(Untitled)

[grabmyballs]

"The Ace of Spades, the Ace of Spades!" Who gives a shit if it was supposed to be AC/DC night or whatever. Rock is rock and Motorhead is fucking rockIt had been a good night. Not a long night, but... Well the thing about strip clubs was the anonymity, wasn't it? The fact that if you had enough quid, the girls didn't give a shit. But everyone in the

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[not_for_ages]

In the dim, foggy place between dreaming and waking, Freddie feels Cook come into the room. Before the other boy jars the bed, curses it or falls upon it, Freddie knows he's there, the quiet acknowledgment like an itch just beneath his skin. Dumb with sleep, he doesn't question how, when the body falls heavily to the mattress beside him, he'd been expecting it.

Warm and docile, he rolls over, nuzzles fitfully against his pillow and slits open his eyes. Cook's torso is a pale smudge against the darkness, and when Freddie draws in a deep breath, it pulls in the familiar scent of alcohol and sweat. For a long time he simply lays like that, watching the rise and fall of Cook's chest in the thin moonlight.

[grabmyballs]

Cook lays there too, like a man exhausted, needing to catch his breath. The room's still spinning slightly. He can feel it, even though his eyes are shut, and so he keeps them sealed, knowing that things will settle in their own sweet time.

It's not that big of a bed or even that comfortable, but right now it feels like heaven and he wants nothing more than to doze off.

But there's something he's got to do first. He takes his time, letting himself settle, trailing his own fingers up and down his chest with a detached sense of fascination until his breath comes soft. Then he knows it's safe. He can turn onto his side, prop himself up a few inches on his elbow and look at Freddie. The other boy looks fast asleep, as he should be, and Cook takes great pains to keep him that way as he bends his head and presses a kiss to Freddie's forehead.

[not_for_ages]

When Cook draws away, Freddie's eyes have opened completely, soft and uncertain in the dim light. His chest feels tight, his heart rattling hard inside, and he feels for a moment as if he can't move, as if he'll shatter the moment or make it awkward if he stirs.

"You've been drinking," he says, like that's an excuse for that soft brush of lips across his forehead.

[grabmyballs]

If he hadn't been drinking, as Freddie correctly points out, he would have started. But instead Cook takes the unexpected words with a slow blink and an even lower lean back. He looks at Freddie for a long moment in the dim light, processing slowly, then leans forward again.

"You're the wife now?" he asks, but the words carry not even a hint of fight. He has been drinking. So what? Cook smooths Freddie's fringe with his fingertips, then pulls his elbow out from beneath him so he falls onto the bed again.