ficlets
I wrote a couple of ficlets. They both feature Gabe. I don't know why that would be. *blink*
Pete/Gabe (implied Pete/Mikey), 601 words, (PG-13)
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Change Your Insides
Gabe tastes sweet and alcohol-sour. His kisses are a lurid green shooter and Pete thinks, there are better ways to get drunk than sitting with a glass in your hand all night. Their taxi hits a pothole at speed and the corresponding lurch is a sensation like drunkenness. As they fumble in the back seat, Gabe's mouth lands on his only occasionally, seemingly by accident. It's too dark, too late-and this is too careless an encounter-to bother with slow, tender kisses that might pretend to mean something. Gabe just wants to get off. (For the record, Pete knows this because Gabe has whispered in his ear, "I just want to get off.")
Sometimes Pete feels like he can slip inside other people; fully inhabit them for minutes at a time, stretch out his fingers and graze the darkest, scariest, brightest parts of their souls. He can feel it all. Or maybe he's crazy, and it's just another part of his own head, another twist in a dark alley. Still, as Pete closes his eyes, he pretends he can fill himself up with Gabe.
Gabe, who is fearless and strong. Gabe, who goes after what he wants.
There's the tug of cigarettes at the edge of his senses. Gabe smells like smoke. It's a heavy, brown smell that Pete associates with the city-that's how Gabe says it, THE CITY, just like that, the hard block letters sounding black and decisive in his voice, as if the rest of the world is pale and insignificant-Pete associates that smell with Mikey and the nervous taptap of fingers against a pack of cigarettes. Smoke must be all over Pete, too. It must have crept inside his clothing like a dirty secret. He used to take smoking breaks with Mikey, breathing deep the polluted air and watching the cars go by as Mikey suckled on his cigarette like it was a religious experience. Those moments had always felt intense and personal; the two of them escaping out of a bar, away from themselves, for a sparse five minutes that they could spend alone, together. With Gabe, the party tended to follow him onto the street: someone passing him a cigarette, another person flaring their lighter for him; conversation crammed into his mouth around the filter, smoke expelled with laughter.
Gabe, who never lets himself forget how to laugh. Gabe, who actually wants the things that he wants.
(Mikey had whispered, "I want this, do you?" Pete had watched Mikey's fingers toy with his lighter. As he had watched the flame flicker on and off, his brain had stuttered, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes-
Mikey's eyes had clouded over. "I guess that's a no.")
"Shut up," Gabe murmurs, the words sliding out smooth and easy, only lightly slurred.
Pete throws himself back against the seat. The leather is cool against the areas of skin that Gabe's hands have been busy exposing. (Light flick of a thumb against the button of his pants; blunt push of two fingers at the hem of his shirt; an unapologetic yank at the arm of his hoodie, tugging it off one shoulder.) "I didn't say anything," Pete says. He angles his head, exposing the full length of his neck. It's partly defiance; partly an invitation.
"You're thinking so fucking loud, I can hear it," Gabe says with a smile. He reaches out, running a hand down Pete's throat. As his thumb comes to rest on Pete's collarbone, Pete longs for a constriction of breath, lips at his pulse point, the sensation of white noise in his head.
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Gabe/William, 649 words, (PG-13)
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Five items of clothing on Gabe's bedroom floor.
Gabe is not a slob. Sure, he doesn't make his bed every single day. And when his mom calls him at precisely 10 a.m. on Sundays, he usually has to lie when she asks him if he's dusted his apartment this week. But Gabe likes order. When he wakes up with a hangover, he likes the orange juice to be in the fridge compartment where he left it. His shoes go in the closet-not kicked carelessly under the bed. His books live in the arty glass bookcase that he found at Goodwill for $10-they're not supposed to end up enthusiastically thumbed, crushed beneath his couch cushions. And clothes-clothes are not dropped on the floor.
William pulls off his t-shirt and discards it, creating a stripy heap on the hardwood floor of Gabe's bedroom. His boots have already been launched, with disarmingly random trajectory, in the direction of Gabe's bed. Gabe frowns, watching distractedly as William's fingers work at the buttons on his pants. William peels skintight black jeans down over his thighs, wriggling free until his pants join his shirt on the floor.
"You stupid fucking shit!" Gabe explodes as William advances on him.
William stops. "What?" he says, with wide eyes. His briefs-incongruous and red-are barely clinging to his hips. Gabe's fingers itch to hook them down over his hipbones.
