Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Whiplash (2014)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Terence Fletcher/Andrew Neiman
Characters: Terence Fletcher, Andrew Neiman, Carl Tanner (Whiplash)
Additional Tags: Teacher-Student Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, Trans Male Character, Face Slapping, Dirty Talk, Jazz - Freeform, Castration, In a funny way, Canon Typical Terence Fletcher, Virginity
Summary:
Andrew is caught doing his shot in the practice room and is pressured into coming out. Fletcher handles this about as well as he handles anything else.
writing my first byler fic and it is literally epilogue where will transitions and tells everyone except mike because it never came up so when she's back in hawkins for the holidays he comes up to her with this energy
Tags: Pre-Canon, Post-Canon, Wingfic, Trans Character, Sdom va'Amora | Sodom and Gomorrah (Abrahamic Religions), Reincarnation, Knives
Bartleby stood before Loki, brandishing the knife. It was the last material purchase they’d made before reaching the church, and they knew exactly what it would be used for.
The first part of their sanctification.
Bartleby tried to think back, through all the things he’d seen, to the butchering of a chicken. He’d never seen the butchering of an angel before, but as he gripped tight onto Loki’s wing, bending the joint in on itself, unnaturally close. It was much easier to imagine his pained sobs as the squawking of livestock.
He sees in his mind the strong, sunkissed hands of a butcher. Probably from the 17th century. Gripping the bird’s corpse the way Bartleby grips Loki now. Ever tightening his fist until the joint pops. He hears the perverse noise in his old partner. Loki has stopped screaming, but he’s still crying. He can’t tell if it’s the sound of mortality entering him or his divinity leaving him.
The pop means the bones are detached, finally, but if he leaves him like this, he’ll either heal or his wing will turn gangrenous and fall off. This is where the knife is most necessary. He lets go of Loki for a moment to deploy the serrated blade. That was Loki’s idea, to buy a Swiss Army Knife. For the options.
He slipped it into the natural fold of the joint and started to saw up, towards heaven. And just like the fowl, his skin and tendons yielded to the blade like butter. Nothing on earth was easier than this.
“B… Bartleby, please, I don’t think this is such a good idea anymore. Just… stop.”
Too late. He thought as he picked up Loki’s wing, divine nerves seeking connection made it twitch and contract. He stood before Loki and dropped it at his feet.
“That’s just the pain talking, Loki. Humans don’t regret.”
-
God works in mysterious ways. That’s what they always said.
When his mortal form was disincorporated by the voice of God, Her true, impossible, loving, eternal voice, he thought that would be the end of things. Condemned to hell on the spot. He didn’t expect to wake up. Least of all in a bed, next to Loki.
The man he had stricken dead on the sidewalk in his divine fury. He only knew what it was like to have a conscience for all of 20 minutes, but that was the thing he’d regretted the most. Bartleby shoves him in his shoulder a few times, trying to wake Loki up. He barely moves. For a moment, Bartleby wonders if this is hell and he has to live with a limp, rotting corpse for eternity, then he starts to groan.
“Stop hitting me… There’s no cartoons on Friday, I wanna sleep.”
“Loki, wake the fuck up.” He smacks him in the back of the head.
Loki turns onto his back, which doesn’t seem to be bleeding from two little stumps anymore. He smiles up at Bartleby.
“I thought we died.”
“As did I, idiot.”
Bartleby climbs out of the bed, over Loki, and begins to walk around. They seem to be inhabiting a bedroom together. A real bedroom. There are posters he didn’t put up, photos he has no memory of taking. On top of the dresser, there are two wallets. He grabs the one he presumes to be his and looks inside.
Bernard Grigori . August 7 th 1972. M. Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
He turns his head when he hears Loki sit up. He throws the other wallet to him and comes to sit on the bed.
“Look at this,” He brandishes the plastic card in Loki’s face. “We’re more than mortal, we’re… Milwaukeeans.”
“Fuck. Do we have to actually get jobs now?”
-
Bartleby held the knife in his teeth as he tried to stop Loki’s panicked flapping of his one remaining wing.
“Stop being so fucking dramatic!” He dug into the shorter angel’s back with his knee. “I am not going back alone, Loki! You’re falling with me if you like it or not.”
“Okay! Fine, fine…” He he stopped flapping and accepted his fate. “Can you at least to it fast this time, like… just pop it then slice it and… over? Please?”
Bartleby smoothed his hand over Loki’s feathers. It’s the closest thing to an erogenous zone that can exist on a body as divinely desexed as theirs. That does some good at calming Loki down before he does that he asked. Snap. Saw. And finally off. His second wing fallen to the pavement his right side.
The scent of his blood turns from sweet to tinny, earthy. Made of soil. Bartleby brings the knife to his lips and tastes, finding Loki’s humanity with his tongue. He looks down at Loki’s body, shuddering, in shock, hugging his wing to his chest like a child and hiding his face in it.
“Did it work?” His voice is muffled by the feathery object.
-
Loki looked out over creation. It was lush and beautiful. He loved heaven, it was paradise after all. But it was bland. By it’s very nature, nothing there was alive. Nothing there ever changed.
“Are you jealous?” The familiar voice of a grigori spoke to him. He wasn’t that close to any grigoris. They were such know it alls.
“No.” He spoke curtly. He didn’t feel envious of humans. He knows he doesn’t. Angels aren’t supposed to feel that way.
“Alright, then… Why are you watching them?”
“God hasn’t been satisfied with their offerings so… One of their offspring is going to be killed.” He pointed across the field to the two boys playing next to a herd of sheep.
“Cain or Abel?”
Loki looked closely between the two boys. “...I can’t tell the difference.”
“The sheep-keeper has been very pious… sacrificial… he’s a pure soul.” The grigori pointed to the other boy. “This one hasn’t. He has a tendency to be a little covetous as well. Do you think God wants him for heaven?”
“He might.”
“Are you supposed to… you know.” He mimes smiting someone with the flaming sword, all stage screams and severed limbs.
“No, not at all.” He smiles and looks at the other angel from the corner of his eye. “That’s for special occasions."
“Like what?"
“Like… if we razed all of creation.”
“Why would we do that?”
“To start over.”
The grigori nodded. They looked out over creation together. It would definitely be a lot to raze.
-
Bartleby continued looking around the apartment. They were still in Wisconsin, of course, but the view suggested they were a few hundred miles from the airport. Among the posters and photos, there was also a framed Bachelors degree on the wall with his fake (read: human) name on it. In Film Criticism of all things, what a useless discipline.
He heard the water turn on in the bathroom. Who but Loki would take a shower at a time like this?
“How come I went to college and you didn’t?” He calls to the bathroom.
“Maybe I joined the army? I convinced a lot of people to do that instead of going to college.”
Bartleby opened the door and looked around their bathroom. It was bigger than the one in the airport hotel, but that was mostly because it had a bathtub/shower and a larger vanity. He looked at the products strewn about the room. Hair gel. Shaving cream. All the things he passed over in the duty free store like they were nothing. Because they were nothing.
“I remember.” He opened the medicine cabinet and was unsurprised to see it full. Humans love medication.
Grigori, Bernard. Controlled release lithium carbonate, 450mg. Grigori, Bernard. Zoloft. 300mg. Keruv, Lawrence. Testosterone. 50mg. And with it were syringes.
Bartleby picked one up and examined it. He turned to Loki, who was toweling himself off before exiting the shower.
“Hey, check this out.” He brandished the packaged needle to his roommate apparently. “You’re a druggie.”
