milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

He's not bartending tonight, so Bartleby finds a booth and sprawls into it with a groan. He's been 'helping' a friend of his roommate's move into a new apartment. This 'helping' appeared to consist of him carrying boxes back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, while arty, thin, androgynous people stood around and whispered under their breaths "Do you think he's safe?", "Should be in jail," and "Tried to destroy the world".

He's always hated the lie of human forgiveness.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bartleby is indeed tempted, and takes a bite of the apple with minimal movement, wiping a dribble of juice away from the corner of his mouth and sprawling back again.

Charlie wipes the corner of Bartleby's mouth with his fingertip, which he licks, and then kisses the top of Bartleby's head. He is still chewing apple rather loudly.

Bartleby shifts until he is leaning against Charlie, and tucks his head into Charlie's shoulder. The chewing is now right in his ear, but he doesn't mind.

Charlie puts an arm under Bartleby's head to support him and kisses the top of his head again. He swallows. "You look beat."

"My back hurts." Bartleby closes his eyes. Charlie's warm, and smells nice.

Charlie makes a sympathetic sound and offers him the apple, moving the other hand down Bartleby's spine. "Where's it hurt? Is this from sleeping on the floor?"

"Ah! There." Charlie's reached his lower back. He takes another bite of the apple with his eyes closed, getting juice on his nose. "Nob, mit's brom -" He swallows. "No, it's from ifting boxes."

Charlie works the tight muscles at his lower back and tries to figure out how to lick Bartleby's nose without stopping the massage. "What were you lifting boxes for?" he asks softly, and pauses just long enough to get in a lick.

Mm. Red Delicious.

He puts the apple down on the table so he can use both hands on Bartleby's back.

Bartleby's back arches a little, and he gasps. "That's - oh - good. I was roped into - ow - helping someone move apartment."

"That was nice of you. Hope you at least got some beer in return."

His hands are strong and his fingers dexterous, and there's little mystery about Bartleby's body to him. It's a different kind of feeling good, but the gasp pleases him just the same.

"Relax. Let your body relax."

"I didn't. I got stares and mutters. Ow." He winces as Charlie digs into a particularly aching spot, then consciously begins to relax his muscles, swinging his feet up onto the seat.

"Stares and mutters? Wankers. And you doing them a favor.

"I can do this properly if you lie down on your stomach. Do you want to move to a couch?"

"Does it mean I have to actually get up?" He tips his head back and regards Charlie plaintively upside down. "And you can't - okay, no, I blame them. Bastards."

"No," Charlie says tenderly. "You don't have to get up. The effect won't be the same, though." He kisses Bartleby between his eyebrows. "Lean forward a bit. Gives me easier access."

Leaning forward, Bartleby can do. "I'm trying," he mutters. "But they don't care."

"Fear's a hard thing to overcome," Charlie says as his hands dig into Bartleby's lower back. "And trust is a hard thing to regain. And they're strangers to you--they only know what they saw on TV." He kisses the back of Bartleby's neck, which looks very vulnerable right now beneath his dark hair.

"I know. I know." Bartleby breathes out and twists around to kiss Charlie.

Charlie slings an arm around his neck and kisses him back. "Whatever you do I'll still love you," he whispers, and feeling a blush arise busies himself with massaging Bartleby's back again.

"You're one of the best things that's ever happened to me," Bartleby murmurs, and then, very quietly, "Don't go away."

Charlie feels his eyes sting and he leans his head on Bartleby's shoulder, sliding his arms around Bartleby's waist. "Come with me. Just for a day or two. Come walk the beaches with me, play in the surf. We'll tell everyone you've always been there, or something. We'll tell them something.

"I just need to know they're okay."

"I want to." Bartleby draws in a breath. "I want to.But..."

"But?" He kisses the back of Bartleby's neck again, holding him as close as he can. "I want to make love to you listening to the ocean," he whispers into his ear.

"But nothing," Bartleby murmurs back. "Okay."

Charlie does not squee. Grown men do not squee. But he squeezes Bartleby very tight and kisses him again and makes a very happy sound that could, if one were so inclined, be construed as squeeing.

"Good."

"Yeah." Bartleby is grinning, and he's so glad he came here instead of just crashing on his floor, because he feels a million times better. He can even ignore his back, and his stretched and tired arms and legs, and his sore feet.