Legal stuff: You ain't old enough, don't read it. You ain't mature enough, still don't read it. You lookin' for a quick wank, look elsewhere. There WILL be sex in this story, and it WILL be graphic, but it'll come with time, so bear with me.
Given to Nifty for archive; if anyone else wants to post this somewhere, ask first thanks. Email is mymouthtrain@gmail.com.
Wish I'd Taken Pictures | 02
Waking up that day somehow turned into an event.
First of all, I ended up NOT waking up until nearly five o'clock Sunday evening. I have the great pain meds my doctor prescribed and my own exhaustion after such an eventful night to thank for that. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have woken much earlier.
"Bri! Yo, Bri!"
I rolled over, grumpy that my sleep had been disturbed and wondering just who the hell was in my apartment. Where I lived. By myself.
"Bri! Brian, it's your mother!"
Now, I know my mother's voice and it definitely wasn't the husky, slightly thick-sounding tenor that was assaulting my eardrums. Aggravated, I popped one eye open. The other followed completely of its own volition once I focused on what was in front of me.
Andrew. In boxer-briefs. Straddling me.
"Whoa!" There was a clatter and a thump as the phone I had somehow missed Andrew holding AND Andrew, in that order, fell from off my bed. Suddenly, all the yammering about my mother was making sense.
"Hello? Ma?" I had lunge3d for the fallen phone, completely disregarding Andrew, who lay in an unhurt, yet confused sprawl on my bedroom floor.
//Brian? Darling, what's going on?//
"Nothing's wrong, Ma," I said into the phone quietly, flipping the covers off and getting out of bed. I helped Andrew up automatically and led him to my door. I promptly ignored his disbelieving face as I shut the door in his face.
Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of my bedroom, fully dressed, to see Andrew perched nervously on my couch. He had one leg tucked underneath his still boxer-clad ass, and his hair was down. He looked lovely, and I hated it. I hated him for talking to my mother-he had no right-but I hated him more because I couldn't find it in me to be pissed that he broke my one cardinal rule twice in less than twenty four hours. No one touches my phone but me.
"I'm sorry," he said before I got a chance to even open my mouth. I guess my (slightly less than usual) agitation was apparent on my face. My better judgment forgave him immediately. I was going to have to give it a stern talking to later.
"It's okay, man," I said with a weary shake of my head and a small smile as I sat down gingerly on the other end of the couch. "I should have said something last night. I just have a thing about phones, particularly my own."
"That's sweet, man, I understand," Andrew said amiably, his smile looking far too easy compared to my tight one. It wasn't the only painfully obvious opposite we both noticed but were too... whatever, to acknowledge. The fact that, with him in dark grey boxer-briefs that highlighted his white, white skin and long, ink-coloured hair, and me in for once NOT ratted-out jeans and a blue and yellow polo, we looked as if we shouldn't even be occupying the same room. The differences made our smiles wane, and look away from each other uneasily. I wondered what it was in particular that had Andrew uncomfortable. It was fairly obvious which it was for me, though not for the reason stated.
In trying to find something, anything else to talk about, my eyes drifted to the time. It was then I found out just how long I had slept. "Holy shit, it's already after five?"
It was a rhetoric question, obviously, but Andrew laughed a bit and replied, "Yeah. Those pills musta had you GONE, man."
Immediately, my mind flashed on what I considered an important question. "Crap, you didn't have to work today, did you?"
Andrew shifted his eyes, looking guilty, but shrugged a flop of his long, straight hair behind one shoulder. "I called Angela and she filled in for me." He finally met my gaze. "You looked entirely too cute to wake up." The grin he wore was teasing, and the sentiment was light.
"I can't believe you did that," I said with a measure of disapproval and respect in my voice. Anyone who called in was subject to Joel, our general manager's wrath the next time they were in his presence. According to him, call-ins were only for the hospitalised, dying, or dead. I wondered briefly what excuse Andrew gave but decided not to ask. Instead, I asked him if he'd eaten anything yet. He shook his head.
"Well, I can't cook worth shit," I informed him plainly, "so how do two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, on a sesame bun sound to you?"
I got a full-throated laugh out of him that time. "McDonald's? Sounds good. Just..." He got up, a serious look on his face, trained on the side of my head. For a brief, stupid moment, I had no idea what he was looking at. "Lemme look at this wound of yours."
"Mine?" I echoed as he crouched in front of me and his nimble fingers picked off the bandage. I was trying to keep my gaze off of his bare shoulders, and how close they now were to my face. I loved his body; defined, but softly so. Thin and razorlike in all the fun ways, like his hipbones. "You inflicted it. I think it's yours more than anything."
He chuckled, but I could see a guilty flush cross his freckled nose, close as he was to me now. "Fair enough. I now hereby dub this MY wound." He gave a nod of his head in place of a formal bow, and fastened the bandage back over it. "Looks okay for now. Might want to change the dressing tonight, though." He stepped away, much to my relief, and frowned down at me. "I really am sorry about all the trouble I've caused."
I waved his apology away. "Don't sweat it, seriously. It happened, it can't un-happen, and anyway, war wounds aside, I didn't mind all that much. I'm just glad I didn't have to get my head shaved." I ran a hand through my shaggy light brown hair for emphasis.
He hiked an eyebrow, looking at me like I just did something amusing, then stood up and shucked off his boxer-briefs. Right in front of me.
|to be continued| |thanks for the emails!|