"You used up the last of the juice!" Gabe says, flexing his hands open and closed.
"Did I?" William blinks. "I was thirsty."
"You wrote all over my copy of The Dharma Bums! You creased the pages, you…"
William looks hurt for a moment. "I just wrote you a note." He bursts into a momentary smile. "I wrote it on the page where Allen-"
"I don't fucking care, Bill! You don't fuck up shit that doesn't belong to you." Gabe slumps back against the bed-frame. "You're a really lousy houseguest, you know that?" he says, hating the petulance in his own voice.
William makes a sloppy, one-shouldered shrug. "I'm leaving tomorrow," he says, bite-lipped and apologetic.
"Yeah, whatever."
Gabe looks away. He notices that William's toenails are painted lilac. He smiles, and then remembers that he's pissed off.
William continues toward him, more slowly this time. He stretches out a hand, brushing hesitantly at Gabe's abdomen and waiting for some kind of reciprocation. "I'm sorry," he says softly.
Gabe doesn't move, but he also doesn't push William away. "Really sorry," William says. He presses closer, his hand coming to rest lightly on Gabe's hip.
"… Make it up to me," Gabe mutters. He still refuses to meet William's eyes. (Although, unfortunately, that means he ends up staring intently at red cotton briefs that are beginning to strain noticeably.)
"I'll buy you some more juice," William says, and Gabe can hear the smile in his voice.
"… No."
"A new book?" William leans in closer. The innocence in his voice is belied by the nip of his lips against Gabe's jaw. When Gabe doesn't resist, William swirls his tongue against the patch of skin beneath his ear. He pauses to expel a hot sigh. "Tell me what you want me to do." William's teeth catch lightly on Gabe's earlobe, sucking it into his mouth.
*
Gabe wakes up at noon the next day to find that William is gone. The trail of his clothes is also gone. (William's flight was at 11:42 a.m.)
Gabe gets up and decides against taking a shower. When he ventures into the kitchen, the orange juice carton is still perched, tauntingly empty, on the counter. Gabe looks at it for a moment and then walks into the living room. The book that William was reading is no longer discarded on the couch. Gabe looks and finds it carefully shelved on his bookcase.
Gabe flips through the book and reads the note that William left scrawled in the margin.
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Pete/Gabe (implied Pete/Mikey), 601 words, (PG-13)
-----
Change Your Insides
Gabe tastes sweet and alcohol-sour. His kisses are a lurid green shooter and Pete thinks, there are better ways to get drunk than sitting with a glass in your hand all night. Their taxi hits a pothole at speed and the corresponding lurch is a sensation like drunkenness. As they fumble in the back seat, Gabe's mouth lands on his only occasionally, seemingly by accident. It's too dark, too late-and this is too careless an encounter-to bother with slow, tender kisses that might pretend to mean something. Gabe just wants to get off. (For the record, Pete knows this because Gabe has whispered in his ear, "I just want to get off.")
Sometimes Pete feels like he can slip inside other people; fully inhabit them for minutes at a time, stretch out his fingers and graze the darkest, scariest, brightest parts of their souls. He can feel it all. Or maybe he's crazy, and it's just another part of his own head, another twist in a dark alley. Still, as Pete closes his eyes, he pretends he can fill himself up with Gabe.
Gabe, who is fearless and strong. Gabe, who goes after what he wants.
There's the tug of cigarettes at the edge of his senses. Gabe smells like smoke. It's a heavy, brown smell that Pete associates with the city-that's how Gabe says it, THE CITY, just like that, the hard block letters sounding black and decisive in his voice, as if the rest of the world is pale and insignificant-Pete associates that smell with Mikey and the nervous taptap of fingers against a pack of cigarettes. Smoke must be all over Pete, too. It must have crept inside his clothing like a dirty secret. He used to take smoking breaks with Mikey, breathing deep the polluted air and watching the cars go by as Mikey suckled on his cigarette like it was a religious experience. Those moments had always felt intense and personal; the two of them escaping out of a bar, away from themselves, for a sparse five minutes that they could spend alone, together. With Gabe, the party tended to follow him onto the street: someone passing him a cigarette, another person flaring their lighter for him; conversation crammed into his mouth around the filter, smoke expelled with laughter.
Gabe, who never lets himself forget how to laugh. Gabe, who actually wants the things that he wants.