Loki’s jaw dropped, his towel on the floor with it.
“No way. I am?”
Bartleby cocked his head looking at Loki’s human body.
“Where’s your dick?”
-
“Y’know… God said you have to sacrifice that which you love most dearly.” Loki walked through the woods between Eden and Nod with one of the boys from the field. “He’s going to know if you lied.”
“I don’t love anything.” The boy kicked a small rock with the sole of his sandal. “Not the plants. Not the animals.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is.”
Loki grew stern with him. “Lying is a sin, Cain.”
“I’m not lying! How can you love a thing? I don’t. I love my family, that’s it.”
“Well, you have to sacrifice something. Who in your family are you going to give to your God?”
That made Cain stop in his tracks. Loki knew he didn’t need to say anything else. He deployed his wings and flew away. He couldn’t wait to see what would happen that evening. What God asked him to make happen. The first human death in all of creation. Nothing could spoil that for him. Not even his grigori.
“What did you do?”A now even more familiar voice said.
Loki turned to the grigori. Since the last time they spoke, he’s forgotten his name. He thinks it might be Bastard.
“What did I do? I did what God asked of me, same as you do.”
“God asked you to get Cain to slay Abel?”
“I mean… The Metatron said Abel was to die. I just had to make sure it happened.”
They watched together as Abel slayed a lamb and offered it up to God.
“Their bond was so innocent.” The grigori shook his head. “How could you corrupt it like that?”
“He’s the one with free will.”
Cain picked up a stone as his family bowed in prayer.
“He loves him. Even now, I don’t think he even knows it’s a sin.”
Cain sobbed as he hauled the stone over his head and brought it down on Abel’s. He fell limp. His blood mingled with that of the lamb.
“How could he? No one’s loved someone enough to do this before.”
The clouds turned dark as the Metatron descended to deliver God’s judgment. Loki and… Bartleby, he finally remembers it, fly back into the heavens together. They’ll know Cain’s fate soon enough.
-
Loki tossed back a shot of mead or whatever new alcohol the humans were into this century. Bartleby continued to talk at him about something the other angel didn’t quite follow. The charging of indulgences, probably.
“And they do it blatantly, in what their pastors say is the house of God. It’s disgusting.”
Loki grabbed the calfskin decanter that housed the drink and refilled his cup, carefully. He smiled and looked at Bartleby when he was done. “I can smite them for you, you know. They’re sinners.”
“I guess.” He sucked his teeth at the thought. “Every sinner was once an innocent.”
“Yeah, until they sinned, Bartleby.” The smile on his face dropped as he watched a man solicit a prostitute in the corner of the bar. “Look at that. What do you think they’re going to do together?”
“Fornication… he’s also an adulterer… and… there’s not a name for the third thing.”
“There’s not even a name. That’s crazy. That’s a new level of depravity from their kind.”
The barkeep rang the bell for last call. Bartleby picked up the calfskin and tipped it into his mouth, there was barely anything left. He dropped some silver pieces onto the table.
“Get us another bottle, we have somewhere to be.”
Loki listened, taking the money and procuring another bottle. Bartleby guided his drunk, ambling companion out the door and before long they were arm and arm, going down the street of Sodom. They passed a married couple embracing. Loki squinted at them, regarding them with some suspicion and curiosity.
“It’s weird that the woman came from Adam’s side, isn’t it? They’re made of the same thing, but… He existed first, technically.”
“Technically, yeah.”
Loki giggled. He had always been a happy, suggestible kind of drunk. The kind you shouldn’t leave in the company of strangers. “Do you know how God made us?”
“Not us specifically.”
“Who’s older, do you think?”
Bartleby thought for a moment. “Me. Definitely.”
“Definitely?”
“Yeah.” Bartleby grinned. “If anything, I bet he made you from my side”
“Don’t be a jerk.” They came upon a large, ornate home in the town square. Loki looked up at it, turning his head to examine it. “Is this the place?”
Bartleby looked around, he saw two young girls gawking at them from a window. Loki stuck his tongue out at them, and crossed his eyes. The girls laughed, loud and were called away by their mother.
“Yeah, this is it. Those are Lot’s daughters.”
“Are they innocent?”
-
“I just don’t understand why we wouldn’t… Look the same.”
Bartleby sat on the edge of the couch. Loki was calm, already seated and drying his hair with one towel, another strung across his lap. He looked at the naked angel closely. He had a scar between his ribs where Bartleby stabbed him.
“You didn’t seem to care about that very much when I looked dead and you looked alive.”
“Loki…” He leaned closer to him across the cushions. “You have really got to get over that.”
“It happened yesterday!”
Bartleby pouted. He reached his hand out to pull at Loki’s towel.
He scooted away from him. “You’re not looking at it again!”
“I would let you look if it was mine!”
“No, you would not! You would kill me about it!”
“What do you want me to do? Unkill you? It’s a little late for that.”
Loki sighed and scrubbed his face in his hands. Part of him was happy to be with his grigori again. Ecstatic, even. It was it’s own kind of damnation to know that was how he wanted their last millennium together to end. And now, it didn’t have to be over.
“She gave us a gift, Bartleby. A wonderful gift, we get, like… Fifty more years together. And who knows, maybe we’re meant to learn a lesson by being mortal and in the end we can… we can go back.”
“I thought I killed your faith.” He was smug as he said it, almost mocking the other angel.
“Not my faith in Her.”
“Shocked not having a dick hasn't gotten rid of that.”
Loki cocked his head at that. “I didn't have one before.”
“That's different. Now it means something that you don't.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means… You have all of Eve’s burdens. Kind of ironic to make the angel of death a bringer of life, don’t you think?”
“That would be strange but… I don't know that it's a burden. I’m sure Bethany could do something about it.”
Bartleby sucked his teeth. “How are we going to get to heaven together if you go around getting abortions?”
“So you do believe we could get back?”
“I…” He fell back onto the cushions and grabbed his head. “I don't know, okay! I don't know.”
Loki knelt on the couch and moved closer, looking down at Bartleby. “Did you get what you were looking for?"
He looked up at Loki. The light in the ceiling turned the former angel’s dirty blonde hair golden.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You said you missed it. Did you feel Her divinity?”
Bartleby thought back for a moment. How it felt to hear Her voice, strange to his ears, to his body that couldn't stand it, but just the same to his spirit, or whatever ineffable aspect of his existence had granted him a self. An angel is never taken apart and put back together by the Almighty. Mortals experience it all the time. If he's still, he can feel it. Cells. Protons. Dying and moving and changing inside him. It's what he’d been missing. Divine Presence.
“That's not…”
“Be honest with me, okay?” Loki took his face in his hands. “Did you feel it?”
Bartleby looked deep into his eyes. He could feel the warmth from Loki’s palms sink into his cheeks. A warmth from his blood, from his heart, that ran through his whole body.
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
A tear rolled down his face and into Loki’s hand. He wiped them with his thumbs, then let his right hand trailed down Bartleby’s face to his neck. Loki felt his pulse thrum under his fingers. It was exciting to know they were both alive in the same way. His hand trailed further down to feel his heart.
“Can you still feel it?”
Bartleby tried to speak, but the words were stuck in his throat. He closed his eyes and started to focus on breathing. Loki brought his forehead to his. Their breath mingled, Bartleby felt the warm jet of carbon dioxide fall on his lips.
