and finds himself taking a half step back. Nic catches his shirt in one hand, fingers curling into the slightly sweat-damp material and fisting there, and Bill just looks down at Nic's hand, feeling... almost disconnected with surprise and uncertainty, and, "What?" he says, frowning.
Nic is smiling, Bill can tell, even though he's looking down (and Nic had grabbed him without even looking up to do it, another indication that he has excellent spatial awareness as relates to himself, and would probably be pretty fucking useful in a fight, with some practice, and Bill is aware that this line of thought isn't anything but an attempt to distract himself from the matter at hand, and regretfully forces himself to dismiss it as unimportant at the moment), and he seems quite seriously willing to just give Keira a call.
And tell her what? Bill's brain demands disbelievingly, and Bill echoes it aloud again, because apparently when he's truly surprised (the kind that makes you feel like you've been kicked repeatedly in the bollocks), there is no barrier between thought and speech (which is a dangerous thing indeed.)
"And tell her what?"
::
Now he really wants to snicker.
"Uh... she can kill two birds with one stone?" Nic can't help it, and a choked laugh escapes.
Actually, Nic doesn't have a clue what Keira would really think about some kind of... thing, but he knows her pretty well, and it's a ninety-percenter that the idea isn't unappealing. Nic finds himself wishing he'd had a chance to have a yarn to her lately, although he might not have actually said how's about a threesome, he might have asked if he could molest Bill a tiny bit, and, well. She knows what I'm like, Nic thinks, and if Josh could figure it out, Keira must have seen it coming a mile away.
Nic tries to compose himself before looking up. Bill hasn't shied away yet--his skin is just there, fingertips distance, warm and probably freckled or something else utterly incongruous and adorable, tempting--thank Christ, but Nic gets the feeling Bill is expecting a proper answer.
"I don't think she would have the objections you think she might," Nic says softly, like trying to coax a kitten, "but you're right. You should tell her. Ask her. I should ask her."
Just bloody do something, you twit, Nic wants to say, so I can stop fannying around here and get you back up against this wall.
::
"Ask her if it's okay if you snog me?" Bill demands, and he's actually smiling a little, because... well because it's the most bloody ridiculous thing he's ever said out loud. "Ask her if...? I don't... I'm not... I mean... um."
::
"You don't have to," Nic says, in a rush (come on come on come on), "I will. Phone. Give. Unless you have other objections--no, don't answer that, I'm sure you think you do, unless you have important--"
It's at this point where Bill tips forward, unbalanced because Nic has tugged a little on his shirt, that Nic stops, because Bill's hand has moved towards his pocket, consciously or unconsciously, Nic doesn't really give too much of a fuck anymore.
"--nope, good, so we'll just take it for granted she'll be fine and you can come here, and," Nic tucks his fingers firmly in the belt-loops of Bill's jeans, and pulls him in, firm and snug and oh yes, hard, nice, and regards him for a few seconds of satisfaction, and leans in to kiss him, but.
He doesn't kiss him, he stops, a tiny distance away, Nic stops, because this is the point where Bill has to want it, or Nic has fucked up royally, and his chest feels so fucking tight, breathing hurts, because all this has to be for something, and Nic wants that little distance to disappear so much it fucking aches.
::
Oh, Bill thinks, because he hadn't exactly expected that, and Nic is really, really bloody warm. And the urge to jerk away, retreat from Nic's heat -- not to mention the hard length of Nic, which is now firmly wedged against the hard length of him -- is there, but Nic's got his fingers hooked in Bill's beltloops, and it seems fairly pointless to attempt it.
Not that he can't get away if he wants to; of course he can. Could. Theoretically.
But Nic is looking at him, and he looks more serious than Bill can ever remember seeing him, almost solemn, his eyes wide and watching Bill with that deep intent, that little furrow between his brows, and there is tension around Nic's lips, in the set of his crooked jaw, and Bill can't figure what the fuck is going on.