(Mikey had whispered, "I want this, do you?" Pete had watched Mikey's fingers toy with his lighter. As he had watched the flame flicker on and off, his brain had stuttered, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes-
Mikey's eyes had clouded over. "I guess that's a no.")
"Shut up," Gabe murmurs, the words sliding out smooth and easy, only lightly slurred.
Pete throws himself back against the seat. The leather is cool against the areas of skin that Gabe's hands have been busy exposing. (Light flick of a thumb against the button of his pants; blunt push of two fingers at the hem of his shirt; an unapologetic yank at the arm of his hoodie, tugging it off one shoulder.) "I didn't say anything," Pete says. He angles his head, exposing the full length of his neck. It's partly defiance; partly an invitation.
"You're thinking so fucking loud, I can hear it," Gabe says with a smile. He reaches out, running a hand down Pete's throat. As his thumb comes to rest on Pete's collarbone, Pete longs for a constriction of breath, lips at his pulse point, the sensation of white noise in his head.
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Gabe/William, 649 words, (PG-13)
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Five items of clothing on Gabe's bedroom floor.
Gabe is not a slob. Sure, he doesn't make his bed every single day. And when his mom calls him at precisely 10 a.m. on Sundays, he usually has to lie when she asks him if he's dusted his apartment this week. But Gabe likes order. When he wakes up with a hangover, he likes the orange juice to be in the fridge compartment where he left it. His shoes go in the closet-not kicked carelessly under the bed. His books live in the arty glass bookcase that he found at Goodwill for $10-they're not supposed to end up enthusiastically thumbed, crushed beneath his couch cushions. And clothes-clothes are not dropped on the floor.
William pulls off his t-shirt and discards it, creating a stripy heap on the hardwood floor of Gabe's bedroom. His boots have already been launched, with disarmingly random trajectory, in the direction of Gabe's bed. Gabe frowns, watching distractedly as William's fingers work at the buttons on his pants. William peels skintight black jeans down over his thighs, wriggling free until his pants join his shirt on the floor.
"You stupid fucking shit!" Gabe explodes as William advances on him.
William stops. "What?" he says, with wide eyes. His briefs-incongruous and red-are barely clinging to his hips. Gabe's fingers itch to hook them down over his hipbones.
"You used up the last of the juice!" Gabe says, flexing his hands open and closed.
"Did I?" William blinks. "I was thirsty."
"You wrote all over my copy of The Dharma Bums! You creased the pages, you…"
William looks hurt for a moment. "I just wrote you a note." He bursts into a momentary smile. "I wrote it on the page where Allen-"
"I don't fucking care, Bill! You don't fuck up shit that doesn't belong to you." Gabe slumps back against the bed-frame. "You're a really lousy houseguest, you know that?" he says, hating the petulance in his own voice.
William makes a sloppy, one-shouldered shrug. "I'm leaving tomorrow," he says, bite-lipped and apologetic.
"Yeah, whatever."
Gabe looks away. He notices that William's toenails are painted lilac. He smiles, and then remembers that he's pissed off.
William continues toward him, more slowly this time. He stretches out a hand, brushing hesitantly at Gabe's abdomen and waiting for some kind of reciprocation. "I'm sorry," he says softly.
Gabe doesn't move, but he also doesn't push William away. "Really sorry," William says. He presses closer, his hand coming to rest lightly on Gabe's hip.
"… Make it up to me," Gabe mutters. He still refuses to meet William's eyes. (Although, unfortunately, that means he ends up staring intently at red cotton briefs that are beginning to strain noticeably.)
"I'll buy you some more juice," William says, and Gabe can hear the smile in his voice.
"… No."
"A new book?" William leans in closer. The innocence in his voice is belied by the nip of his lips against Gabe's jaw. When Gabe doesn't resist, William swirls his tongue against the patch of skin beneath his ear. He pauses to expel a hot sigh. "Tell me what you want me to do." William's teeth catch lightly on Gabe's earlobe, sucking it into his mouth.
*
Gabe wakes up at noon the next day to find that William is gone. The trail of his clothes is also gone. (William's flight was at 11:42 a.m.)
Gabe gets up and decides against taking a shower. When he ventures into the kitchen, the orange juice carton is still perched, tauntingly empty, on the counter. Gabe looks at it for a moment and then walks into the living room. The book that William was reading is no longer discarded on the couch. Gabe looks and finds it carefully shelved on his bookcase.
Gabe flips through the book and reads the note that William left scrawled in the margin.
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