Written for you taste like honey, honey: a matchbox 20 challenge
Somebody's Heartbreak
"You left a stain on every one of my good days." - Disease, Matchbox 20
He's at a party, somewhere in the Hills (except he knows where he is, he's off of Mulholland past Justin's place, it's just easier to think of these things in terms of somewhere, some night, because he doesn't find that old reassuring comfort in details anymore, and it's getting harder and harder to remember when he did) and he's drunk.
He's not so drunk that he can't think, but he's more than, oh yes, definitely more than buzzed. He's at that hazy, happy place between the fourth and fifth martini, where the gin starts hitting velvety-sharp under his tongue and his blood rolls warm and steady in pulses in the empty spaces between his fingers.
Amputated, he thinks disjointedly, letting the thought curl a smooth smile across his face, knowing he looks like a relaxed, Polaroid-permanent version of himself. That ready smile doesn't even begin to reflect the ghosts of hands that aren't holding his, and sure, why not take it there? After all, he's a veteran too. You just can't see his scars unless you know where to look, and that's not something he lets a lot of people know these days. People who don't already know, that is.
There are some really beautiful people at this party. They're all sitting on couches with their long legs crossed gracefully, like they don't have to think about how their thighs fit into the crooks of their knees. Or they're standing by the pool so that the underwater light reflects wavering patterns onto their bodies, highlighting the curves of their elbows as they balance their drinks in their hands. There are cheekbones to die for over by the lawn, and he would bet anything those cheekbones are natural, lucky assholes with God-given delicacy on those pretty, eager faces.
What's sick is that the eagerness doesn't even register with anyone. It's just there, like those sharp, perfect cheekbones, like the light dancing from the ripples of the water onto linen pants, like the tension of the muscle in those casually crossed legs, like the absent pain in his hands, where he always thought it would be his legs that hurt him in the end. His legs or his heart. No, like, physically. For real.
He wishes it could be past his bedtime. It feels late enough for that. It's going to be such a big fucking pain to drive home.
What's sick is he can feel himself going into the house before he even starts moving. He can feel his legs carrying him into the plush, carpeted depths of luxury, waltzing him into some back bedroom, too far back for the coats and purses and coke to migrate. He's never been to this house before, but he already knows where he can lay down for a bit.
"Can I crash for, like, half an hour?" he'll ask with that smooth smile.
"Sure, man, sure."
What's sick is he's done this before, and he'll do it again. It's sad to be twenty-six and already burdened with memories you really don't want, but it's sadder to be him, everything he is, everything he's done, everything he has, and still be that twenty-six year old. Because if he lived in the Mid-West and worked at Nebraska State, a small adjunct faculty office with sun-faded walls and hours posted on the door, he would be a different, different boy. And he wants to be happy, and he is. But he's not. No one is, right? No one really is, not that adjunct professor in Omaha, not Tom freakin Cruise, not him. So it doesn't matter that he's rich and famous (which is said with a laugh even in his head). Because he could be an immigrant working illegally at Carl's Jr. and still be sad. He could be anybody, and his shine could still be tarnished by experience.
What's sick is maybe he doesn't care.
"It feels . . . I don't know."
"What?"
"I don't know. Like. Like I made a mistake."
"About?"
"I don't know. The whole damn thing."
"Are you. Dude, are you fucking smoking?"
"No."
"Dude. I can fucking hear you inhale."
"So I'm inhaling, so what? Breathing."
"Nuh uh, you're fucking smoking."
"Jesus, okay, fine. Happy? Like that has anything to do with anything. Like you've never smoked."
"Okay, okay, god. I just thought . . . "
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, what?"
"Nothing, man. Nothing."
"It's fucked up, okay? That what you wanted to hear? I'm fucked up."
"Yeah, you know, I could have told you that."
"Well, I didn't ask you."
"Yeah. I know you didn't."
He has this sense that he's walking through the mahogany corridors of some old dream of his, nothing he's dreamed of in the last decade, but nebulous images from his childhood, when the rough, stucco walls of his house felt both confining and comforting, when the lazy sun slanting through the limp, sheer linen of his bedroom curtains made him squint and turn into the pillow. Behind his eyelids, he could quietly want, and want hard, always stupid, stupid things, like a really big pool, or a Jaguar, or so much money he could go anywhere he wanted anytime he wanted to go, or a house without walls that made your knuckles bleed.
He had been happy. He had always been happy. It wasn't a question of that. It wasn't a question at all.
He finds that inevitable bedroom. There are always twelve or thirteen bedrooms in houses like this, and they all have different color schemes, with an underlying coordination, like little wood sculptures on the nightstands, or Rie Munoz prints on the walls. This bedroom has purple - eggplant walls - with cream trim, and dark cherrywood furniture, and a bed that's as big as the Gobi.
It's the lighting fixtures, he realizes dimly, that's the theme. They're all those copper-plated, frosted-glass things, wall-sconces and chandeliers and bedside lamps.
He sits on the bed and wishes he was at a club. The anonymity of clubs is better than the anonymity of houses. The slightly sticky leather couches of any VIP section in LA, the glowing red lights shining through the white fabric ceilings (although red's on the way out, and blue's been out since 2002), the thousand interchangeable girls in their black midriff tops and their awful, 80s-style, feathery skirts (and god, does he hope those are on the way out too). The clink of the ice as it melts against the vodka. The casual disinterest, which is interest, of everyone in the room.
He really gets a kick out of all that sometimes. Which is probably sick as well. Whatever.
