Fic: Kiss With A Fist

Sun, 14 Feb 2010 03:32:20 GMT

Title: Kiss With A Fist
Author: Calex
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 12,967
Warnings: Schmoop and friendly violence. And graphic sex. Which was entirely influenced by aggybird, so some of you should know what you’re getting yourselves into.
Notes: If you don’t understand any of the British insults I’ve used, here’s a helpful list. Title from a song by Florence + The Machine of the same name, and this story was written for the best friend challenge at holidaysmut @ LJ. x-posted to LJ.
Summary: Sometimes best friends can be a complete pain in the arse. For Briscoe and Jarrod, this was literal more often than not.

( The last time he’d thrown a hardcover book at Jarrod’s head, Jarrod had ended up in the San needing stitches and wasn’t that a delight to explain to the nurse? )

comments

.... oh shit

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 21:50:21 GMT

I'm in deep, deep trouble and I know it. The power of suggestion is a scary thing, and added to that my own confusion over my feelings and a sense of repressed attraction and that leaves me completely and thoroughly fucked.

We had a party to celebrate my sister's and my niece's birthdays and we all invited a few of our friends, our relatives, family friends etc ad nauseum. It was through my mother's invitation to his parents that I found out that K was coming back from Australia and god damn it all, it sort of hurt that he didn't tell me. Still, he called me earlier and we talked for fucking hours about... nonsensical things. Weird things. Us things. I shared more with him than I had with another person for far too long. What's worse is that he's tangible, there. I can reach out my hand and I can touch him, and he me. And it surprised and continues to surprise me how much I want that, how much I ache for that.

It's not just... sexual tension. There's been a bit of that between us, but most of all there's this sense of openness between us. We talk for hours every time we do. He came earlier than his parents, left later than them too and when he finally had to leave, I didn't want to let him go. He's like... he's a guy I can talk to about pretty much anything, and what I love about him is that he likes chick flicks, he's scared of horror movies, he's not afraid to admit that another man is good looking. And he's not ashamed of it at all, not scared of it like some guys are, always trying to act macho in order to prove their own masculinity. Yes, I joke with him and call him my pseudo-gay-best-friend, but it's more than that. I think I always knew it, and I think that maybe he knows that too.

But we skirt around the issue. We talk about types and needs and friends and people we're interested in and all the while we look at each other, we smile at each other, secret smiles that sort of tear me apart sometimes for all the want I feel. Sometimes I want to push it, see what would happen if I made a move. If I put my hand on his shoulder, lean in close and kiss him. Would he let me? Would he be shocked? Would he be happy? I think about it as I keep my smile natural and it tears me up a little inside because I shouldn't. It's one of my own cardinal rules: Don't fuck around with friends. Yes, maybe you can be lucky and salvage your friendship with only a few dents to show for it, but a lot of the time it screws you up. Both of you. Personal experience is too tangible a thing to deny.

When he left, I joined my relatives in one of our sitting rooms as my sister opened her presents and my aunt called me over:

Your friend, she'd said, looking contemplative. Keep him around. You two look good together.

He's just a friend, nothing's going to happen. I've known him too long.

What does that have anything to do with anything? You look like you fit. I'm just saying that you should keep him around and... don't just blow it off and forget about it. Consider it a little, okay?

And I'd laughed, part amusement, part fear even as my mother snorted (looking slightly uncomfortable and disturbed) and said that we're more like siblings.

I don't love him, that I know for sure. I don't. I like him, yes I do. He makes me laugh. He listens to me and I to him. He takes my shit, but doesn't take it lying down. He knows how to give as good as he gets. He's not my type, but I've always, always been so susceptible to suggestion. I don't know if I like him, if I care for him more than I've allowed myself to, or if what I feel really is only the care between friends. I don't think I can ever know if we remain in this current state of comfortable stasis. I'm sexually frustrated, yes. It's a fact. But I've always been needy. As much as I try to keep my composure and act tough, I love having someone by me. Someone I can talk to and flirt with and just... be with. K gives me that, and more. Every time he left me to go back home, I want to linger a little bit longer and the urge to touch him gets that much stronger. But I curl my fingers into a fist, make myself smile as I tell him goodbye with not even a handshake, not a single hug which I've never before felt unable to give. I just leave the car with silent questions and silent need and try to bury it up all over again when I'm alone.

Tonight, after everyone left my house, I called him to tell him what my aunt said. We were on the phone for another hour, and I was so tired, so fucking exhausted. An hour's sleep the night before and only a half hour nap on the plane had left me bone deep weary, head pounding and feeling lethargic, heavy, numb. It felt like I was completely wasted, but I'd only had a few sips of beer. And as we talked, I got sleepy even more, curled up in bed while on the other end of the line he's curled up in his, and I doze on and off, murmuring sleepy thick nonsense while the back of my mind pangs with some kind of emotion that leaves me baffled.

One thing stands out clearly, though, and that is the intimacy of the moment. I listened to his breaths, the creak of his bed as he shifted, the murmur of his voice like a low-frequency buzz, much like mine had turned into. My ears focused with sharp clarity on his voice until even mumbled, his words were crystal clear to me. And I wanted him there, in my bed. Not even doing anything more than just hold me. I wanted him there so I could curl up against his heat and feel his heartbeat under my palm, soothing me to sleep. I wanted to wake up to see his face next to mine on the pillow and trace the shape of his bones under skin, brush my fingertips against his lips and maybe, maybe kiss him awake. A soft press of lips on lips, close mouthed, chaste if it didn't linger slightly too long. It surprises me that despite thinking that fuck, I need to get laid, all I want with him is for him to hold me, let me not feel so alone anymore.

And then I think and I wonder if what I want is really him, or if he's just convenient because he's there when I feel like this. I talk big, say I don't want a relationship, it's too much of a hassle. Say I just want sex and companionship with minimal strings. Yes, I do think about sex with him. I do think of him fucking me, but that's a thought that doesn't stand prevalent amongst my other thoughts. It's a thought I can easily push aside, waiting to appear another day. And it horrifies and embarrasses me to realise that actually, I do want those strings. I want someone who belongs to me as absolutely as I belong to them. I want to be able to just stay by their side, hold them, and have that feeling of yes, this is mine. This is where I belong.

Right now, though, I need to figure out what I want with him. I need to figure out if it's just a vague desire to have something like that and K's a convenient person to work into my own game plan, or if I need him more than I can say. I'm seeing him again, soon. I need to decide whether to leave things as they are now - maybe slightly charged and tense but still retaining the charm of best friend-ship, or if I should take a chance, close that distance. And I have a feeling this will not be an easy decision to make, and I will need to be as calm as I do it. That I need to be sure despite the huge bats flying in my stomach, which in turn twists itself into knots. No matter what's the outcome, both of us have cannot afford but be friends with each other. Once I'm in England and he's back in Australia, it will be easier to handle, to ignore. It's the time in between that bothers me.

Need to sleep now, I feel the Sandman finally calling me to him once again.

comments

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 04:51:10 GMT

Is it ridiculous that I sort of want to see a J2/Harry Potter crossover? Or an SPN/Harry Potter crossover. But especially the J2 one, because seriously, imagine Jared in Hogwarts. A Highschool AU Harry Potter crossover. Oh, the crack and chaos and trouble that would be.

... No, I don't know what's wrong with me, why do you ask?

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There's Air Made of Bricks

Fic: Kiss With A Fist

.... oh shit