Fic: Champagne Supernova (1/1)
Title: Champagne Supernova
Rating: R
Pairing: Boone/Charlie
Word Count: 1,156
Summary: Charlie wakes up with the dawn, alone, and he doesn’t remember a thing. For toestastegood, who requested “Charlie Pace” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 15pairings Prompt #1 - Musical Chairs. Warnings for mild drug use. Pre-Season One; General Spoilers through 1.07 - The Moth.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Oasis.
Author’s Notes: For toestastegood: I have no idea if this is your cup of tea or not, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it. There was a whole other part to it, involving backstory and some Charlie-het, but it felt superfluous in the end. So it’s just the slash, now ;)
Nominated at lost_fic_awards: Best Slash Fic, September 2009
Champagne Supernova
If anyone doesn’t belong in the club, it’s the bastard at the bar: buttoned to the collar and sipping Sex on the Beach with his pinky popped like a sodding queen; and if Charlie couldn’t see the way his abs cut against the ironed-in angles of his shirt, the flat planes of his chest beneath the cotton obvious even from the stage, then fuck all, he’d have pegged him for a woman.
Charlie always puts his bass away himself, never lets himself depend on roadies and crew, but where he’d normally stagger out into the crowd of adoring females ready to fall into his bed like so many bad notes, Charlie embarks instead upon the road not taken. He changes key and changes clothes, and it’s a whole other song that plays in his ears as he jogs the block around the place and enters again through the front door, paying for a ticket to his own show and positioning his leather-wrapped shoulder blades strategically in front of the gorgeous stranger with the frilly drinks - his eyes golden in the seedy yellow glow from above, lime green at the center from the neon, with the frost of his highlights hanging low to cut sleek through his hooded gaze.
Charlie licks his lips, eyes sliding closed as he clenches his ass against the hug of his jeans, hoping those downcast eyes might get a good show of it.
Charlie downs a Bifi, letting the orange burn against his throat while the Baileys lingers like a latte, mingling with the Kahlúa dregs before he swallows it all down. He’s still a little buzzed from the show, a little high on all those lights and all those screams and the keening trill of the chords, and he can’t help the stray thought to wonder how long this pretty boy’s been standing here, of how many colorful drinks he’s already sucked down - whether his spunk would smack of cranberries and coconuts, given the privilege of a taste.
He orders another without preamble, reaching deliberately across the beautiful man behind him as he signals the ‘keep. He expects the rough assent for a second round from the bartender, but not the smooth silk of a voice at his shoulder, sliding like a string as he tightens it in tune just so:
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Charlie just smiles softly at his rather fetching companion, eyes glancing over his easy features and his electric blue cocktail, and shakes his head.
They’re both more than a little desperate, apparently, because there’s not much discussion before an agreement is reached. The most they do speak, in fact, is to argue a bit over who pays the cabby. The brunette leans against the elevator as they soar above sea-level, and his reflection in the metal is all caramel and cream, good enough to eat. Charlie swipes them into the room and offers a drink - because for the bar being just minutes before, he’s fucking parched himself - but the stranger declines, asking for the bathroom. Charlie nods him over and grabs a beer from the mini fridge, chugging half of it from the bottle before letting the cold glass slide through his fingers, the ice shooting from the crook of his knuckles and settling through his veins. His heart’s racing, a sharp and rapid crescendo, and he can feel the grip of his hand clenching too hard, trembling, and he knows he needs to settle else this’ll all be over before it even begins.
Where he’d normally just snort a line on his own, he’s feeling a bit romantic tonight, sentimental, and he chases the dragon while the wash door’s still shut, heady and hard as the burn swims in the air, lingers. He barely sees the man as he emerges, eyes glazed and mind foggy, but he tastes like peaches and pineapple and shattered delusions - everything that Charlie tastes like, but sharper, stronger somehow, and more refined - and it chokes him, the overload of his senses, as they fall skin to skin against the bed, drowning out the scent of bleach on the sheets.