Wait, he thinks, and closes his eyes for a second, because seeing Nic from so close is really fucking distracting, and he can't fucking think. It's not that much better with his eyes closed, actually. He can feel Nic's breath wafting hot across his face, across his lips, and Nic is... not trembling, exactly, but tight and tense, nearly fucking vibrating, and it's no wonder the bloke runs so bloody hot, his molecules must be rubbing against one another at ungodly speeds or something, and friction creates heat.
As though Nic can read his mind -- perish the fucking thought! -- Nic's hips press slightly forward, and yes, friction, yes, heat, and Bill lets out a heavy, gusting breath (apparently he had been holding his breath, color him surprised), and Nic says, "Just... just come on," but it's less a demand and more a plea, and his voice makes Bill shiver.
And yes, okay, yes, Nic is different than any other bloke Bill's ever met, and he affects Bill like no other bloke Bill has ever met, and maybe he's never been all that interested in men, but Nic is different, and it seems pretty fucking stupid to deny that (and impossible, for that matter, he's been fucking trying).
"Nic," he says, and opens his eyes.
"Bill," Nic says, his voice a throaty whisper, and Bill shivers again (what the fuck, what's with all the fucking shivering?).
"If Keira gets pissed off at me, I'm kicking your bloody arse."
Nic grins at him, bright and fierce, for an instant, and Bill doesn't quite have the presence of mind (or the desire, some helpfully honest bit of his mind points out, bugger it) to pull back, and actually he's tipping his face up slightly and one of his hands has snuck out to brush fingertips across Nic's naked chest, and Nic is kissing him again, except this time Bill is kissing back, and Nic's mouth is just as bloody hot as the rest of him.
::
"Almost," Nic breathes, and kisses Bill again, properly definitely amazingly finally kisses him, open-mouthed and pushy, and he steers Bill around (who is beautifully pliable and fluid under Nic's hands, and maybe this is Johnny's kick, direction), and shoves him, murmurs, "perfect," one hand curled about Bill's hip and the other about his collarbone, "right there. Against the wall."
Bill opens his mouth, and it is pink and wet and stupidly girlish, but the set of Bill's jaw is not, and his dick is most definitely not when Nic grinds up against him as obscenely as he possibly can. Gonna show you he thinks above the urgent need in his cock, and his buzzing fingertips, gonna spoil you, although for what or who Nic doesn't know.
He's perfectly capable of being gentle, but not now, not when his pulse races at the thought that Bill has never been kissed by a bloke before, that Bill doesn't know how fucking competitive and consuming and aggressive and honest it can be, and Nic shudders hard into him, because that thought spikes demanding lust all down his spine, Bill in his hands, his head tipped back, eyes half-closed and gorgeous, so fucking sharp and gorgeous.
::
Nic doesn't shut up even while he's snogging apparently, and some distant part of Bill that isn't actually involved in the snogging is amused.
The rest of him isn't remotely amused, because Nic keeps pulling back to shift them around, and that involves Nic stopping to look at Bill (what the fuck is he looking at, then?), which requires Nic to stop, and just at the moment the not stopping seems vitally fucking important to Bill.
As long as he's actually involved in it, for one, he doesn't have to think about it, and that's good. Not only that, but it's really fucking good, nothing, fucking nothing like what he'd thought (not that he'd actually really thought much about it), and Nic is just standing there directing the storm-grey intensity of his gaze at Bill, demonstrating once again that weirdly Nic-centric focus, and it's starting to fucking aggravate him.
"Stop stopping," Bill growls, and it's not all that different to curl his fingers into Nic's hair than it is to do it to Keira, except it seems a lot easier to pull (and far harder than it would ever occur to him to pull Keira's hair), and Nic makes a short, gruff little sound (and Bill's hips are apparently connected to those kinds of sounds on some level, as they jerk forward, and Nic grinds against him hard in response, knees bent, and whoa, oh, bugger that is good) as Bill jerks him close, and Nic gasps into Bill's mouth, which feels impossibly and recklessly triumphant for some reason.