-
The two angels are standing in a market while Bartleby picks the vendor of books and scrolls clean one last time. Loki is bored out of his mind. He’s clever, he has infinite wisdom from his Creator. But he’s not a big reader. At least not compared to Bartleby, who has been a nerd since they came out with cuneiform.
“Can you fucking believe yesterday?”
Bartleby rolls his eyes. “No, Loki, no I can’t.”
“All of those people came to that one house just because we were in there. And fucking Lot. He was going to hand over his daughters! His sweet, innocent-”
Bartleby lets his sack of scrolls fall with a thud. “And nothing happened to them because it wasn’t part of God’s plan. I’m not happy about Lot’s behavior either but… This was a test for Abraham, he failed, and now we can give this family the chance to save themselves before we-”
“Before we raze this whole fucking place.”
“I know you’re excited to wield the sword again, but… Let’s be real. There are other innocent virgins that live here.” He picks out two more scrolls and pays the vendor before hauling his sack over his shoulder again.
Loki starts to walk with him, back towards the village square. “So we should let that mob of perverts, that wanted to tear us limb from limb. That wanted to make us as low as they were, to… to Sodomize us. Do you really think we should let them go free just for a few innocents? Innocents that could go on to do the same thing?”
“No, I’m just saying you could take your work a little bit more seriously. You’re ending lives. Human lives. Those who He made in His image.”
“Those He asked me to dispose of for doubting His infinite fury. You’re only here because…”
“Because why?”
Because I like to work with you. It’s not a very angelic response.
“You’re a better public speaker. Now let’s go.” He jerked his head in the direction of Lot’s house. Bartleby follows.
They do it all. The blinding of the Sodomites, the pillar of salt, and for his grand finale, Loki makes it rain sulfur and flames. From where Bartleby sits, with the calfskin decanter and his scrolls, it’s almost beautiful. He’d compare it to a fireworks show if that had been invented yet.
And at the end of it, Loki comes back to him. Exhausted, his physical form caked with blood and ash and dirt. His wings almost as black as the Morningstar’s. There are no more cities of Plain. Loki made sure of that. He lets himself be pulled in by the armored breast plate for a hug. Sulfur clings to his hair. Bartleby presses his forehead to Loki’s. Thoughts flow through him and into the other angel. Or maybe the other way around.
I’m happy to see you again.
-
The sun sets outside the apartment window. The view is amazing. Brilliant red and orange. A painted sky, the golden light it casts turning their millennial gray apartment into something beautiful.
Bartleby traces his finger along his partner’s back. Where his wings used to be. Loki stares ahead with a blank look on his face. He feels it. The very human need to doubt.
“You look weird. What are you thinking about?”
“I’m wondering if you’re still the same.” He chews his bottom lip a bit. Bartleby can see the rim inside his mouth turning crimson. “And if you are the same, are you going to hurt me again.”
Bartleby sits with that for a moment. He wants to excuse it all as side effects of being an angel, but it dawns on him that nothing he did to Loki was that extraordinary. The lying, fighting, and stabbing. It’s nothing he couldn’t do in this life.
“I might.” He cards his hands through Loki’s hair. “Does that mean I don’t deserve Your forgiveness?”
Loki’s hands wrap around his body tighter. It’s like feeling the warmth of his hands on steroids. Bartleby wished they were angels again, just to singe the clothes off of his body and really feel Loki’s skin against his.
“You don’t.” Loki pulls himself up Bartleby’s body to look him in the face again. They’re breathing together. That’s something he never thought they’d experience. He leans ever closer to his companion, his grigori, his coworker, his roommate, his best friend, his… He mumbles against the angel’s lips. “But I’ll give it to you anyway.”
it's got mature themes but i think overall it's pretty tame and yearning
---
Chuckie followed Will upstairs. Not on purpose, just because that’s where the shower was. He had the good sense to take Will’s bag up with him and leave it outside the door to the bedroom. It was cracked open and part of him thought he had to do something right then or he’d send Will running. But the part of him that still made sense, that still knew everything about his friend, knew Will would never run anywhere but here.
Chuckie walked down the hall into the bathroom and realized he left his shirt downstairs, which his mother was going to kill him for when she came home, but he’ll deal with that when he makes up the couch to sleep. For now, he stripped down, dumped his clothes in the hamper and almost couldn’t believe what he looked like when he turned around. His face was dirty, so were his arms and hands. He had t-shirt shaped tan lines from sorting bricks off the selvege trucks and there were a line of bruises the shape of Will Hunting’s mouth going down his clean, palid abs.
He examined himself. He doesn’t believe any of this is real. His face looked older than it did three months ago, and if you asked him three months ago if he’d let any of this happen, a proud young man would have scoffed and said not a fucking chance. He knew it was impossible for him to actually age that much after turning 18, but the way the grime stuck to his face made him look like every other man he worked with. He wondered if the person he used to be, the one who knew where to draw the line, who his friends were and who he was to them, was somewhere underneath. He grabbed his mother’s Dove bar and scoured it in his hands until it foamed. He stooped his head to the sink and scrubbed, washing away the grease and soot until he looks as fresh faced as his senior photo hanging in the hall.
He had Morgan’s voice in his head, of all things. Say goodbye, guys. Chuckie’s finally adandoning us. It was on his birthday, the last time they’d all gotten together for more than a case of beer, that he’d heard that. Chuckie tried not to feel guilty about it. They all understood, there was really no such thing as a work-life balance in Southie, but he can’t help but wonder if this all would have been different if he didn’t feel so alone. If he actually had time for his friends and trolling the bar the way he used to. Would he really need to use Will like that ever again?
When he caught his reflection again, he noticed one mark low on his hip, where his belt hit. Christ, he didn’t even realize Will made one there. He didn’t want to admit how much he liked it. He wonders how many beers they’ll have to split before he can convince Will to do a second pass over that one.
Chuckie has to hit himself, square in the temple with the heel of his hand to stop thinking about it. He walks into the small cubicle shower that he hasn’t really fit inside since his last growth spurt. He turns on the hot water and lets it steam up the glass around him. He grabs the bar soap and starts to scrub his body, ignoring the hickey on his hip that’s a little tender, and the mess he rinses off of thighs, and the thrum of need in his veins that he’s had since hearing Will Hunting cum on his lap with his name dripping from his mouth.
Yeah, the world’s coldest shower and saying 1000 catechisms couldn’t keep him from jerking off to that.
-
Will avoids the mirror in Chuckie’s closet as he rummages around for clean sleep clothes. He doesn’t want to face himself after today. He feels the urge to vomit, but he knows he won’t. It’s just a gross feeling that will pass, it always does. He shouldn’t have anything to feel ashamed of. They’re not in love or anything, they just helped each other out. There’s nothing complicated about it. Chuckie even wanted to return the favor. He should feel better. He should feel good.
That’s what he keeps telling himself as he slides on a pair of Chuckie’s boxers because his own need a wash. And when he picks out a Red Sox t-shirt from the drawer that he knows was brand new about 9 years ago. Because Will won it in a radio contest and decided to give it to Chuckie for his birthday, fresh inside the package. He still remembers the question he answered to get it, the average rainfall of the Boston metro area within 2 inches. Will got it in .5.
He lifts his arms to put it on and cringes at the way his wound pulls. They told him that the knife was just short enough that it didn’t completely spear his intestine, but they still had to go in to do damage control to prevent a hernia. He’s 18 years old and worrying about hernias. He puts his head through the hole, then gently sends his arms through. He doesn’t care enough to notice he put it on inside out.
