Cookmann: After the Bar Fight
Neal doesn’t say anything as they get out of the car, and doesn’t say anything as he’s unlocking the front door, and doesn’t say anything as he crosses the living room and walks into the kitchen. Neal doesn’t say anything, but David can tell by the way he walks and by the way he clenches his fists at his sides that he’s pissed, really fucking pissed. And David doesn’t want to make it worse-he’s already done his share, he thinks-so he just doesn’t say anything and doesn’t move from by the front door.
It’s his house, too, but he doesn’t know if Neal wants him there right now. He doesn’t like that feeling.
David watches Neal yank open the freezer. For a second, the freezer door blocks Neal’s face and all David can see is photos of them and of their band and of their dogs. But then the door closes and David can see Neal again, and his black eye and busted lip and how he’s holding ice to his knuckles.
David wants to say, I’m sorry, or maybe, Thank you, but he knows that Neal doesn’t want to hear that, knows that saying those things won’t do any good, so David doesn’t say them.
Instead, Neal says, “What the fuck were you thinking, Dave?”
“I was thinking that he called you some pretty nasty things,” David says, and he’s trying to be calm because the last thing either of them needs right now is another fight.
“Yeah,” Neal says. David can already see the water condensation from the ziplock bag drip down Neal’s wrist and onto the floor. “He said some shit about me. Not you. I didn’t need you to fucking go in there and try to fight the guy!”
“Well, sorry,” David says, only now he’s a little mad and it doesn’t hold the same meaning as when he wanted to say it earlier. “Excuse me for wanting to stick up for you.”
“Wanting to stick up for me?” Neal asks. His voice is on the verge of shouting. “Wanting to stick up for me? Fuck, Dave, that guy was like four fucking times your size-my size. You would have gotten the shit beat out of you if I didn’t jump in, and even then I got the shit beat out of me.”
Neal stalks across the living room and throws himself down on the couch. He changes his mind and then paces the room angrily.
“I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?” Neal repeats. “If it fucking bothered me I’d have done something about it.”
“It didn’t bother you?” David asks. “He called you a fag!”
“News alert,” Neal yells. “I am a fag. So some fucking drunk idiot at a bar calling me that doesn’t fucking bother me!”
“But it should,” David yells back. “It should fucking bother you!”
“No,” Neal yells. “No, what should fucking bother me is seeing some narrow-minded dumbfuck deck my boyfriend in the face!”
“Your boyfriend,” David says, waving his hands. “Your fucking boyfriend. I’m not a goddamn fourteen-year-old girl. I can take a fucking punch and I can take care of myself.”
“Can you, though?” Neal asks. He’s walking towards David, backing him up against the wall. “Can you, though?” he asks again, only this time he takes two fingers and pokes angrily at the bruise on David’s cheek.
David shrugs him away angrily and says, “Yeah, I can, you fucking asshole.”
“What a fucking huge-ass lie,” Neal says. Then he’s crowding his chest up against David’s, saying, “Come on, then-hit me and I’ll hit you back.”
David says, “Fuck you,” and pushes Neal away from him.
Neal drops his bag of ice and says again, “Hit me and I’ll hit you back, you fucking pussy.” And David has no clue what he’s doing, but something snaps in him and so he just reaches back and punches Neal in the mouth-not as hard as he could have, but hard enough to get his point across.
And then before he can even follow what’s happening, Neal has him pushed back against the wall so hard that he can barely breathe and his wrists are pinned up above his head, held there by one of Neal’s. Neal shoves a foot between David’s boots and kicks David’s feet apart, sliding one of his thighs in between both of David’s and then grinding their hips together.
David’s head falls back, and when Neal bites down hard on his neck, David groans.
“God, you’re fucking gagging for this,” Neal says, and so David pushes him away hard. Neal’s still got a tight grip one of David’s wrists, though, and they both lose their balance and tumble to the floor.
“Fuck,” David says.
Neal’s on the bottom and he tugs hard on David’s hair, says, “Fuck you,” and flips them over. And then suddenly, now that Neal’s straddling David’s waist, the tension in the air changes and Neal is trying to undo the buttons on David’s shirt as fast as he can, finally just settling for ripping them open, and David’s doing the same to him.
Neal doesn’t even wait to undo the button on David’s jeans, just shoves his hand down the front of David’s pants even though the angle is awkward.
“Careful,” David says, because Neal’s hand has been hurting him recently, and the fight could have only made it worse. “Your-your-”
“I know,” Neal tells him, and when his fingers curl around David’s cock, they’re still cold from the ice and David gasps loudly, his hips stuttering from the contact.
“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, wait,” and he reaches around Neal’s forearm to undo his belt and his jeans, and then Neal’s really jacking him off, moving his hand faster and squeezing David tighter than he would have normally.
David’s fingers are grabbing onto Neal’s hips when he leans forward, kisses Neal hard and dirty, and then bites down on Neal’s lower lip. He can taste blood-just barely-and he doesn’t know if it’s from the bar fight or from just now.