Nic's hand on his hip jerks at the waist of Bill's jeans, tugging the material down enough to slide the side of his thumb along the angle of Bill's hip bone, and he is shocked breathless by how that feels, because it's just his fucking thumb, but Bill's eyes flutter closed and he shivers (more fucking shivers, but he's finding that a bit less annoying now, considering the circumstances) and Nic surges forward full body, whether intentionally or reactionary, Bill doesn't really care. He barely feels his head thump back against the wall, and realizes at the same time that his hands are traveling up Nic's ribs, and that he can feel the hard ridges of them beneath the flexing muscles of Nic's abdomen under his fingertips, and it sends brutally urgent messages to his cock.
"Bugger," he hears himself mutter, and has no idea why.
::
Part of Nic would be quite content to keep Bill pinned here for the next three hours, feeling every little rumble and whimper and jerk that he could coax out of Bill, kissing him unhurriedly and thoroughly. Bill kisses like--like a series of locks, ratcheting up and plateauing, and it's addictive to find what pushes him upwards, the little surge of adrenaline when Nic bites down into Bill's lip, when he evades Bill's mouth for a second too long to hear the little stuttery sound of frustration caught in Bill's throat.
But then. Here they are, and, well, talk about your fucking foreplay, and Nic has been looking at Bill's dick for too fucking long, and feeling it for not long enough, even though his own cock would agree that the snugged up friction going on is pretty bloody good, but--nothing would top off Nic's evening like wrapping his hand around Bill's cock and bringing him off. Nic has no illusions about reciprocation, but he does want to push and see where he gets, even if he tries to tell himself it's just instinct (haha, gay urges) when he twists his wrist around and breaches jeans and boxers and whoa, skin, and--
"Huh," he groans, sighs, and leans his forehead on Bill's cheek.
::
"Fuck!" Bill bites out, except it comes out a lot fainter than he'd expected, barely a breath, as Nic hand curls, hot and strong, around his cock.
The first thing he thinks is that there really is quite a marked difference between a bloke's hand and a girl's hand. Nic's hand is harder, and Nic's not afraid to fucking squeeze (not that Keira is, she's quite proficient with her hands, obviously, but Nic is stronger), not afraid to twist his wrist and slide his thumb carefully over the head of Bill's cock, pushing back foreskin and smoothing the dampness there around the crown, and Bill's knees threaten to buckle at the hard grind of pleasure clenching in his middle.
Nic breathes heavily along his jaw and neck, and Bill can't quite pry his eyes open. He's also making a noise, a quiet, choked sound unlike nothing he can recall ever hearing pass his lips before.
And Nic smells so fucking good.
The second thing he thinks is, he's probably got about a minute to stop this before he can't anymore.
And he thinks Nic is probably right, he thinks Keira wouldn't be all that bothered to find out that Nic and Bill had engaged in a little recreational snogging, but this... this is too far, and besides that...he's not quite certain of where this is going and whether or not he wants it to go there (except for the part of him that Nic's hand is currently curled around, stroking at a slow, steady pace that probably shouldn't be pushing Bill toward a sticky mess in his jeans quite so quickly -- that part of him is all for where this is going), and it takes a whole lot of fucking effort to uncurl his hand from around the back of Nic's neck and move it down to Nic's wrist instead, stilling Nic's hand.
Nic's breath stills for a moment, and he pulls back, brows furrowed, a clear question in his eyes. "I don't think--" Bill says, and then pauses to rephrase. "I'm not sure..." He sighs. "I can't do this," he manages. "Keira... I..."
Nic is nodding, showing what seems like an amazing display of good sense to Bill, though he doesn't actually move away, doesn't actually uncurl his hand from around Bill's cock. He nuzzles at Bill's cheek a little instead, and Bill's head tips to the side all on it's own, giving Nic free access.
As soon as he realizes it, his cheeks heat up, and he clears his throat gruffly.
::::::
It's been a long long time since Ian has been high like this, and he watches Dominic's face bubble up and brown on the edges. Maggie's letter is already dust, lovely fine-grained black dust that he considers rolling his last ball of opium in. His body goes next in a long line, down down to his soft cock and Ian feels a shudder in his chest right around where his heart is, like he's dying, perhaps.