He picks up his laundry and steps out to put it in his bag when he sees Chuckie in a towel at the other end of the hall. He wordlessly walks over, holding one hand behind him to secure the towel and takes Will’s clothes tossing them in the general direction of the bathroom hamper to be placed there later.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Their words run into each other in a way that would make them grin under slightly lighter circumstances. Chuckie trails Will into his bedroom so he can grab his own pajamas for the night.
Will crawls into the bed, trying not to track Chuckie around the room, but he does anyway. Because that's what he's used to. He watches as he bounces between his dresser and his closet. How he pulls on his boxers, then uses his modesty towel to dry off his hair before dumping it on the floor. Eventually, Chuckie gives up on a proper sleep shirt and picks up the robe that should have been in his bathroom from a different corner of the floor.
“You’re all set here? Do you want something to eat before you go to bed? More blankets? I know we gotta do the pharmacy tomorrow but I think we have normal painkillers if you want those—”
“I’m okay, Chuckie.”
“Right… Cool… G’night, then,”
“Night.”
He’s thankful for the funny way Chuckie takes forever to walk out, pretending he cares about clearing a path through his Playboys and dirty laundry on the floor for Will. It gives the injured blond time to change his mind.
“Wanna stay until I fall asleep?”
“Like where?”
“In the bed.”
“Oh…” Chuckie smiles and sits next to Will, who reaches over to turn the lamp off. The window in Chuckie’s room is closer to the street lamp on the block, so a little light streams in through his curtains.
Will kind of likes being in Chuckie’s room because it looks like he’s lived there forever. As long as he’s known him, it hasn’t changed that significantly. He’s got a blue sky mural on his ceiling that’s apparently been there since the room was his nursery. His curtains are sky blue with little printed airplanes going across them, even when they’re closed they just make the light outside softer on the eyes. And no, none of those things are ever going to match his Maxxxim Hotties posters or the cut out Marlboro ads pasted to his headboard, but it’s a little bit fruitier to actually think about the kind of curtains in your room than it is to just ignore them.
“Love what you’ve done with the place by the way.” Will said, noticing how silent the room had gotten.
Chuckie smirked. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, it was really nice to be greeted by Miss March on my way in.”
“I try to keep it neat. Keep it homey. I consider my shrine to Miss March my vision board, in a sense.”
“What do you envision yourself doing with her?”
“What don’t I is a better question.”
Will laughed, then hissed at the soreness in his stomach. The pills they’d given him that morning were starting to wear off. Chuckie put his hand over Will’s stomach. He didn’t put any harsh weight on Will’s body, the shirt and the blanket softened the gentle pressure of his hand as he left it there. He felt Will tense underneath him.
Will exhaled, the tension slowly leaving his body.
“Is that good?”
Will nodded. They sat silently like that for a moment, the weight of Chuckie’s hand brought him some comfort. A soft, well intentioned touch. Will laughed again, a chuckle high in his chest that didn’t hurt.
“Your house is too quiet. I’m never gonna fall asleep like this.”
“Want me to start banging pots and pans?”
Will turns his body, slowly, trying not to disturb his injuries when he silently invites Chuckie to lie down with him.
“Just keep talking, you know how to do that, don’t you?”
Chuckie sinks down, but doesn’t get under the blanket with Will. He tells himself the distance wouldn’t hurt them, but it feels like it is. Even with his hand right on Will, a couple inches of cotton fleece is breaking him inside.
“What am I supposed to talk about that puts you to sleep?”
Will shuts his eyes and cuddles into the pillow.
“Quantum mechanics.” He mumbles, already slipping into a peaceful daze.
“Don’t be an asshole.”
Will moans into the pillow. Chuckie tries his luck and moves a little closer.
“Do you remember when we met?”
“Mhm.” Will mumbles into the pillow again.
“Everybody thought you were kinda weird. ‘Cause you were from the halfway home and everything. Always had your nose in a fuckin’ book and wore dungarees in the middle of June.”
Will’s arm came up, his hand hooked onto Chuckie’s elbow, weakly pulling him closer. Chuckie was happy to oblige.
“But I knew you were cool. You were no Charles Bronson or anything...”
Will snores. It’s scratchy and loud and a little violent when it’s that close to Chuckie’s ear, but it’s the sign he needs to stop holding his breath.
Crazy how many people want characters in fiction to speak and act like they’ve had 20 hours of intensive therapy. Could NOT be me I want these bitches fucked up insane
some of it is transcendental (some of it is just really dumb)
rating: E
themes: trauma, implied/referenced past child abuse, pre-canon, internalized homophobia, p--n with feelings/plot
incomplete work crossposting from a03. basically will and chuckie reuniting when will is out of the hospital/out of the foster care system and is about to start living with him. lots of trauma related shame and internalized homophobia. boston yaoi amirite?
—
One hour.
The cops said they would stay on the premises for one hour while he took his things out of the house. That’s what they told him the day he was discharged. He didn’t have any time to call Billy, or Morgan, or Chuckie. His real family. Because they’d waited long enough after his surgery that he could leave on his own, then picked him up in the cruiser to take him to dear ol’ dad’s place. It was kind of nice to take the ride in the front seat for once.
There wasn’t much he respected about the head of his foster family, but he knew how to put on a show. He wasn’t belligerent in public, when the cops marched Will to the door, he greeted them warmly and encouraged them to sit. The social worker had talked to him on the phone about this (it was too short notice for them to come down to some Catholic hospital full of addicts in Southie) because he would be 18 in a few weeks, he could skip the relocation hearing. But if he did, that means they can’t keep his fosters off of the property while he’s getting his things.
So Will stood on the stairs for a few moments and he could tell that even though they’d seen the ripped, bloody clothes in evidence, and the DNA swabs, and the horrible fucking photos they took of Will in his boxers to show his injuries for their “files,” they didn’t believe him. Not without due process, not while they stood in the living room with the man who dislocated his shoulder and talked shop about the Sox.
Everything he really needed to take fit into his gym bag. He left behind the shiny, pressed, church clothes they’d gotten him when he was fourteen. He grabs a pack of baseball cards, some money he skimmed from the swear jar, and his last check out from the library. In under half an hour, he’s ready to be an orphan again. He stands in his room for the last time. Over the last three years, he might not have felt perfectly safe there, but it was better than any other part of the house.
Will put his duffle over his shoulder and got ready to head downstairs, but stopped in his tracks as he heard the stairs creak. Heavy steps. It wasn’t his foster mother. As useless as she was, she’d never been as bad as her husband. He might have liked to say goodbye to her. His hands started to shake, so he gripped his bag tighter and turned towards the door. Someone knocked, which was useless because they didn’t wait for him before they opened it.
Will let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was maybe the first time he felt happy to see a cop.
“Hey, uh… Just makin’ sure everythin’s copasetic here.”
“I’m fine.” Will gave him a thumbs up. “Ready to go.”
The cop nodded and walked out. Will followed a few steps behind down the stairs. When he was back in the living room, he glanced at the table next to the couch. They’d been having coffee.
When he looked back up, his foster father was only a few feet away from him. Will didn’t process anything anyone was saying, but before he knew it he was enveloped in a hug. Short, with a clap on the shoulder. His body locked up as he heard his foster father say something into his ear.
“You’ll always be my favorite boy.”
Will blinked twice and when he opened his eyes he was on the lawn outside and the cops were guiding him into the back, with his bag.
“Kid? Hey, kid?”
Will zoned back in. He looked out the window. They were halfway down the block.