The calluses on Charlie’s fingertips seek out the smooth skin at the other man’s wrists, the E-flat to his F-sharp, so to speak, in a signature outside of time, unmetered. The back of soft, unbothered nails drag gentle against his bare arms, tracing the lines of ink in his skin, and Charlie shivers a little when a different pattern, unfamiliar, swirls against him, over and over - unrecognizable until loose strands of perfect, sweat slick hair tickles at the back of his neck, hot breath whispering in his ear as hips grind into his:
“Say my name.”
He feels the path form meaning, gain purpose somewhere underneath the high, somewhere deeper, and the word, the name traced into him makes sudden, perfect sense:
“Boone.”
And it’s a gift; one that Charlie doesn’t need to have returned. Not tonight.
They move against each other, fingers sloppy and impatient like two kids, and maybe that’s all they are in point of fact as they strip each other past the bare essentials; but Charlie doesn’t feel stupid when he shudders, doesn’t feel weak when he moans because this Greek fucking god is doing the same fucking thing, and he’s doing it because Charlie’s hands are on him, holding him, teasing at the vein in him and feeling the rush of his blood. He leans down to suck the pulse in Boone’s neck, and he feels the spill of him over his hands, splattered on his forearm, and for a brief moment in time the world stills and Charlie lifts the back of his hand to his lips and kisses it, eyes locked on Boone’s as he whispers a promise, a prayer against his skin, salty with sweat and seed and it might just be the rush of it, the tang of sex and heroin and need in the air, but Charlie tastes cherries. Cherries and lemonade, like an island, against the salt of the sea.
The world floods open shortly after as the pressure between his thighs reaches a peak before plummeting, and it breaks the scale and twists the clef and rewrites everything Charlie had ever hoped to know, obliterating him and the words he’d thought to treasure in a single blaze of blinding white; and it only falls away when his breath bleeds, as his heart gives out, and he fades, perdendo, into sweet oblivion like snow in the dead of night. They fall against each other like a single, synchronized breath of what it means to be alive, and if that’s all they’ll ever know for the rest of their days, it’s enough.
Charlie wakes up with the dawn, alone, and he doesn’t remember a thing.
Rating: R
Pairing: Boone/Charlie
Word Count: 1,156
Summary: Charlie wakes up with the dawn, alone, and he doesn’t remember a thing. For toestastegood, who requested “Charlie Pace” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 15pairings Prompt #1 - Musical Chairs. Warnings for mild drug use. Pre-Season One; General Spoilers through 1.07 - The Moth.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Oasis.
Author’s Notes: For toestastegood: I have no idea if this is your cup of tea or not, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it. There was a whole other part to it, involving backstory and some Charlie-het, but it felt superfluous in the end. So it’s just the slash, now ;)
Nominated at lost_fic_awards: Best Slash Fic, September 2009
Champagne Supernova
If anyone doesn’t belong in the club, it’s the bastard at the bar: buttoned to the collar and sipping Sex on the Beach with his pinky popped like a sodding queen; and if Charlie couldn’t see the way his abs cut against the ironed-in angles of his shirt, the flat planes of his chest beneath the cotton obvious even from the stage, then fuck all, he’d have pegged him for a woman.
Charlie always puts his bass away himself, never lets himself depend on roadies and crew, but where he’d normally stagger out into the crowd of adoring females ready to fall into his bed like so many bad notes, Charlie embarks instead upon the road not taken. He changes key and changes clothes, and it’s a whole other song that plays in his ears as he jogs the block around the place and enters again through the front door, paying for a ticket to his own show and positioning his leather-wrapped shoulder blades strategically in front of the gorgeous stranger with the frilly drinks - his eyes golden in the seedy yellow glow from above, lime green at the center from the neon, with the frost of his highlights hanging low to cut sleek through his hooded gaze.
Charlie licks his lips, eyes sliding closed as he clenches his ass against the hug of his jeans, hoping those downcast eyes might get a good show of it.
