nekare

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, moonix!!!
Oh Anna, what can I say about one of the greatest, sweetest girls I've ever met? You just plain rock, and it's been just incredible to have known you for so long already. *blows kiss* And okay, as a gift: We're both not speaking to HP nowadays, and we have such different fandoms that you get original boy slash instead! *g* This… is not what I wanted to write for you. I wanted to write pretty, pretty descriptions but somehow I ended up with lots of dialogue so, um, sorry! It’s still boytouching, though, and that’s always a good thing. *g* (no porn, though. Tragic, I know. ;___;)

Don't Look Back, Don't Look Down
Original slash - 801 Words

Andrew leans over the edge of the building, feet braced in the metal railing and arms outstretched to the sky. The wind musses his hair, tangles it until there are knots twined with leaves and pieces of dreams the same wind has carried from all over the city. He smiles, a bit, and then he looks down and the smile dies as the vertigo hits, his stomach falling down to somewhere around the vicinity of his knees.

“What are you doing here?” asks Chase from behind him, and he nearly loses his balance. He turns around, sits on the railing.

“Dunno. Just felt like it, I guess,” he says with a little shrug.

Chase is looking at him from a few steps back, hands in his pockets and head tilted slightly to the right. His shoulders are hunched, his body curling into himself from the cold. His leather jacket is far too thin and small to keep him warm.

“Just felt like taking a stroll on the edge of the roof?” Chase asks, eyebrows raised, and Andrew has to look away. He remembers waking up with his nose buried between Chase’s shoulder blades, inhaling him in through the worn cotton of his shirt. It’d been too warm in there, with his breath stale from last night’s vodka and his best friend curled up beside him. He’d needed air.

Pining’s never suited him, but he seems to fall into it nevertheless.

“Maybe,” Andrew says, after a while, and Chase sighs, walks towards him. While sitting on the railing, Chase has to look up, something that hasn’t happened since they were both fourteen and his growth spurt hit him overnight.

Chase places his hands on both sides of Andrew’s hips, encasing him. Looking down into Chase’s eyes, Andrew can feel the vertigo again, and he’s falling falling falling down. He’s sure that if he opens his mouth the butterflies in his stomach will come flying out, wings fluttering all through his esophagus and getting caught in his throat.

“Will you at least get down from there?” Chase asks, frowning. “You’re making me nervous.”

Andrew shrugs again and lets his feet touch the ground again. The movement brings him almost flush against Chase, and he stops breathing. Chase’s arms are still holding him in place, and he can see his white knuckles on the railing from the corner of his eyes.

“I—I think it’s time we stop dancing around each other,” Chase says, wide-eyed, and it comes out a bit shaky, something odd for strong-minded Chase. His face is red, be it from the cold or the proximity, Andrew doesn’t know.

“What do you mean?” Andrew asks, because they might have gotten drunk last night and slipped into unconsciousness while singing off-key, foreheads pressed together, but Chase is the only friend that’s been there since the beginning, and he’s willing to play dumb to keep that.

“Come on, Andy, you’re smarter than that,” Chase whispers, and then their faces are touching again, noses pressed together in an Eskimo kiss.

“Yeah, well, I might not want to ruin everything,” he says. Chase’s eyes are the exact shade of his green shirt (Andrew’s shirt, stolen sometime in the past year, and Andrew will sometimes steal it back and wear it while it still has Chase’s scent on it), and it makes them stand out; look too big for his face. His breath is warm against Andrew’s mouth.

Chase shakes his head, barely a movement, and his hair makes Andrew’s temples tickle. “We’ll just ruin it if we stay like this,” he says in his ‘I’m clever, you should do as I say’ tone, the one he used the first time he got Andrew drunk, all those years ago. Chase pulls back a bit to bite the tip of Andrew’s nose lightly, and then he’s leaning close again, eyes closed. “C’mon Andy, we’ve been taking each other’s shit for nineteen years already, that ain’t gonna stop.”

And Andrew believes him, because this is Chase, the boy that gave him a live frog as a birthday present when he was six, the boy that took a beating in silence when Andrew’s dad died at sixteen and he was furious at the world.

“Okay,” he says lamely, and then he’s standing on tiptoes and burying his hands on Chase’s hair and Chase is kissing him, messy and open, tasting like hungover scared boy, and Andrew wants to drown in it so it’ll never stop. Chase crowds him against the railing, and it digs into his back, leaving him dangling off the edge precariously, but he’s used to live like that anyway, so it doesn’t bother him, not really.

The wind is toying with both of them, making them stumble every few minutes.

The sun hasn’t come up yet.