“Fuck,” Neal hisses, pulling back. He takes his hands out of David’s pants and David almost cries out from the lack of contact. Neal pins him down again, roughly, and says, “Stop it. Fucking stop it and play nice.”
The back of David’s head hits the floor pretty hard as Neal pins him, and for a second he’s seeing stars. But then they clear away and Neal’s face is inches from David’s, real close, and David just looks into Neal’s eyes, sees where one of them is bruising from earlier, and spits in his face.
David can tell how mad Neal is just by looking at him, and then Neal grinds down, the front of his jeans grating hard against David’s bare, sensitive skin, and David can’t hold back the groan. Only then Neal does it again, and it’s just too-too much, and David’s whimpering now, saying, “Neal, fuck, Neal,” and making all these incoherent noises and breathy gasps.
Neal’s hard. David can see that-can feel it-but he can’t do anything, can’t reach out to touch, so he says, “Neal. Neal-please,” but Neal doesn’t listen.
“Shut the fuck up,” Neal says, and then he leans down and starts sucking hickeys along David’s chest, big and red even as he lifts his mouth from David’s skin.
By the time Neal finally lets go of David’s hands, David’s too far gone to even think of anything to do with them and so he just lays there, his shirt open and his pants around his thighs, as Neal makes him squirm. Neal’s fingers are wrapped around David again; his grip is still tight, but it’s not as rough this time, and David’s hips are stuttering and he’s coming before he even realizes it.
Neal watches him, and David can see that he’s breathing pretty heavily, too. David moves his hands lazily towards the front of Neal’s jeans, but Neal just knocks his hand away and undoes the buckle himself. When his jeans are open, he fists his cock and David can feel Neal’s hips jerk above him as Neal fucks his own hand.
It’s not long before Neal’s groaning, “Shit,” and coming all over David’s chest. Neal slumps forward a little, holding himself up by bracing a hand on the floor, and David can feel Neal’s breath hot on his cheek.
For a second, David thinks that maybe they’re not mad at each other anymore, that maybe Neal will laugh and rest his forehead against David’s, and neither of them will apologize because they’re not like that, but it won’t matter because all the ugly tension in the air will be gone.
Instead, Neal gets up. He rests one hand palm-down against David’s chest to help steady himself, and when he realizes that he just put his hand in his own come, he pulls a face and wipes it against David’s open shirt.
David watches as Neal tugs his jeans up to keep them from falling down his hips as he stands, and then David watches as Neal walks away.
He hears the shower run and he just lays there, doesn’t move and doesn’t zip his jeans back up. David just stares at the stucco ceiling, feeling boneless against the carpet.
Less than a minute later, Neal walks back in, stark naked.
“Come on, move it, asshole,” Neal says, but then he smiles and David lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. “You at least owe me a shower.”
It’s his house, too, but he doesn’t know if Neal wants him there right now. He doesn’t like that feeling.
David watches Neal yank open the freezer. For a second, the freezer door blocks Neal’s face and all David can see is photos of them and of their band and of their dogs. But then the door closes and David can see Neal again, and his black eye and busted lip and how he’s holding ice to his knuckles.
David wants to say, I’m sorry, or maybe, Thank you, but he knows that Neal doesn’t want to hear that, knows that saying those things won’t do any good, so David doesn’t say them.
Instead, Neal says, “What the fuck were you thinking, Dave?”
“I was thinking that he called you some pretty nasty things,” David says, and he’s trying to be calm because the last thing either of them needs right now is another fight.
“Yeah,” Neal says. David can already see the water condensation from the ziplock bag drip down Neal’s wrist and onto the floor. “He said some shit about me. Not you. I didn’t need you to fucking go in there and try to fight the guy!”
“Well, sorry,” David says, only now he’s a little mad and it doesn’t hold the same meaning as when he wanted to say it earlier. “Excuse me for wanting to stick up for you.”
“Wanting to stick up for me?” Neal asks. His voice is on the verge of shouting. “Wanting to stick up for me? Fuck, Dave, that guy was like four fucking times your size-my size. You would have gotten the shit beat out of you if I didn’t jump in, and even then I got the shit beat out of me.”
Neal stalks across the living room and throws himself down on the couch. He changes his mind and then paces the room angrily.
“I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?” Neal repeats. “If it fucking bothered me I’d have done something about it.”
“It didn’t bother you?” David asks. “He called you a fag!”
“News alert,” Neal yells. “I am a fag. So some fucking drunk idiot at a bar calling me that doesn’t fucking bother me!”
“But it should,” David yells back. “It should fucking bother you!”
“No,” Neal yells. “No, what should fucking bother me is seeing some narrow-minded dumbfuck deck my boyfriend in the face!”
“Your boyfriend,” David says, waving his hands. “Your fucking boyfriend. I’m not a goddamn fourteen-year-old girl. I can take a fucking punch and I can take care of myself.”
“Can you, though?” Neal asks. He’s walking towards David, backing him up against the wall. “Can you, though?” he asks again, only this time he takes two fingers and pokes angrily at the bruise on David’s cheek.