Charlie downs a Bifi, letting the orange burn against his throat while the Baileys lingers like a latte, mingling with the Kahlúa dregs before he swallows it all down. He’s still a little buzzed from the show, a little high on all those lights and all those screams and the keening trill of the chords, and he can’t help the stray thought to wonder how long this pretty boy’s been standing here, of how many colorful drinks he’s already sucked down - whether his spunk would smack of cranberries and coconuts, given the privilege of a taste.
He orders another without preamble, reaching deliberately across the beautiful man behind him as he signals the ‘keep. He expects the rough assent for a second round from the bartender, but not the smooth silk of a voice at his shoulder, sliding like a string as he tightens it in tune just so:
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Charlie just smiles softly at his rather fetching companion, eyes glancing over his easy features and his electric blue cocktail, and shakes his head.
They’re both more than a little desperate, apparently, because there’s not much discussion before an agreement is reached. The most they do speak, in fact, is to argue a bit over who pays the cabby. The brunette leans against the elevator as they soar above sea-level, and his reflection in the metal is all caramel and cream, good enough to eat. Charlie swipes them into the room and offers a drink - because for the bar being just minutes before, he’s fucking parched himself - but the stranger declines, asking for the bathroom. Charlie nods him over and grabs a beer from the mini fridge, chugging half of it from the bottle before letting the cold glass slide through his fingers, the ice shooting from the crook of his knuckles and settling through his veins. His heart’s racing, a sharp and rapid crescendo, and he can feel the grip of his hand clenching too hard, trembling, and he knows he needs to settle else this’ll all be over before it even begins.
Where he’d normally just snort a line on his own, he’s feeling a bit romantic tonight, sentimental, and he chases the dragon while the wash door’s still shut, heady and hard as the burn swims in the air, lingers. He barely sees the man as he emerges, eyes glazed and mind foggy, but he tastes like peaches and pineapple and shattered delusions - everything that Charlie tastes like, but sharper, stronger somehow, and more refined - and it chokes him, the overload of his senses, as they fall skin to skin against the bed, drowning out the scent of bleach on the sheets.
The calluses on Charlie’s fingertips seek out the smooth skin at the other man’s wrists, the E-flat to his F-sharp, so to speak, in a signature outside of time, unmetered. The back of soft, unbothered nails drag gentle against his bare arms, tracing the lines of ink in his skin, and Charlie shivers a little when a different pattern, unfamiliar, swirls against him, over and over - unrecognizable until loose strands of perfect, sweat slick hair tickles at the back of his neck, hot breath whispering in his ear as hips grind into his:
“Say my name.”
He feels the path form meaning, gain purpose somewhere underneath the high, somewhere deeper, and the word, the name traced into him makes sudden, perfect sense:
“Boone.”
And it’s a gift; one that Charlie doesn’t need to have returned. Not tonight.
They move against each other, fingers sloppy and impatient like two kids, and maybe that’s all they are in point of fact as they strip each other past the bare essentials; but Charlie doesn’t feel stupid when he shudders, doesn’t feel weak when he moans because this Greek fucking god is doing the same fucking thing, and he’s doing it because Charlie’s hands are on him, holding him, teasing at the vein in him and feeling the rush of his blood. He leans down to suck the pulse in Boone’s neck, and he feels the spill of him over his hands, splattered on his forearm, and for a brief moment in time the world stills and Charlie lifts the back of his hand to his lips and kisses it, eyes locked on Boone’s as he whispers a promise, a prayer against his skin, salty with sweat and seed and it might just be the rush of it, the tang of sex and heroin and need in the air, but Charlie tastes cherries. Cherries and lemonade, like an island, against the salt of the sea.
The world floods open shortly after as the pressure between his thighs reaches a peak before plummeting, and it breaks the scale and twists the clef and rewrites everything Charlie had ever hoped to know, obliterating him and the words he’d thought to treasure in a single blaze of blinding white; and it only falls away when his breath bleeds, as his heart gives out, and he fades, perdendo, into sweet oblivion like snow in the dead of night. They fall against each other like a single, synchronized breath of what it means to be alive, and if that’s all they’ll ever know for the rest of their days, it’s enough.
Charlie wakes up with the dawn, alone, and he doesn’t remember a thing.