“Where should we take you?”
“Uh… The diner on East 6th is fine.”
He jumps out on the corner, bids the guys adieu, and walks over to the payphone, fishing for the swear jar quarters in his pocket. He dials one of the only 800- numbers he’s bothered to save. It’s agony as he waits for the line to pick up. He just wants a familiar voice in his ear.
“Boston Disposal and Demolition. Charles speakin’.”
“Charles?”
Will swears he can hear Chuckie smile through the phone.
“Fuck off, Will.”
—
Will’s sitting at the counter nursing a coffee because it’s all he has money for. He’s spent the last twenty minutes looking over his right shoulder when the bell over the door rings. He knows it’s not going to be Chuckie until after his shift ends, at five. He finds the clock on the wall by the kitchen. Another hour and a half.
He starts to shake his leg. He wonders what people think about him being here, looking like he does, practically carrying a bindle and wearing a straw hat with how much he screams teen runaway, please take advantage.
The bell rings again. Will keeps his eyes down. Someone that smells like Axe and asbestos hugs him under the arms. He stiffens up.
“What’s up, you friggin’ jack-off?” Chuckie lets go of him and musses Will’s hair.
“Next time you assault me in public, take a fuckin’ shower, Charles.”
Chuckie sits in the seat next to Will and orders black coffee and a burger, toots. Which Toots the Waitress does not appreciate, but she puts the order in anyway.
“This is why I told you little jerks not to call me at work.”
“Well, this was kind of important.”
“I know, that’s why I blew off.”
The waitress brings his coffee and Chuckie takes a sip without blowing on it. Will figures it’s because for the next five weeks, they’re on opposite sides of some ineffable thing that separates boys and men. Chuckie drives and drinks hot coffee and works on the books, then uses that money to buy the cigarettes that Will just steals. Chuckie wasn’t anybody’s favorite whipping boy.
“You look good. In spite of the whole hospital thing.”
“Yeah, they kind of fix you up before they let you on the street again.”
“Makes sense, makes sense.” Chuckie nods like Will has given him something deep and philosophical to think about. “So, I’m your first call on the outside?”
“Who else would I call? I’m not goin’ back there. They asked if I wanna go through relocation, litigation, back to St. Gertrude’s hall, just to turn eighteen and get the fuckin’ boot at the end of it. I said nah, I’ll find someplace to crash.”
“Will Hunting’s a free agent? Fuckin’ A, man, I didn’t think the day would come so soon.”
“I’m not exactly hittin’ the ground runnin’, but… Y’know, bullshit heals. Freedom’s forever.”
“Forever forever.” He smiles, looking forward as he elbows Will gently, causing his friend to smile too.
“What’d you tell them at work to get them to let you go?”
“Some fuckin’ tall tale about my girlfriend at BU windin’ up in the hospital.”
“You’re a class act, y’know that, Charles?”
“I am. See, her family’s down in Memphis so I’m kinda all she’s got.”
“Makes sense. She’s lucky to have you. You knock her up or somethin’?”
“Of course, but after the car accident I’m pretty sure my hands are clean.”
Will cracks up at that, it’s the kind of thing the nuns would probably tan their asses for back at school, but since Chuckie turned 18, he hasn’t had to worry about shit like that.
“Be careful, your chocolate milk’s gonna come flyin’ out your nose.”
“You wish, asshole.”
“Watch your mouth, bucko, you’re gonna be livin’ under my roof for the next couple months, ain’t you?”
Will sips his coffee, it’s cold and he still takes it with cream and sugar, so at this point it is more chocolate milk than mornin’ joe. “Under your ma’s roof.”
“I pay the telephone bill, so… Don’t expect to be callin’ the circulation desk on my dime with that attitude.”
“I think I can put off callin’ you an asshole until they get the complete plays of Oscar Wilde.”
“Right, right.” The waitress drops his burger off. “When we get back after this, I gotta introduce you to his cousin Girls Gone Wild.”
Will nods, but he’s staring at the burger. He hasn’t eaten since the hospital oatmeal with orange segments he had this morning. Chuckie slides it toward him.
“I got it for you, dumbass. Get your strength back.”
Will doesn’t say anything as he starts to tear into it. Chuckie steals a fry and lets him finish without expecting any more conversation out of him.
—
"So… You were cookin’, then he shoved you and you go bang, right down the basement steps while you were holdin’ the knife?" Chuckie pipes up on the drive home.
"Yeah, that’s it.”
“What were you makin’?”
“Chicken pot pie or somethin’, I don’t know." Will's eyes dart out the window. He rubs his thumb against the inside of his lip.
They pulled up to the Sullivan house. The lights were out, which was usual. His dad worked on an oil rig and his mom liked to take advantage of him being away almost as much as her son did. Provided Billy and Morgan stayed out of their hair, Will was certain to have a nice, quiet recovery there.
The cops had to keep his clothes so he was dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants from the hospital. Chuckie never heard of the cops taking clothes for evidence before, but it had to be routine for child abuse. In his view, anyways. All he knew was that the story Will told wasn’t completely true, but what could Chuckie do about that? Kids who get hit lie more than kids who don’t.
Will tried to get out as soon as the car stopped, which made Chuckie practically slide across the hood to get to him and help him up.
"Well, hello there." Will chuckled at his display.
"You said they did surgery. I thought you're not supposed to strain yourself."
He extends his hand to Will, who takes it and lets Chuckie haul him up, out of the car. Will thinks he can stand just fine, but a jolt of pain in his body, where the knife was, makes him collapse forward against Chuckie's chest.
"Shit, you okay?"
Will winces at the feeling. Not just from the blade, the idea that he's been made weaker from what happened to him. That part of him will be broken and exposed forever.
"Yeah…” He backs away from Chuckie. “Chill got me, that's all."
Chuckie locks the car up and the two of them part, Chuckie grabs his bag and starts trailing behind Will to see if anything else gives him "a chill." It doesn't. He goes around and unlocks the door, letting Will into the living room where he zeros in on a box of donuts on the coffee table.
"Sorry, man, they're not that fresh…"
Will grabs a Boston Cream and splits it in half. "Don't fuckin' care."
Chuckie smiles at the way he eats, licking some of the cream so it doesn't squeeze out with his next bite. It's some quirk he's done since they were kids. Not that they aren't still young.
That's what scares Chuckie. He might be able to drive and work and everything, but Will can't. Especially not for the next few weeks while he's recovering. Especially if they don't throw that bastard in jail. Even if Will got a nice gig stocking shelves at the grocery store, he knows his friend. He knows Will would split and lose it the second that guy walked up to him asking for the cream of mushroom soup.
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Will says with his mouth full.
"Nothin’, man. Just… Thinkin’."
Will smirks. "That's a first for you, buddy."
Chuckie speaks as he crosses to sit next to Will on the couch. "Hey, don't think just 'cause you're recoverin’ I won't flatten your ass when you're better."
"Oh, yeah, sure you will. And I'll be a witness at your folk's divorce."
He pinches Will's ear and tugs it. It's the only harm he's willing to cause him like this. For a moment they're both laughing, then Chuckie's eyes fall on the open bit of the hoodie where Will's skin is showing and he realizes there's a scratch. Up near Will's heart. Chuckie realizes whatever he was hurt with could have got him in the heart. It makes him wonder what he doesn’t know about. Even more than he wondered before.
"My eyes are up here, thanks."
Chuckie looks up at Will's face and realizes he'd been caught staring.
"I'm sorry."
