Run Red

Um. [But the answer is not so easily in reach.] I– yes.

[’I didn’t meant to.’ He doesn’t say. Nor does he mutter quietly, ‘They were meant to be for you. He leaves it at yes, and clears his throat like that might make it well enough clear that he’d like to move on from it.]

Sorry.

[And he doesn’t even know if the sorry is meant to be for the flowers or for all of it – if maybe his mouth leapt ahead of his mind and gave him away. He half expects Parker to shut the door in his face.] I’ll clean them up?

Easier to get calls in the middle of the night. Easier to sneak over when everyone's sleeping. Easier to disappear for a week and tell no one that he's one door over. To ghost his way through this than to admit any semblance of depth.

He shakes his head at it.] -- I don't really give a shit, but if it makes you feel less weird for bringing me fucking flowers.

He’d picked flowers. Which, in hindsight was probably a stupid move, but he’d walked home from work and thought – hey, that’s usually – Well, usually doesn’t matter. He should trash them, or hide them, because they won’t help here. Parker won’t care. He’s not his boyfriend, he’s the affair next door.

And he drops them two seconds after he knocks. Three before the door swings open, and Nigel does his best to look like he is not standing in a dusting of crumpled stems and petals. Nope. Not him. Not at all.]

Hey. Um, can we talk? [And he hates the way his voice sounds just too breathy and hopeful too. Still, Parker is a sight for sore eyes.]

Nigel was never going to be an exception to that, and if he didn't know it then he would soon learn. Because there were no exceptions. And no wide-eyed charm or naive-gestured sweetness had ever spun the clock back long enough to keep his emotions in check. Why should it matter now? Why should any of it?

It isn't his fault if the breathy way his voice wavers only makes that fire build higher. Or his face, too eager when he opens the door. It wouldn't matter if Parker's mimicked it perfectly. Which, he might be. He can't tell.

He looks down.] Did you just drop a bunch of fucking plants on the ground?

All the little things that have made Nigel as neurotic as he has always fucking been; manifested in a stream of sound.]

I know I can’t ask you to be mine, but why would you doubt that I’m yours? For him, of all people.

I needed him once, and he left anyways, and he’s not getting that back. Not how it used to be. Me, I’m yours now. It’s for me to give, and I’ve given it. To you.

[And confidence of any sort seems to die there. Gone on the same breath that Nigel finishes with the words. All that comes past it feels hollow. Sounds it too, defeated, and reluctant, but willing.]

But you’re right. [‘Please don’t leave.’ Nigel doesn’t say. ‘Please, please don’t leave. You’d leave, and I’d still want you until I didn’t know how to want anymore.]

Because I haven't given you any reason to stay.

[And it's there, and it's honest. Earnest in a way he hadn't yet gotten used to being, but still manages to let slip out like it's his last option.

Because there has been nothing in what he's offered Nigel that would keep him here, if it were the other way around.

Fuck me. Be with me. Only me. Sit around while I go on dates with someone else and bring you to parties as my "friend". Watch me get drunk and laugh with her and kiss her and not say anything about it to you that even resembles an apology. Just accept the next 48 hours of movies and sex and cuddling on the couch, no interruptions.

Parker knows better than to think that that's anything like a good deal. Knows that what he wants is to fucking own Nigel and know that no one else can touch him. That he could go through his phone and see nothing but Parker, in text, in photos. Wants him to be his, fully, totally, without question.

And he can't say if he wants more than that because more has strings. More means less elsewhere that he isn't ready to cut off.

After all, what is there to say? Parker knows he’s right. Nigel knows that he walked into this from day one, and where he has landed now is only where he has let himself fall.

The silence doesn’t so much threaten to swallow him whole as it does to to simply erase him. Like he was never even there, rather than a point of absence. He wants to burrow into the cushions of the couch and never come out again. Or call Sadie and let her knows that all these years she’d been right too, while he was in the mood to state the obvious.