The pillows aren't like his pillows back home, his old pillows from Sears, the kind that got nice and lumpy after a few months of hard sleeping. Those pillows were perfect for wanting more than you had, even if you already had it pretty good. But these are goose-down, soft and folding in around his open mouth, yielding, growing moist.
If he stays very quiet, he can forget that he's going to have to get up again.
He's not fucking desperate. He's good. It's good. It's all really good.
When it hits him, it hits him hard, and he finds he can want pretty badly into those nice, expensive pillows too, because he was there, at that club, seeing those lights, watching those girls, and the thigh pressed against his made everything amusing, in such a way that he didn't have to care about anything else, he could just sit and let the whole scene wash over him, all because of that thigh and the smile that came with it.
There's this dull thwapping sound, and it's his fist hitting the mattress. He remembers hitting the stucco once, when he was fifteen, and it took over two years for the scars to totally fade. He remembers Justin examining his hand with over-embellished awe, because Justin didn't have any scars like that back then, nothing persistent.
He thinks maybe next time he talks to Justin, he'll remind him of that.
He's two seconds from tears, which is totally fucking pathetic, because this was not that big a deal, this is nothing he hasn't done before, this is something he's working through, will work through.
When his phone vibrates in his back pocket, he doesn't move to answer it. He can't think of a single person he wants to talk to right now.
"So y'all broke up."
"You noticed."
"Hard to miss."
"Oh, fuck you."
"Hey man, I'm just saying."
"So what, you're rubbing it in?"
"Right, that's what I'm doing. Jackass."
"Well, I don't know."
"Guess you don't. Rubbing it in, fuck. What the hell you take me for? Rubbing it in."
"Okay, I get it, I'm sorry. I'm just, you know."
"Man, you need to chill, snapping at your friends like that."
"I said I'm sorry. I need to write it out, what?"
"Look, no, I'm sorry, I guess, okay? I just called to say. You know."
"What?"
"That I'm sorry."
"What for? Not like you did anything."
"No shit, jackass. I'm sorry it happened. Or didn't happen. Whatever. He seemed . . . "
"I know. Shit. It's okay, I'm sorry. I'm being an asshole. I'll get over it. Hell, I ended it, right?"
"Right. Right."
"But, uh. You know. Thanks."
"Yeah, yeah. Yeah, man, yeah."
"Yeah."
"Hey, you wanna get together or something? We don't leave 'til Sunday, and I got some shit in Palm Desert tomorrow, you could come with and we could hit Vegas."
"Yeah, no, thanks, but I think. I think I'm staying in. For a bit. Not long."
"You'll call me, right?"
"You know I will."
"Okay, well. You know I love you, man."
"You too, J."
He's on his back on the bed, and the thighs that straddle him are lean and tan and lickable, so he does, raising his head just enough to coax a moan as his hands stroke and smooth, down and around the firm, firm muscle of lower back and ass.
"You have such a great ass," he whispers, and Jesse laughs huskily as he lowers his mouth, and the rasp of breath as it surrounds the head of Lance's cock nearly sends him arching, nearly makes him buck right the fuck off the bed. Jesse's licking like a tease, sucking so shallowly, and as his lips work, he rubs against Lance's chest, the weight of his balls heavy and hot. His cock is trapped, he can't get any friction, and Lance likes it that way. They've got to do it to each other.
Jesse's squirming just a bit because Lance knows how he likes to be grabbed, a little rough and a little needy. Lance can't wait to get his hands on those hips, so he doesn't, he holds back, because he likes to wait too. Instead, he kneads Jesse's asscheeks and lifts his tongue, swiping right across that musky, dark place, and Jesse's lips tighten as he tries not to bite in his eagerness.
Lance's eyes are closed, but he can just see Jesse's face, flushed under that dark tan, hair falling over his sweaty forehead, trying to take Lance in as his cheeks hollow with the effort, and god, he looks so great like that, Lance knows from a different angle.
Jesse's mouth is so wet, like liquid fire, but he's not going deep enough, so Lance flicks his tongue side to side, trying his best not to fuck Jesse's mouth, using his hands to guide Jesse's ass down. Jesse's trying to thrust, but he just can't, and it's got to be agony because Lance can feel how tight his balls are. He's been wanting to come for a real long time, but Lance won't let him 'til he asks for it and he knows it. They know each other so well at this point, and Lance can barely remember wanting to fuck anyone else.
Lance backs off for a moment, rubbing hard, over the strain of Jesse's lower back, over his ass, over those gorgeous, lean hips, and fuck, he wants to shove him down, but he dives back in with his tongue, determined to make Jesse howl. He scratches lightly with his nails as his tongue flicks trails of wetness before poking solidly in, and Jesse tightens around his tongue, god, and he's still sucking too goddamn shallow, but it's crazy good.
When Lance slides a slick finger in, Jesse freezes for a second in mid-swallow-action, and when Lance sucks at the muscle that surrounds his finger, his cock finally gets that depth it's been dying for, screaming for, sweet hot eternity with tight, tight motion, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he could fucking do this all night. Except that cock that's all damp and hard and pressed against his chest, he wants to feel that fucking him, so this ain't gonna be the end, right here, with him pushing up into Jesse's mouth and Jesse pushing back down at him.
'You're the best fuck, you know?" he mutters, right before Jesse deep-throats him all wet and perfect. "Fuck, I love you."
The next morning, Lance wakes up in that bedroom, and the walls aren't eggplant at all. They're just purple. And the trim is just white, and the lighting fixtures are just brass.
He's got seven messages on his phone, and six are from Justin.
He doesn't listen to any of them.