"…For what? You didn't do anythin’. I'm sorry you had to leave work to get me, I just… I didn't have anybody else to call."
"No, come on. I would drop everythin’ to be with you, man. I love you. You're my only brother, I can't let somethin’ happen to you."
Will's cheeks flush, he feels warm inside from a mix of embarrassment and affection. He stammers a little bit, no one's ever said something like that before. Sure, him and Chuckie will exchange an "I love you, brother" over a few beers, but this is real. Chuckie does love him. He has to or else Will wouldn't be sitting on his couch right now.
He really can't think of anything to say to him, so he just folds a leg under himself, half kneeling, as he leans forward and hugs him. Chuckie knows not to say anything back either. He puts an arm around Will's waist, being mindful of whatever injuries he could have there. He knows it's probably the last few days of hospital food making Will seem frail and boney, but Chuckie never realized how small he was until now. He was always shorter, he was never particularly strong. But Chuckie's never had his body pressed against his for so long. He's never felt his ribs underhand through a thin, scratchy hoodie. He's never thought about how perfectly their bodies fit together.
Chuckie takes a deep breath and notices Will doesn't fully smell like himself. His hair is still a little greasy, holding onto the Old Spice and cigarette smell that he usually has, but his body still smells like sterile hospital soap, only covered up slightly by whatever deodorant he got his hands on while moving out.
Will sinks into Chuckie's body even more and that's where it ends. Somebody's weight shifted on the remote, making ESPN's coverage of the Orioles game rip through the room at top volume. They separate from each other with a laugh, rearranging themselves to sit knee to knee as Chuckie feels around for the remote and starts channel flipping when he finds it.
"I heard they put Blue Lagoon on Home Box Office." Will says.
"That film is such a steamin’ shit, dude."
"You don't want to see Brooke Shields?"
"No, does Tiny Tim want to?"
Will rolls his eyes. "They don't have Skin-amax in the hospital, sue me."
Chuckie rolls his eyes and flips to the premium channels. The premium content wasn’t coming on anytime soon and some fruity comedy called The Birdcage was on until then, so he let it run until the real action came.
Will points toward the screen. "That guy's funny, the guy in the dress."
"Who is he?"
Will sucks his teeth. "You know, man, he's the voice in the Lion King."
“Ferris Bueller?"
“No, the meerkat.”
"Oh..."
They'd been fans of that movie growing up. Chuckie's mom even got them Timon and Pumba lunch bags one year for back to school. He never imagined that one of them was played by a guy so… mincing. Will cracked up a little bit, but tried not to disturb his stitches. Chuckie just sat there, a little awed by how ouvert everything was.
He looked over at Will. “Y’know… I’ve got somethin’ better than Brooke Shields.”
Will didn’t react, paying attention to the movie. Chuckie walked away, but over the rest of the film, Will heard him pad upstairs to his bedroom. He came back brandishing a video tape. He put it into the tapedeck and sat back with the remote.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’? One of us was watchin’ that.”
“If you wanna watch a guy prance around in a dress, we can play in my ma’s closet later.”
Will crossed his arms, waiting to see what Chuckie had brought down. In a perfectly topical move, it was a hospital full of sexy nurses. Chuckie was particularly locked in on a girl with a sandy blonde bob and perky tits that poked out of the neckline of her nurse's uniform a little bit. He turned to Will to see if he was enjoying himself, only to find him looking over at Chuckie. Chuck smiled at him, he had to. He was kind of glad things were going back to normal so quickly. Will hesitated, but smiled back.
“She looks just like Tiff, doesn't she?”
“Yeah,” Will elbows him in the ribs a little bit. “Exactly your type.”
“You say it like you didn’t nail her, too.”
“I didn't. She looked like she could be my sister.”
Chuckie turned back to the screen just as the dusty blonde started wringing sponge bath water all over her breasts. It was then he realized Will was right. If anything, the porn star looked more like Will than Tiff did. She kind of had the same hair color as him. The same sad look in her eyes, with that pouty bottom lip. But he didn't want to think about that right now.
“Personally, I’m shocked the whole sister thing turned you off. I know you love my seconds.”
“Shut up, man. I’m gonna hurl thinking about your sloppy seconds.”
“Oh, is that why you never stick with them?”
“Shut up and watch your fuckin’ movie.”
Will tried to watch the movie, but being so close to Chuckie distracted him. They didn't usually hug and sit together before watching porn. And they almost never did it without Morgan or Billy around. The closeness made him not want to look away.
He glanced away from the screen. Chuckie was locked in on the blonde nurse slipping her hand under some guy's nightgown. Without thinking twice, Will spread his hand out and put his fingers on Chuckie's thigh. He gently started prodding the other man's leg, slowly trailing as the film played on. One button undone on the nurse's dress. Will's hand ventured an inch closer to the inseam on Chuckie's jeans. Slightly squeezing the muscles thigh beneath the baggy denim. By the time her bra was off, Will's pinky was against the end of his fly.
Chuckie grabs Will's wrist, his middle finger presses into a small burn covered with silicone tape.
"…Easy there, Romeo. What are you trying to..."
"I mean..." He raises his eyebrows. "Feels better when somebody else does it for you, doesn't it?"
"Feels better when a girl does it, yeah."
"Feels best when a girl does it. Feels better when somebody else does."
Chuckie stares at him, then glances down at their hands. He squeezes Will’s wrist fondly. "You know I'd never ask you to do that, kid."
"You don't gotta ask me, I want to."
"Why?"
"You earned it."
“I didn't earn shit.” Chuckie swallows a lump he didn't notice had set up shop in his throat. "I was happy to pick you up, Will, that's a f-fucking privilege."
Will kneels on the couch again, Chuckie's grip on his wrist melted like butter, his fingers trailed down to Will’s palm, letting him move freely. Will leans in, almost nose to nose, his finger hooks in the waist of his pants. If they were further apart, the soft hah that dripped from Chuckie's lips wouldn't have been audible. It wouldn't have made Will smile and want to do it again.
"I can tell you need it. I'm sorry you had to see me like this. Let me help you forget."
Chuckie shoves his hand away. "I can't forget about that, Will."
"So you're not even going to let me try? Huh? I just have to sit here and pretend nothing's different while you think of me as some fucking weakling?"
"Mother of God, Will, I don't think that!"
"No, you do. That's why you won't let me do this, you think I'm some dumb fucking kid who doesn't know what he's doing. I know. I know I want to do this for you."
"I don't want you to hurt yourself."
The rejection rocks Will to his core, right under the dull thrum of pain from his wound. He trembles under Chuckie's grip. Realizing what's starting to happen, Chuckie softens right away.
"I didn't… I don't mean it like that, Will. C'mon, you know I don't—"
Will curls around Chuckie’s side, hot tears of frustration start to soak his shoulder.
“Do you have any idea what the last week of my life has been like? The last five fucking hours even?” His hands come up to ball into Chuckie’s shirt. “It’s been hell. I’ve been in hell. Don’t think you’re protecting me by saying some white knight bullshit. I don’t fuckin’ need it.”
Chuckie's dumbstruck, his whole body feels hot. He's embarrassed. For himself. For Will. He keeps his hands at his sides. He doesn’t know if he should pull Will closer or push him away. He hardly notices what’s going on around him. Not the porno still playing and least of all Will’s hand until it presses between his thighs again.
Chuckie already knew he was hard, but getting grabbed like that sends him to full attention faster than he’s ever been. Not with porn, not win any girl from the neighborhood.