In the end, what he does say is not what he wants to. But they are the only words that come, and the only ones he wants an answer to. So In an essence, any other option would have only fallen flat anyways.]

What do you want from me, Parker?

I’m still here, with you. But if you don’t want this, you have to tell me.

And if you do, you have to tell me that too.

Maybe it's the control issues within him -- the blatant need to wrap himself around any and all situations and claim dominance. The want to hold onto something and call it his own, whether he had right to stake a claim or not. Maybe that's why he hates seeing him this way. Dejected, divisive, end-of-the-rope questioning that seeps into his pores and spills something awakening all over him.

Tired, alert. Monochrome, vivid. He's blurs where there should be definition. Nothing where there should be everything. And everything where there should be nothing.

Like here -- bare bones and eclipsed by the want that is Nigel. He wants to rake his hands down his face, pull the skin off and shed into someone new, someone easier. Better.

He just shakes his head, instead.] If it were about not wanting you, you really think I'd give two shits about you talking to fucking Allen?

It doesn’t do any good anyhow for them both to be spitting venom. Even as it curls around his tongue, rises from the depths of him like a birthright, Nigel swallows it down.]

You got mad that I was still sleeping with other people months ago, and I stopped. I stopped with River too.

I told you that I’d stick around. I told you that I wanted to. I want to, still.

Allan called for my sister, and we got back in touch, but that doesn’t mean that I’m interested in him. I’ve been exclusively interested in you for months now. And you can’t even say the same.

You, and a shit ton of other things are keeping me from doing anything with him. The bad breakup, for one. The fact that he lives really fucking far away. The fact that I don’t even want to, Parker.

You’re the reason I do and don’t do a lot of things nowadays.

[Nigel breaks himself off before he can say anything worse. He clamps down on everything left for him to say until he’s taken another breath. Pressing his head into his hand, he just breathes.]

Even now, with his stomach turning like something sick stuck in it, he knows that wanting Nigel is never going to mean kicking Maria out completely. He couldn't do that, wouldn't do that.

And it's just a matter of this: Parker wanting everything. Lying until he gets it. Wants the girl to be his high school sweetheart and the boy next door to never run his hands over anyone but him. Wants to rule and not be ruled. Wants to lazily give affection and only pay attention when it suits him. When things are going wrong.

He wanted to stay as far the hell away from Nigel as possible the first time he met him. Except, no, he really didn't.]

I didn't ask for this.

Because he’s not a fighter, really. He’s pissy, and stubborn, and childish at times, but it’s not in his nature to really draw blood. Not like this, where the words are jagged and spoken raw.

And it’s too fucking much at once. Too much claim the other’s got no right to speak. Too much anger for one phone call gone well, or maybe wrong, in Parker’s book. Too much for someone who wants to be like this in Nigel’s own living room, but leave all discussion of actual emotion hanging.

Fuck that.

His tongue feels much too heavy in his mouth here.]

Well I guess if this is just fucking to you, it’s easy to see where you’d assume I’m — what? Cheating? I shouldn’t have to fucking tell you that Allan isn’t a threat to you, Parker. You should know that he isn’t. I’ve already told you exactly where I am with this.

You’ve made it very clear in the past that we’re not on the same page with this, but fuck you for assuming that of me.

And why shouldn't he be? What would stop him, really, in the long run? Maria shares a home with the girl he fucked while she was still in Texas and no one has the heart to tell her. So what fucking stops anyone? Nothing at all. Especially not this. Not him, being possessive and indifferent all the same.] Nigel, what the fuck is supposed to be keeping you from doing shit with him? Me?

Nigel hums soft, and presses his cheek closer.] Let’s just stay in.

[The words taste bitter on his tongue, not because he would rather be somewhere else, but because of the nature of what they follow. Like acquiescing to non-resolution. Letting the tension ebb and rise instead of addressing it.

