Characters: Joe Thornton, Glen Murray
Summary: Challenge #2 - Loss. I heard a rumor that Joe drinks booze.
It's difficult to move and his breathing is labored, like he's underwater--no, no, jello. The air is thick and humid, and he's choking down jello. Not really, and not even earlier. He's not a fucking girl. He doesn't do jello shots. But he's moving through jello. Really. His limbs cutting through the cherry-flavored shit, slashing here and there, and when he breathes in he can't quite get enough air. Fucking jello trying to drown him and shit.
A hand fisted in his shirt and, okay, so maybe it's not jello-y goodness that's supporting him, but. He takes a moment, squinting his eyes to see better. That doesn't quite work, though, because his eyes are already shut. He keeps thinking that it would probably be a good idea for him to open them, but then he gets distracted and Jesus, he's tired.
"Wake up." And his entire body shakes. "Christ, open your goddamn eyes."
Fuck that shit. He was gonna do it before, but not anymore. Before was on his own accord.
Face squashed, lint or fibers up his nose and when he's pulled upright, face no longer on the carseat, he swings wildly and hits the car roof.
He hears the seatbelt click, and then his head falls forward, bobbing as the car moves. He thought his car had better shocks. This is fucking ridiculous and he better not throw up because some fucktard didn't know how to make shocks.
He hadn't realized he'd been talking, asshole, thank you very much.
He snorts, but then he's on the ground, crawling around on concrete until suddenly he isn't. Stucco against his back, leg pressed between his own, a hand pushed up, warm, against his shoulder, the other fumbling in his pockets. He grins, cracking open one eye as seductively he can and slumping down until he's resting a little more weight on Glen's thigh.
Glen exhales, rips the keychain from his pocket and promptly removes his leg.
He puts his hands up to break his fall, only after the fall and he thinks he can feel his brain rolling around. Maybe his jaw is broken, his head in two. His chin at the very least is scratched. Fucker.
"Yeah," Glen says, but he leaves the door open and through one partially opened eye, Joe watches him walk into the apartment. He misses Glen's hand in his pocket.
Hand snaking around his ankle, bending his knee, and he's lost time again. "Just put your fucking foot on the ground and the room'll stop spinning." Right, right. Glen's patented anti-room-spinning body spawl. One leg on the couch, the other touching base. Water from the sky and he gulps, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. He hears Glen laugh and his shirt is soaked. Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
"Poetry, eh," Glen's voice vibrating against his neck, his breath hot against him, and Joe is delighted when he feels the line of heat Glen traces with his tongue along his jaw. He hasn't become entirely repugnant yet.
He sighs, struggles with his wet shirt. Cool air only for a second and he bites back a moan when Glen rests against him, warmth enveloping him, and Christ, it's just a chest against his back. He's fifteen years old again, coming at the first touch of another hand on his cock. Absolutely ridiculous and he steels the muscles in his back, going rigid and straining not to feel. His brain won't work, refuses to conjure up images of baseball, grandparents, girls. Glen sometimes gets pissed at him when he's too drunk to fuck, and sometimes that annoys Joe too, but now he's especially angry at that last drink because there was probably ecstasy or GHB or some kind of freaky drug that's affecting his senses. Joe's used to slow motion blur and this is agonizingly elaborate, his synapses being slammed, overloaded with sensory detail, Glen's hand on his stomach and it's pretty much all his mind can handle, breaking it down into little tiny pieces CSI style until he gasps. He hasn't even gone south of the belt yet, and Joe's in pieces. Jerk, he manages. He bets Glen is doing this on purpose. He bites his tongue when Glen shifts his body.
Breath on his neck, metal in his mouth and when a hand is shoved unceremoniously down his pants he should be embarassed at how quickly he starts pumping his hips, grinding back into the body behind him.
Furious, furiously now, because he hates losing control but now his dick is slick and slips even faster through Glen's grip. Bedroom, in the bedroom, he clarifies, after pressing his face into the couch, trying to gain some semblance of control, not act like a total idiot and come in his pants. Textured fabric grinding into his face, and it should hurt but his mind wanders to that one time they fucked in Glen's backseat, Glen pushing his head and shoulders down for the right angle, driving Joe's face into the seat, but Joe pushed back with his hips until Glen screamed and he couldn't help but smirk, say, "who's the bitch now?" because he owned Glen. He knew exactly what buttons to push, what places to touch and--
God dammit, he eventually thinks, when he can think. Retarded fucking mind. Good one, he berates, way to think about the hottest car sex ever when you're trying not to blow your wad.
"Don't you dare fall asleep." And he realizes he just yawned, as Glen wipes his hand on Joe's stomach and pants.
In the back of his head, he thinks that's probably mildly disgusting.
More sober--less drunk, he corrects, he can open both of his eyes--for a moment--and then they fall, heavy lidded. He can still see if just looks down. "Nah," he tests with his tongue. "Course not."
"Schmuck," and he's lost time again, in bed now, pantsless.
Glen slides between the sheets and he rolls his head towards him. "I'll fuck you now. Was jus' restin' my eyes."
Glen laughs--laughs at him. "Fine. Get to it."
Shit. His legs are like lead, and the bed feels so fucking good. Sleep feels so fucking good. "Think I'm paralyzed. Fuck you tomorrow."
His body sinks even further into the mattress, eyes close and then his heavy head goes black.
Wishing for fuzzy, for heavy the next morning, the makings of a perfect hangover, bright piercing light, high pitched noise inches beyond his face. He must've gotten into a fight the night before because his face is pulsating, humming as if it's been smashed in by a two by four. Christ, he hopes not.
He nearly retches when he moves his tongue, his nose sensitive to the gross emanating off of him.
Moves his head to the right and that was a mistake. Takes in the naked body and he cringes, winces. It hurts. He closes his eyes.
He wants to crawl into his head, through his eye sockets, open it up and turn it inside out, scraping everything out, just get it all out: the hurt, the disgust, the gross. A thrumming between his eyes, a tightness behind them, and he wants to be rid of it all. But puking even as an idea hurts his head.
In his head last night, seeing demons, drunkenly watching, enjoying the play and that was always a problem: an extra beer meant he'd be too inside his mind, hating himself later for the hurt to come.
Rustling, movement next to him and he opens his eyes wide and FUCK
Idiot. White walls, no curtains on the windows yet. Tears welling up, room too bright, retarded house built the wrong way. Master bedroom should face sunset, look out onto the ocean. None of this bullshit sunrise, birds singing in the backyard bullshit. Sun rising over the hills and it's the most retarded bullshit he's ever seen, repeating this litany in his head, hoping it'll quell the quesy, keep it at bay.
Most retarded bullshit he's ever seen unless you count last night, but he didn't see that. Hardly the perfect witness, audience to his life. It's not exactly a movie. He only gets bits and pieces, has to watch from his own eyes, which is... lame. Could never solve mysteries, guess who'll live in the horror movies, always falling for the red herrings, gasping at the obvious twists which meant his own life is just as stunning. Every hangover a fucking surprise.
He needs a drink.
"Hey" she says and he wishes she didn't.