Categories > Original > Drama > Pocket Change
one lays up while the other lies down
0 reviewsChale isn't a morning person. Nobody at the Inn is.
0Unrated
-------
Pocket Change
-------
[03: /one lays up while the other lies down/]
Unwilling to face the day, Chale rolls over. The other side of the bed is cool.
It always is.
He's never woken up with Fiorel at his side, and he doesn't really mind. He's used to waking up alone. Sometimes he prefers it. Other times, like this one, when there's no incentive in the day ahead, he wishes there were someone to lay with.
Lazy mornings in love; that's what Chale Mancini dreams about, between naked women and wings and lollipops.
With a sigh, he slides out of bed and begins to get dressed. His wardrobe is scattered about the floor, along with empty candy wrappers and cigarette boxes. He's glad his landlord isn't a woman or- worse yet- a neat freak. Evicted with a flick of the wrist.
He feels like wearing his hoodie today, but remembers leaving it at Joss' last week. Clad in blue jeans and a white tee, he brushes his teeth and heads to the room two doors down.
"Jay," he calls, "have you seen my-?" Chale stops short; Joss isn't awake yet, and neither is the man lying beside her. She is wearing an oversized nightshirt and has Takeo Lyon's arm over her waist.
"You're quite the rude one, Mancini," drawls the immobile, not-asleep Takeo, "coming in here without knocking..."
Chale's knuckles are white on the doorframe. "You /didn't/..."
"Hm?"
"She was /drunk/!"
"So she was."
"If you fucking touched her-"
"What? What then?" Takeo watches him through half-lidded eyes, his face impassive. "You knew she was drunk. What did you do about it?"
Chale almost growls, humiliated. What kind of person is he? He let Fiorel distract him, he chose to let Takeo take Joss away; what right does he have to be angry now?
Joss' shirt is so big, it's falling off one shoulder. Behind her, Takeo's chest is bare.
Indecency in its most vivid incarnation.
Chale flees the room. Joss begins to stir.
Her head is one big pain. The light hurts. The floorboards' creak hurts. The sound of her own breathing hurts. Her tongue feels like sandpaper and her mind feels like a muddied puddle. There's a sense of something wrong that she can't quite place.
A hand pushes the sleeve of her shirt further down and rests on her bare arm. The thumb rubs her skin with lazy strokes. It doesn't hurt.
"Want to go back to sleep?"
The rumble of his chest against her back is soothing, but the sound of hearing is not.
"More than /anything/."
Takeo chuckles- /God, he's sexy!/- and pulls her closer. He presses his lips to the back of her neck. "We've got nowhere to be, Jay."
"Nowhere."
"Nothing to do."
"Nope."
He's rubbing her shoulder again. "No reason... to exist."
She is slightly alarmed. She turns to look at him. "No?"
"Only you for me, and I for you."
They stare at each other for the longest time.
Pocket Change
-------
[03: /one lays up while the other lies down/]
Unwilling to face the day, Chale rolls over. The other side of the bed is cool.
It always is.
He's never woken up with Fiorel at his side, and he doesn't really mind. He's used to waking up alone. Sometimes he prefers it. Other times, like this one, when there's no incentive in the day ahead, he wishes there were someone to lay with.
Lazy mornings in love; that's what Chale Mancini dreams about, between naked women and wings and lollipops.
With a sigh, he slides out of bed and begins to get dressed. His wardrobe is scattered about the floor, along with empty candy wrappers and cigarette boxes. He's glad his landlord isn't a woman or- worse yet- a neat freak. Evicted with a flick of the wrist.
He feels like wearing his hoodie today, but remembers leaving it at Joss' last week. Clad in blue jeans and a white tee, he brushes his teeth and heads to the room two doors down.
"Jay," he calls, "have you seen my-?" Chale stops short; Joss isn't awake yet, and neither is the man lying beside her. She is wearing an oversized nightshirt and has Takeo Lyon's arm over her waist.
"You're quite the rude one, Mancini," drawls the immobile, not-asleep Takeo, "coming in here without knocking..."
Chale's knuckles are white on the doorframe. "You /didn't/..."
"Hm?"
"She was /drunk/!"
"So she was."
"If you fucking touched her-"
"What? What then?" Takeo watches him through half-lidded eyes, his face impassive. "You knew she was drunk. What did you do about it?"
Chale almost growls, humiliated. What kind of person is he? He let Fiorel distract him, he chose to let Takeo take Joss away; what right does he have to be angry now?
Joss' shirt is so big, it's falling off one shoulder. Behind her, Takeo's chest is bare.
Indecency in its most vivid incarnation.
Chale flees the room. Joss begins to stir.
Her head is one big pain. The light hurts. The floorboards' creak hurts. The sound of her own breathing hurts. Her tongue feels like sandpaper and her mind feels like a muddied puddle. There's a sense of something wrong that she can't quite place.
A hand pushes the sleeve of her shirt further down and rests on her bare arm. The thumb rubs her skin with lazy strokes. It doesn't hurt.
"Want to go back to sleep?"
The rumble of his chest against her back is soothing, but the sound of hearing is not.
"More than /anything/."
Takeo chuckles- /God, he's sexy!/- and pulls her closer. He presses his lips to the back of her neck. "We've got nowhere to be, Jay."
"Nowhere."
"Nothing to do."
"Nope."
He's rubbing her shoulder again. "No reason... to exist."
She is slightly alarmed. She turns to look at him. "No?"
"Only you for me, and I for you."
They stare at each other for the longest time.
Sign up to rate and review this story