And Nigel has never been good at doing that. He chases his worries until they’ve wound completely through him, so tight he’s got no choice but to obey them.] I’ve clearly upset you. I’d rather have this than fuck it up further.

It's quick, light, harsh. All the things he wants to feel but can't manage with a stone sinking in his stomach.

Fighting with Maria is easy, so long as she doesn't cry, which she's gotten angry enough and hardened enough at the way they talk to one another that she hadn't bothered to let herself in a long time. It's easy because they know why they fight. Know where the wrong turns are and even though they're fucking lost in the maze with no directions, they're gonna yell it out until the walls fall down and there's an exit sign up ahead.

But this isn't a fight, isn't a reality perched in front of them with clear-cut signs and tourist attractions.

It's drunk driving in the desert, with no one around to kill but yourselves.] If you're so sure you upset me, why don't you fucking call Allan and talk to him about it.

For once, or always, Nigel has no idea which course of action would be better. So he settles for neither, simply drawing his free hand closer to himself; tucking it at his waist where it feels safe.]

It wasn’t important. [He says. And though he means it, it probably won’t sound convincing.] We were just catching up.

[The glow from before is rapidly fading; embers now where once grew flames. Nigel feels less heady and more seasick; the flip-side of being drunk. His own emotional hangover, though he doesn’t feel like he ought to have one.

It’s not like they haven’t said worse before.

So Nigel moves just closer on the couch, smiling small and with as much affection as he always feels when he says:] What do you want to do tonight? If we stay in, I could make dinner? Or we could go to a party?

[And, genuinely, it isn't because he isn't happy to see the man. Content to feel him squirming closer to him on the couch -- happy, adoring, affectionate all as usual. He's just squeezed tightly between that feeling and the one of utter distaste at seeing Nigel's face, warm and glowing at the tail end of what was probably a long conversation with his ex.

Someone that Parker's never met. Someone that Parker has no right to feel anything towards on any level, but he does. All wound up discontent and puckered masculinity wringing him dry of most sane thought. Something he was made to get rid of, if only to absorb jealousy like moisture on dry skin.]

I don't care what we do. Whatever. You choose. [Leaning over and burying his face into the other man's neck -- a familiar gesture they'd gotten used to over the past few months. It's still a hiding spot for him to mope, all the same.]

He wasn’t going to say he hadn’t enjoyed it. At around the same point they’d passed mentions of Sadie, he’d even started smiling. Pinned with the conversation, that grin hadn’t faltered very much since it’s initial appearance. They’d managed to make something almost nice in their mutual absence, perhaps. Or maybe it was simply the understanding that they’d had as teenagers coming back to life; dusting itself off after years of being buried beneath sexual tension and obligation.

Without all of the weight, Allan was almost the same glowing thing.

And if he’s being perfectly honest, it’s only Parker stepping through the door — that, at this point he’s taken to leaving unlocked just for the man. Has even thought of getting Parker a key for. — that makes him start to wrap the conversation up.

Like Nigel could talk on for hours, uninhibited, aND he probably could. The catharsis that comes with clearing bad blood is almost as good as the highs he chases each night.]

Yeah, it was good talking. [He says, waving Parker over to the couch where he sits. Nigel’s mood is in a rather lofty place now; warm, unreachable, and fond for everything — especially Parker.] I missed this too. I’ll text you later.

[Goodbyes cleared and call closed, Nigel reaches for his not-boyfriend. Reaches for the other man’s hand, because he wants the closeness.]

Maybe it wouldn't be anything, if it hadn't been like this every single night this week. If Parker hadn't noticed Nigel checking his phone every ten minutes or so, tucking it away back in his pocket the way that Parker knows too well.

And Parker had taken to sitting on the couch with River, having quiet "What the fuck is up with this guy?" mouthing conversations with the spacey blonde who, no doubt, would reply with something Parker was not at all ready for. But even she spent a minute or two rolling her eyes at the mystery on the other end of the phone call. Not a mystery to her, apparently, but enough to pull her down to the ground and give her a solid, identifiably human emotion: annoyance.

