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Sickly Sweet

A short excerpt from a larger story of mine. Contains gay kissing and some possibly familiar names.

It’s Chris’s twenty-first birthday and the smell of alcohol fills the air as music plays through huge, booming speakers.

They had rented out a whole club for the occasion, so it's empty except for the drunken cast members who slosh around wearily, grinning stupidly and only barely realizing that maybe, just maybe, they overdid it with the alcohol.

The designated drivers have long since given up their post and have succumbed to shots upon shots of whiskey and vodka and tequila, and everyone is going absolutely insane; if they're not sprawled on the floor muttering nonsensical things, they're grinding to the music with a cup in hand filled with strange liquids, occasionally screaming things at each other.

Lea and Jonathan are talking sluggishly about plans for a new Broadway production about misunderstood cows while Mark and Heather make out in front of them. Dianna and Naya are kissing hungrily a few ways off in a battered black velvet sofa, giggling every time they pull apart for breath or another swig of the bottles lying around at their sides, while Kevin and Cory watch with their mouths open, stupid grins stretched across their faces. A mumbling Amber lies on the floor with a passed-out Jenna while Harry dances on top of them, body jerking to the beat of whatever song is playing while he hums an entirely different tune and calls out for his dead grandmother happily with a "Look what I can do, Nana!"

It's a normal night for these crazy kids.

Darren lies on another velvet sofa sluggishly, muttering to himself and breaking out into a Disney song every now and then as he is reminded of the different movies by his friends. He is just finishing his third, off-key rendition of 'Kiss the Girl', brought on by Naya and Dianna's little stunt, when a very dizzy Chris plops down next to him with a huge sigh, bottle of Tequila in hand. He takes a swig before looking at Darren for a while as he sings, and in Chris's addled state the only thing he can think of is how long Darren's eyelashes are and how pretty his throat looks like that, stretched and sweaty, adam's apple bobbing up and down with his voice.

A few seconds later Darren finishes his song and sighs, leaning back; he pointedly doesn't look at Chris and instead settles for counting the shiny beads on Amber's pink dress, but by the time he gets to twenty-three he decides to stop before he vomits, disoriented by the glint of the pearls.

A loaded silence takes the scene over, stifling in its weight, and the only movement Darren dares to make is a shaky bob of his head in the opposite direction of his visitor, while Chris smoothly places a hand inches from his thigh.

"I know you're dying to look at me," Chris says with a lazy, unhesitating tone, and Darren swallows loudly, pressing his tongue against a cheek as he brings his sweaty hands to his lap. He grits his teeth together and refuses to turn his head, knowing what could happen if he does.

This is what they've been fighting about, this is what caused all those arguments, this is what Darren will absolutely never give up on. He doesn't even flinch when Chris touches his right palm with a warm fingertip and hums lazily, treading patterns on his skin, but just glares at the nearest wall, unmoving.

Chris simply leans over, unfazed, and snakes his body right next to Darren's, nimble as a cat and just as beautiful.
Almost into his ear, he whispers a soft "Just do it."

And that tone Chris uses, that sly and daring and playful and sexy tone is what makes Darren crack so unbelievably easily despite his extreme resistance, because that tone also contained a timbre so earnest and pleading that he just has to look, turning his head slowly so nothing within him shatters.

Quick as lightning something snaps, and they both plunge towards each other at the same time.

Their lips meet in a frenzy and their tongues don't waste a second on looking for each other, and now they press their bodies together and groan as they try to get more leverage. The Tequila bottle clatters to the floor in a clang but doesn't break, and the rest of the noises around them go unnoticed as they pull each other closer and kiss harder, with bruising force. Darren's tongue flicks out and he laps at Chris's lips hungrily, pushing him back a little so he can lie against the cushions and make Chris kneel over him, their hips now slotted almost perfectly against each other, barely touching.

Their kiss breaks for a second, and as he opens his eyes to look at Chris's mouth and sees that it's swollen and pink and trembling, struggling to pump out hurried breaths, another thing deep inside him snaps.

Darren pulls him down on top of him and doesn’t hesitate to kiss him again, this time sloppier and wetter and hot, burning hot. They pull apart for breath and grind against each other uselessly, moaning, and Darren grabs the front of Chris’s shirt with a fist and pulls hard until their faces are right next to each other's, breathing hotly into his ear.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Chris nods with wide eyes, whining, and pulls Darren up with a quick, practiced movement, leading him to the glass doors. They call for a cab and climb on hurriedly, Darren being the first one in as Chris mumbles something at the driver and hands him the cash in advance, and on the way Darren asks 'Your place or mine?' Chris shakes his head. "Neither," he mutters, just as they pull to the closest hotel.

At the front desk Chris orders their biggest room and they run for the elevators, not waiting for the heavy doors to close before they lunge towards each other again, Chris propped up on the metal bar, legs wrapped around Darren's waist.

Hours later, after they collapse on the huge bed, sticky and sweaty and sated, Chris can't sleep and he feels like he's going to cry. He doesn't, at least not until he is no longer drunk and feels Darren shift lightly in his sleep.

His lips tremble a little in anguish as he runs his hands through Darren’s hair, recalling the moment when the boy had moaned out a breathy ‘I love you’ as Chris had pushed in again and hit that perfect spot just right.
Chris doesn’t cry at the possibility of Darren regretting it all in the morning. 

He doesn't cry because of the guilt that he suddenly feels weighing his bones down.
He cries because he knows for a fact that Darren meant those three little words with every single fiber of his being.

And that will just make everything harder.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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