Or maybe burning away. In thin layers over the years, he's burned each leathered, useless topskin away, compressing, perhaps, diamond-hard.
Mixing metaphors. Stephen would be appalled.
The opium keeps away the need to crush and smash, and his hands are loose and steady when he feeds the flames the rest of his beautiful nephew.
His mobile is hard and shiny in his palm, the screen a mosaic of digital plum blossoms that he can't figure out how to remove after Dominic had got to it. He presses 1, watches Dominic's name scroll across the tiny display.
"Dominic," he murmurs aloud and his lips feel thick and lovely.
Come home. I have a surprise for you.
::
The vibration against his arse is pleasantly peripheral until it seeps into Nic's consciousness that that's actually his phone ringing. He's tempted to ignore it, but Bill is still--not rigid, exactly, but clearly hesitant--against him, and Nic is not going to make Bill unhappy if he can at all help it.
Nic can wait. Nic and Bill can wait, because he wants Bill to talk to Keira, doesn't like misunderstanding, doesn't like discomfort or sneakiness or mistrust, and he wants Bill to be comfortable. Preferably on a soft surface, heh.
A little squeeze, and he smoothes his hand out from Bill's pants, reluctant to leave the humid, silky skin there, storing up the sensation for later perusal. "Sorry," he murmurs into Bill's neck, shifting his weight back into Bill full-length, ready to brush off whoever is calling.
He doesn't even look at the number on his phone, just jams his thumb on the tiny button.
"Hallo, 'm busy," he says, and he almost wants to yawn.
::
He'd figured Dominic was possibly at the production offices or with that girl, nevertheless his languid, just-fucked voice makes all the hairs on Ian's neck stand up, but the opium keeps him plateaued, and the cheeky answer forces a surprised chuckle out of Ian.
"No, my darling boy, it's your uncle."
::
"I remember you," Nic says, and he's smiling, remembering (operant conditioning to Ian's voice, or something), "where are you?"
Sorry, he mouths at Bill, stepping back slightly to lay his free hand across Bill's stomach, flat under the shirt, reluctant to not touch.
::
Something like mild anxiety crawls through Ian, but it feels more like a combination of desire and dominance and a spiraling despair. "Just the question I was calling to ask you. It's a lovely night and it's been so long since we spent one together."
::
Inexplicably, Nic feels his cheeks heat up, and he turns to lean against the wall, trying not to feel like he's been caught with his pants down. Metaphorically or otherwise.
He can't quite bring himself to look at Bill, not after what he'd said about Ian. And not now.
"Did you have anything particular you wanted to do?" he says to Ian, opportunity for entendre deliberate; not that he doesn't want to see Ian--Christ, he really does--but a little resolution to his current over-stimulated situation might be a bonus.
::
He likes that, Ian decides, he very much fucking likes that, because there's submission in that growly voice, perhaps not enough for the untrained ear, but enough for him. The anxiousness spirals out, makes his fingers and toes prickle almost pleasantly, and he lets himself sink into the lounger, unbuttoning the top two buttons to slide his fingers over his own collarbone, imagining what he'll do to Dominic's when he comes home.
When he comes home.
"Dominic," he says slowly. "I always have something particular in mind I want to do."
::
Hook, line, sinker, fried fucking mackerel, and Nic feels reeled in, every time, but it's the kind of pull he can't resist. Too much promise, too exciting and unpredictable, and Ian is so much more than Nic feels like he could ever be.
"Do you," he starts, "shall I bring anything home, then?" He clears his throat slightly, still not looking at Bill. "Anything to pick up?"
::
It's not until Nic turns away to lean against the wall and his hand falls away from its warm resting place against Bill's belly that Bill starts to prickle uncomfortably. He steps away, rudimentary politeness dredged up from some distant boyhood lesson, but he doesn't step far enough away that he can't hear the conversation, and he doesn't look away from Nic's flushed cheeks.