He clears his throat as he walks in, takes unnecessarily heavy steps to make himself known. Maybe for Nigel. Maybe for the voice attached to his ear. And when he reaches for his hand, Parker can't help but be reminded of the way he used to go after Ira's, back in the day.]

Yeah. Too bad I came in and cut it so short. Now you'll have to text him later. [The sarcasm drips heavy in the last sentence, soaked to the bone with false enthusiasm and salt.]

Because Parker’s lips against his neck are soft, bright spots of hazy clarity, even through his weariness. A point of desire to focus on. Not just lust, but affection, and want, and adoration. Nigel wants to return the favor. Moreover he wants to claim his lips; kiss the taste so far into his being that even the alcohol won’t make it fade.

He doesn’t. Doesn’t directly, at least.

Nigel plants a firm, sleepy kiss to Parker’s cheek and pulls away enough to find his glass; to bring it to his lips long enough to drain what’s left in it.

But the distance it creates feels insulting, and cold. He doesn’t want there to be any more of it than absolutely necessary, and glass or not, he’s pulling himself close again only seconds later.]

It’s a rough morning, babe. [He admits softly, as if it makes any of this any easier to excuse when the alternative is a morning in bed.

With sex. With the tongue ring thing.]

Parker knows that. Knows that feeling because that's every morning. Every night. Most free moments when the world is spinning, Parker's got a drink in his hand or more than a few in his system. Not always raging and not always drunk. But always enough to take the edge off. To talk to Aaron, to spend time with Maria, to be with Nigel and not thing about the previous two. 

So he's no one to preach. No one to tell him not to drown his rough morning in amber-colored booze. Instead, he just takes the bottle, brings it to his lips and takes enough in to get them started. 

So they'll be drunk. They'll be drunk and they'll be lazy and Parker'll say things he doesn't usually say. Be more giving with his emotions. He saves them up. Pockets them for times like these. Times to tell Nigel how much he wants him if only to make him think on that, instead of whatever's making it so rough. 

And he pulls him in, whiskey on his tongue.] Whatever you want. I'll make it better.

Like there’s no place else he’d rather be than beneath those hands, and there isn’t. Especially since he hadn’t been in the mindset that morning to simply roll closer to the other in bed. The touch comes as a heaven-send. Nigel wants to follow it with his own, but stumbles in doing so.

It takes him a moment to register that he has to put his glass down before he attempts to close any — nonexistent — gaps. But he does, after a moment, and wraps his arms around the man before him; tucking them close and keeping them there. Probably the moment in which it paid off to be the larger body.

Though he doubts Parker would try to pull away to begin with. And Nigel is undeniably sleepy, when he lets his head simply fall to the other man’s shoulder in a similar gesture.]

Let me warm you up, then.

[As if he can, so easily. Like it might be an offer of sex, or skin, or to share the drink he’s got burning holes in the back of his throat. It’s  mostly and offer of what they have there — contact and company. But it could be anything. There isn’t quite anything Nigel would actually mind letting Parker have.

Though he feels like he may topple over just standing there.]

And his lips meet the skin of Nigel's neck. Messy, soft kisses that happen just to feed their need to be touched. To fuel the way his warmth engulfs Parker and makes it that much harder to even think about leaving.

About places to be. About Nigel's job and band practice and lunch with Jules and real life happening outside of this apartment that he'd found himself spending all his time at.

He doesn't even both to make excuses to tell Aaron anymore. His best friend doesn't ask, and so Parker doesn't tell. Doesn't feel the need to pretend he'd been off anywhere doing anything other than this. Doesn't even pretend lately that part of him doesn't want to get caught.] Come back to bed. [It's a request, all soft and tired. So indicative of how far they've come.] Play hooky with me today. I'll do that thing you like with my tongue ring.