Will’s voice is raw. "You don't want this to stop, right?"
Chuckie want to rip their clothes off and show him how much he wanted to keep going. But that feels like a shitty, evil thing to do after seeing him like this. After feeling his body heave against his. Knowing which hand they stabbed his IV into. Knowing he has to sleep on this couch tonight because somebody at home tried to stab him. Knowing he fainted on the playground in fifth grade because family number four forgot to feed him. He knows too much about his history to want to be a part of the next, fucked up chapter.
“More…” He chokes it out, just as strained as Will’s.
He feels Will’s mouth curl against his neck, that makes Chuckie smile, too, for a moment. The next thing he knows, Will’s moving his hand again and he's rolling his eyes back while getting an over the pants handjob from his best friend.
It isn't bad, is what gets him. Even though it's Will, and he smells like hospital, and he just cried his eyes out into the shoulder of Chuckie's favorite work shirt, he can moan and sigh freely, like this isn’t going down in history as one of the biggest Boston tragedies since the fuckin’ molasses flood. Eventually, he opens up his eyes and he can see Will staring at him, licking his lips. Chuckie never noticed they were so pink.
"S'good?"
For some reason, he looks down at the spot where Will's hand, covered in bruises and burn patches and calluses on his palms from hanging on the monkey bars when they go smoke at the park, is grabbing his dick. Neither of them can ignore the way it throbs when he looks back at Will’s face.
"S'real good."
Will nods and brings his hand up, slowly starting to undo the other’s fly. Chuckie guides his hand away and begins to undress himself, getting his pants down to his ankles as Will sits there, watching him enraptured. Then, Chuckie stops, he puts his hand on Will's cheek. There's a small bruise, right below his eye. That's the last thing Chuckie saw before Will leaned in and kissed him. He sighed into it, almost melting against Will's body. He slid his hands down his sides, grabbing his waist before a sharp gasp from Will reminded him that was a bad idea.
"Sorry! I'm so sorry dude, fuck... Are you good? Where does it hurt?"
Without thinking, he opened Will’s hoodie, taking his first real look at the damage on his body.
They’re both silent as Chuckie looks at him. Will has bruises on his chest and arm that, to Chuckie, look a lot like his foster father’s loafers. Another one on his shoulder that looks like a wildly different shape. They’re striking, still black and blue with just little flashes of yellow on the outside. The gash under his collar that he noticed is in line with a second, deeper one on his stomach that had to be stitched close.
“The stairs…”
“Don't act surprised.”
“I am, Will, it's never been like this before. Not even that ashtray bitch left you like this.”
“It’s not that bad. S’not like I have to go back anytime soon.”
Chuckie brings out his hand to touch Will’s side and it takes every ounce of the smaller boy’s strength to not flinch away. He hates that he needs to tell himself that he's safe here.
"Does it still hurt?"
"No, I'm alright. I swear."
Chuckie nods, then sits back against the arm of the couch. It isn't long before Will leans forward, falling on top of him again and hugging him around his shoulders. He reaches behind Chuckie and turns off the light, leaving the porno as their only light. He kisses Chuckie again, the weight of Will sitting on his boner pulls a pleasant hum from him. They don't go too far with it, no tongue, no passion. They both know better than that. The way their lips come together is almost chaste, just something to do with their mouths. Will’s lips move to Chuckie's cheek, then his jaw. His hands shove under the hem of his cotton Boston D&D t-shirt.
"Have you done something like this before?" Chuckie asked.
"Yeah. Don't worry about it."
Chuckie lifts his arms up, letting Will have him bare as he kisses his way down his front. He takes his time on that. He likes biting patches of skin on Chuckie’s abs. A hand pets Will’s hair. They let themselves enjoy it a little too much and a few dark marks appear on Chuckie’s stomach by the time Will gets to where he was going. He presses a kiss against Chuckie’s head through his boxers.
"Jesus, Will, holy fuck—"
Will looks up at him with a smirk in his eyes, then continues. It's just a hummer, but it's more than Chuckie thought he would get tonight. Everything he's ignoring by focusing on the gentle rumble from Will’s mouth seems to make it more intense. Hot shame licks at both their heels in a way it doesn’t when they’re with girls. Neither of them are thinking about Will’s body, or if this means anything, or what’s gonna happen if Chuckie’s mom walks in. Chuckie rolls his hips up into Will’s face, which he apparently doesn't like so Will brings his own hands down into Chuckie’s lap, pinning him to the couch.
He tries shaking his grip. Nothing. None of the girls he fucks are strong enough to pull that off. None. Almost as soon as Will puts his mouth on him again, he blows his load.
Chuckie comes down absolutely euphoric, nothing has come crashing in yet. Then he looks down at Will and notices he’s wiping a stripe of jizz off his chin and everything gets a little more real. He doesn't say anything. He just pulls his pants back up and extends a hand to pick up Will.
“Thanks.”
Will sat back on the couch and looked at the porn on the living room TV. He didn’t even register that the orderlies and nurses started fucking each other, but he has to keep his eyes forward because he can feel Chuckie looking at him. Like he wants something else.
“Hey.”
Will doesn’t turn to look at him. “Hey yourself.”
“Do you want me to…”
“No.” He smiles and gawfs at the suggestion. “Not like that anyways.”
Chuckie leans back with his arm over the couch, his arm is almost long enough to reach Will’s shoulder from over there. “How do you want it, then?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t wanna get your rocks off?”
Will sighs and keeps looking forward. He’s sweating a little bit because he does. He’s human, hearing somebody else cum turned him on. If he was being honest, just being held by Chuckie started to turn him on. He understood those girls at the bar that liked to grab his muscles and offer to climb him like a tree. Liking that… It could mean nothing, but the idea of letting himself be touched and looked at by Chuckie is something. Something that’s a little off. Like having your shoes on the wrong feet.
“You don’t have to offer just because I did you.”
“You deserve it. After seeing me like this.” He laughs at himself, which makes Will turn and laugh at him too.
It’s hard to make himself want to deny it when he’s looking at Chuckie. It’d be easier if they couldn’t see each other, Will thinks. It’d been the middle of the afternoon when Chuckie met him at the diner, and now the windows didn’t give off any light. They were just blue-tinged glass squares, so when someone turned off the television, it was nearly black in the living room.
Will hears the remote drop to the floor as Chuckie moves to sit closer to him. He puts his hand on the small of Will’s back gently, like he’s afraid to break him. Any other time, Will would be insulted by the move, but he’d give anything to not be reminded of the state he was in. If soft touching like he was made of glass or porcelain, something more valuable than shit was the way to do it, he’d take it.
Chuckie leans in toward Will’s neck, careful not to put weight on the bruise he knows is there. He presses a soft kiss to his neck and that’s the first time Will flinches away from him in earnest all night.
“Should I stop-”
“No.” Will whispered sharply.
Chuckie takes the word to heart and slowly removes Will’s hoodie. Will feels lips on his body again, to the dull thrumming spot on his shoulder blade where it dislocated. He sighs and relaxes against Chuckie a bit more. He never wanted someone to kiss his “booboos,” and at his age he didn’t think he needed it, but it filled him with an undeniable ease anyways.
“Can I keep touching you?” He shifted his hands to Will’s thighs.
“Not… not my stomach.”
Chuckie kisses him again, on his back hairline. When he talks, his lips mumble against his skin. “So this is fine?”
Will’s breath picks up into a pant as Chuckie runs his fingers over the inside of Will’s thighs, teasing toward and away from his erection as he moves.