Nic lifts one arm and rubs at the back of his neck, and Bill watches the smooth play of muscle beneath Nic's California-boy tan. It doesn't help the thumping, urgent need in his groin and lower belly, but he does it anyway.
He'd just spent well over ten minutes liplocked with the bloke -- and there it is again, that bloody shiver -- and he's not willing to do that and then refuse to look at him.
But it isn't until Nic mentions home that Bill figures out who the hell he's talking to, and he tightens furiously, and the pulse he'd been feeling in his cock for the last several minutes travels up to his temples. He's hands curl into fists -- McKellen, fucking McKellen, Ian fucking McKellen, Bill thinks, and Nic is going home to him, and there is a gruff, purring kind of rumble in Nic's voice that Bill now recognizes very well as Nic's turned-on voice, and he is not exactly surprised by the bluewhite jealousy (it's the same, the exact same way it feels to watch Keira talk to Mortensen, he notes, but distantly, there will be time to consider what that means later), but he isn't quite prepared for it either. He clenches his fisted hands, and his knuckles crack very loudly.
Nic finally glances over at him, and the way his eyes cut quickly away just knots Bill's belly up even more, and not in the good way in which it had previously been knotted.
"Nic," he says, and doesn't fucking bother to keep his voice down. Let McKellen fucking hear. "I'm going to Keira's."
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It's rather queer, the wicked spike that seems to gently sink into and pierce Ian's chest and the non-reaction he has, everything slowed down but not quite dulled by the opium, still sweet and spicy in his mouth. That voice, Scottish and sharp, too sharp, the same possessiveness he hears in his own voice when he talks to Dominic, about Dominic, when he looks at him, thinks about him.
Ian's first reaction would never have been this drowning despair, this utter betrayal if not for the drug, and maybe he should send the deed to a small country to Depp in thanks, because for once, his comfortable trust in himself and, more importantly, in Dominic would have failed him.
Bloody cunting Scotsman, he can see him in his head, the softness on that craggy face and the devotion on Dominic's, he must have been bloody blind.
Barely a pause to take this all in, one Dominic would have felt, and it's enough. "Am I interrupting something, love? Because if you have other plans..."
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"Uh..." No. It appears that if Nic did have other plans, they're looking for their keys. Nic feels his stomach lurch when he catches the stormy look on Bill's face; no mere displeasure at being interrupted, but something far worse, far more intimate. It's flattering, almost--got your attention now, boyo, haven't I runs through his head before he frowns at his own smugness--but Nic still has no clue why Bill might disapprove of Ian so very much.
Exact nature of their relationship aside, he's Nic's uncle, his family, and it's frustrating. Nic can't help but feel... irked.
He smiles tightly, Bill just out of arm's reach. Ignores Ian's spot-on guess (bastard), and shrugs. "No plans, it seems." Nic looks the question at Bill, but there's a blank response.
How did this go all pear-shaped so quickly?
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Bill jerks his head slightly, and his neck cracks.
No plans, Bill thinks, and crushes the sting of it down, lets the anger well up there instead. He nods shortly.
"All right," he says, or growls, more like. "If you change your mind, that's where I'll be." Then, softer, "Don't bother if you go there first."
Nic frowns heavily, his eyes deeply dark, brows contracted fiercely; Bill sees that his knuckles have gone pale with exertion where his fingers are curled around his phone. Nic doesn't do anger often enough for Bill to be familiar with it, but he recognizes it nonetheless. Well. So be it.
"Your choice," Bill murmurs, but because he's an arsehole, and because he might not get another chance, he leans in and kisses Nic hard, the first kiss he's initiated himself, the first deliberate advance (and maybe the last), and it's hard and furious and on the phone with his uncle or not, Nic's mouth slides open beneath Bill's, slick and sweet, and Bill doesn't hesitate to take advantage of that because no matter what else happens, he doesn't fucking want Nic to forget it.
He doesn't look back when he walks out, but he listens to Nic's quick, harsh breathing for as long as he can hear it.
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