David shrugs him away angrily and says, “Yeah, I can, you fucking asshole.”
“What a fucking huge-ass lie,” Neal says. Then he’s crowding his chest up against David’s, saying, “Come on, then-hit me and I’ll hit you back.”
David says, “Fuck you,” and pushes Neal away from him.
Neal drops his bag of ice and says again, “Hit me and I’ll hit you back, you fucking pussy.” And David has no clue what he’s doing, but something snaps in him and so he just reaches back and punches Neal in the mouth-not as hard as he could have, but hard enough to get his point across.
And then before he can even follow what’s happening, Neal has him pushed back against the wall so hard that he can barely breathe and his wrists are pinned up above his head, held there by one of Neal’s. Neal shoves a foot between David’s boots and kicks David’s feet apart, sliding one of his thighs in between both of David’s and then grinding their hips together.
David’s head falls back, and when Neal bites down hard on his neck, David groans.
“God, you’re fucking gagging for this,” Neal says, and so David pushes him away hard. Neal’s still got a tight grip one of David’s wrists, though, and they both lose their balance and tumble to the floor.
“Fuck,” David says.
Neal’s on the bottom and he tugs hard on David’s hair, says, “Fuck you,” and flips them over. And then suddenly, now that Neal’s straddling David’s waist, the tension in the air changes and Neal is trying to undo the buttons on David’s shirt as fast as he can, finally just settling for ripping them open, and David’s doing the same to him.
Neal doesn’t even wait to undo the button on David’s jeans, just shoves his hand down the front of David’s pants even though the angle is awkward.
“Careful,” David says, because Neal’s hand has been hurting him recently, and the fight could have only made it worse. “Your-your-”
“I know,” Neal tells him, and when his fingers curl around David’s cock, they’re still cold from the ice and David gasps loudly, his hips stuttering from the contact.
“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, wait,” and he reaches around Neal’s forearm to undo his belt and his jeans, and then Neal’s really jacking him off, moving his hand faster and squeezing David tighter than he would have normally.
David’s fingers are grabbing onto Neal’s hips when he leans forward, kisses Neal hard and dirty, and then bites down on Neal’s lower lip. He can taste blood-just barely-and he doesn’t know if it’s from the bar fight or from just now.
“Fuck,” Neal hisses, pulling back. He takes his hands out of David’s pants and David almost cries out from the lack of contact. Neal pins him down again, roughly, and says, “Stop it. Fucking stop it and play nice.”
The back of David’s head hits the floor pretty hard as Neal pins him, and for a second he’s seeing stars. But then they clear away and Neal’s face is inches from David’s, real close, and David just looks into Neal’s eyes, sees where one of them is bruising from earlier, and spits in his face.
David can tell how mad Neal is just by looking at him, and then Neal grinds down, the front of his jeans grating hard against David’s bare, sensitive skin, and David can’t hold back the groan. Only then Neal does it again, and it’s just too-too much, and David’s whimpering now, saying, “Neal, fuck, Neal,” and making all these incoherent noises and breathy gasps.
Neal’s hard. David can see that-can feel it-but he can’t do anything, can’t reach out to touch, so he says, “Neal. Neal-please,” but Neal doesn’t listen.
“Shut the fuck up,” Neal says, and then he leans down and starts sucking hickeys along David’s chest, big and red even as he lifts his mouth from David’s skin.
By the time Neal finally lets go of David’s hands, David’s too far gone to even think of anything to do with them and so he just lays there, his shirt open and his pants around his thighs, as Neal makes him squirm. Neal’s fingers are wrapped around David again; his grip is still tight, but it’s not as rough this time, and David’s hips are stuttering and he’s coming before he even realizes it.
Neal watches him, and David can see that he’s breathing pretty heavily, too. David moves his hands lazily towards the front of Neal’s jeans, but Neal just knocks his hand away and undoes the buckle himself. When his jeans are open, he fists his cock and David can feel Neal’s hips jerk above him as Neal fucks his own hand.
It’s not long before Neal’s groaning, “Shit,” and coming all over David’s chest. Neal slumps forward a little, holding himself up by bracing a hand on the floor, and David can feel Neal’s breath hot on his cheek.
For a second, David thinks that maybe they’re not mad at each other anymore, that maybe Neal will laugh and rest his forehead against David’s, and neither of them will apologize because they’re not like that, but it won’t matter because all the ugly tension in the air will be gone.
Instead, Neal gets up. He rests one hand palm-down against David’s chest to help steady himself, and when he realizes that he just put his hand in his own come, he pulls a face and wipes it against David’s open shirt.
David watches as Neal tugs his jeans up to keep them from falling down his hips as he stands, and then David watches as Neal walks away.
He hears the shower run and he just lays there, doesn’t move and doesn’t zip his jeans back up. David just stares at the stucco ceiling, feeling boneless against the carpet.
Less than a minute later, Neal walks back in, stark naked.
“Come on, move it, asshole,” Neal says, but then he smiles and David lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. “You at least owe me a shower.”