“Just jerk me off, you fuckin’ asshole.”
Chuckie brings his hand up to Will’s unmarred pec, squeezing it. “God forbid I take my time. You ain’t never read about foreplay?"
“Foreplay’s for virgins and high end escorts.”
He arches against Chuckie enough to pull his sweatpants down. Chuckie kisses Will’s neck and it makes him squirm. It’s not a fair fight anymore if he’s going to do shit like that. Will only kissed him once or twice. Not that he was keeping score. If he was, he’d take points off for the sound Chuckie rips out of him from pinching his nipple.
“Chuckie.”
“That’s my name.” His hand dips low between Will’s legs and cups him though his shorts.
Will sighs. “Thank you, was that hard?”
“You are.”
Will rolls his eyes at the bad joke, but quickly falls into a rhythm of panting and moaning as Chuckie begins to work him over. He doesn’t buck into his touch, he just lets him do what he wants. He thinks the only thing more humiliating than humping your friend’s hand is pulling a stitch while you do it.
“You sound wicked hot.” He kisses Will’s neck again. He can already tell he’s going to want to do this every time he looks at him from now on. “Can’t wait to make you cum your fuckin’ brains out.”
“Then make me cum my f-fuckin’ brains out already.”
Chuckie dips his hand through the hole in Will’s boxers and starts to jerk him off in earnest, not just fondle him through his clothes. He’d pay money to switch on the lamp and see what Will’s face looked like as his head lolled back onto Chuckie’s shoulder. He adjusts their position a bit, as gently as he can with one free hand.
“Keep talkin’, fuckin’-A.” He sighed into Will’s ear. “You’re better than a pornstar.”
Will laughed a little bit at that. “Yeah? That turn you on?”
“I dunno about all that, but I find it encouraging with ya fuckin’ dick in my hand.”
This side of Chuckie isn’t new to him. He’s heard him flirt, he’s heard him fuck, he’s heard him talk girls through it in the front seat and pretended not to. But it’s brand new knowing what Chuckie’s saying is about him. He lets himself go limp against Chuckie’s body, making sure he lets every sound that’s pulled out of him makes it to Chuckie’s ears.
“Chuckie…”
“That’s it, say my fuckin’ name.”
“Yank it like you mean it and I’ll do anything you say.”
Chuckie brings his hand up and spits. “I find that hard to fucking believe.”
“Wh-” he gets cut off by his own moan when Chuck takes him into his warm, suddenly slick hand.
Chuckie licked a stripe from shoulder to shoulder and is strangely satisfied by the fact that the sterile hospital smell that was all over Will’s body has dissipated. Thanks to him, Will just smells like sex.
“Chuckie…” Will whines, fully slack against his friend. “Almost."
“Sh, yeah, I know. I got you.” He speeds up a bit. “Feels good, yeah?”
“Wicked good, man.” He sounds wrecked, his voice shaking.
“S’what I like to hear.”
Will bites his tongue as he cums into Chuckie’s hand, but neither of them mind. Least of all Chuckie. He admired how Will managed to be so aloof and mature seeming, but like this he was like an open book.
Will laid against Chuckie completely, to the point that when he was ready to get up, he didn’t bother asking Will to stir. He just picked him up and placed him down on the couch. The light flicked on as he left the room. Will laid on the couch feeling like he was floating, like he was sailing in the sky and his body was battered and cum coated and stuck to the earth.
Chuckie walked back in and dropped one of his mother’s kitchen towels onto his chest. They locked eyes as Chuckie smiled around the rim of the beer he was drinking. Will slowly sat up, using the towel to wipe his sweat before any other substance.
“Where’s mine?”
Chuckie handed him a Gatorade. “They just had you on a fuckin’ morphine drip, I’m not handin’ you a beer.”
Will opened it and took a sip. It wasn’t as good as a lager and a cigarette might have been, but he needed it. Even he could admit that he’d overdone it tonight. Chuckie leaned on the arm of the couch, but didn’t sit with Will again. Neither of them moved to turn the TV back on, they just stared ahead as if the grey reflections in the glass were as entertaining as anything else.
Chuckie put his hand on Will’s shoulder and watched as his body stiffened. It reminded him of seeing a deer in headlights.
“Do you wanna take the first shower?”
Will looked up at him, he wasn’t expecting this to be the kind of pillow talk they engaged in. “You take it, man. I can shower in the morning. I didn’t really do anything today."
Chuckie nods.
“You wanna head upstairs and toss me down some sheets?”
“Nah.”
“Alright man, no rush. S’just getting late.”
“Oh,” he looks right at Will realizing what he meant, “I don’t wanna do that ‘cause you should sleep upstairs. I can take the couch, kid, I didn’t…"
Chuckie trails off as his eyes stare at the long row of stitches on Will’s stomach. He crosses his arms over himself, he feels naked.
“I got clean clothes in my room. If you don’t wanna unpack.”
Will doesn’t say anything. He just takes his hoodie and his Gatorade and runs up to Chuckie’s room.
Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:
Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.
You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.
When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.
A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)
Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)
The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.
Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.
Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.
As someone who spent over a decade catering luxury events, let me add some back of house info:
These events are almost always open bar. They're not trying to make their money back on alcohol. They want you to drink and eat and donate generously.
If there are cocktails, there will be at most two on offer, pre-made in large tubs. You cannot order a different version, it is what it is.
There are two types of events: cocktail style or seated. The first includes roaming hors d'oeuvres or a fancy buffet with tiny plates called a grazing station. For a long night, the roaming food will get a little bigger throughout the evening and have a 'main' at some point based around a protein.
A seated event will usually be more structured and may include multiple courses. Silver service is not in vogue anymore. You are likely to get either alternating meals brought to you like at a wedding, or served banquet style. A good caterer can get a plate to everyone in a 300 person event in about three minutes.
Drunk people are the same no matter how expensive their suits. They still laugh too loud, spill their drinks and slip on the dance floor. They are usually less embarrassed about doing coke in the bathrooms.
A full scale event that starts at 6pm will have staff arriving at noon to begin setup. Earlier if there's a light show or pyrotechnics. Typically venues don't just have 30 tables and three hundred chairs lying around, let alone table cloths, chair covers, etc. It's all rented and brought in on the day. Bands and DJs will be running audio tests in the background throughout.
Most heritage buildings that host these things, like museums and manor houses, aren't really designed for them. They might put down mats so you're not walking in stilettos over two hundred year old wooden floors, the kitchens are weirdly far away, and there are not enough taps. There is never anywhere for staff to sit, so if you open the wrong door you might find half a dozen waiters sitting on upturned milk crates in a room full of million dollar paintings, eating the left over bread.
Really old buildings don't have enough bathrooms, which means the staff will be sharing with the guests.
Clean up starts the second the event ends, if not sooner. Unattended glasses will start to disappear first, then table decorations. When the timer ticks over, the lights come back on and exhausted staff strip the tables, pack up dirty glasses and unopened wine bottles and have to Tetris it all into the back of a van. The venue is booked for that day only, so everything has to be gone before anyone can go home. A large event that finishes at midnight might take until 3am to be cleared away.
These are very long and physically demanding nights for anyone working them. The staff all get to know each other, and will absolutely notice someone trying to sneak in wearing a borrowed uniform. They are not being paid enough to care.
rotating individual blorbos separately is great and all but i rotate pairs of characters together as one, spinning around each other, like a pair of celestial bodies in orbit. blorbit, if you will
