It was a Sunday night, and Jack Kelly was drunk.
Completely, wretchedly, smashingly drunk. Drunk drunk drunk. The word sounded funny in his head, like nonsense or like singing, so he laughed. He felt the alcohol bubble warmly in his stomach, and that made him laugh even more. He was borne up completely on a cloud of whiskey, like the world was circling far below him in dizzying circles, and Jack, well, Jack was free from it. He leaned back comfortably, his head heavy, topsy-turvy and loose on his neck. He spread his arms, felt his shoulders crack. Drunk.
“Well, I guess we have the truth.” David was laughing at him? David? Was laughing at him? “The one and only Jack Kelly-- feared and beloved all over New York City!-- is a lightweight.” Yes, David was definitely laughing at him.
“Can’t be,” Jack said, even as his words slurred and mushed together, his tongue thick. “’M Irish.” He thought about it for a moment, but his mind was tumbling and turning, as unsettled as autumn leaves. “Had more to drink than you, ‘sall.”
David’s laugh, when it came again, was a rich, full thing. And though it was a hit to his pride, Jack couldn’t help liking the way the sound rung against his dull ears. “Sure, Jack,” David said, “Sure.”
And when he found his bearings, he was looking up at David from miles away, looking down at David from the stars. Saw how it was he and David both, breathing like they were meant to exist on the roof of David’s house, with only each other and a nearly empty whiskey bottle. And Jack laughed again, couldn’t help it, because it was like they were surrounded by stars, sinking into the moon-- except, he thought that maybe David was the stars, the way his hair gleamed and shone in the night like it was a part of the fabric, and David met his eyes, and Jack thought that those looked like stars, too.
But David was looking away now, down at the tiles of the roof, his smile turned towards the ungrateful stone, and Jack thought that losing David’s eyes meant that he was being pulled away, meant that he was being bathed him in darkness, in nothing. He stretched out his hand, tried to catch the fire, but only made it to David’s knee. And he let his fingers sit there, because at least it was something. “Why’re you so far away, Davey?”
David looked up at him, and there was something drawn about his face, now, something tight and shattering. He smiled, like he was trying to hide it, but it was still there. And Jack thought that maybe it had always been there, and he had just never looked close enough. “You’re drunk, Jack,” David said, and moved his knee away, the fabric of his trousers sliding roughly from Jack’s fingertips, disappearing, and Jack’s hand fell palm down onto the cold roof.
“Yeah,” Jack said, but then he understood, as purely and as cleanly as anything, that right now, he had to be close to David. And so he pulled himself over the stars, the tapestry of the sky, clawingly desperate. The roof was icy and harsh under his knees, but he reached out his hand (and there was no tremor in it, no hesitancy) and touched David’s arm, and none of it seemed to matter.
He looked up, and for a moment Jack watched a mist cloud David, softening the lines around his eyes, and his face was open suddenly; and there was something exposed and vulnerable around the curve of his nose, something raw tugging at the edge of his lips. But then it was gone. “Jack,” he said, and pulled his arm away. But Jack followed the movement, gripped David’s arm tightly, and David’s eyes were widening now.
“You are,” Jack said, but he couldn’t find the right words, couldn’t make his lips form to shape.
David tried to pull away, but Jack kept his hand fastened, viselike, because if he didn’t have his words, well at least he had this feeling; David’s muscle tightening and relaxing under his fingers, the warmth cutting through the shirt, up through Jack’s arm like liquid. David laughed, like giving up, and Jack felt David’s arm relax against his hand. “I am what? Not as strong as you?”
Jack shook his head so hard that the world span. “No,” he said, and he thought about it. What was David? Hair shining, curls falling haphazardly into his eyes, the way the moonlight danced off of his jaw, and echoed up against his cheeks. “Beautiful.”
David’s breath caught, and his mouth opened slightly, and Jack thought that maybe that was as much of an invitation as he would ever get, so he leaned in, close, breathing David’s breath, and their lips weren’t touching, but god it was already enough, more than enough.
David made a small noise in the back of his throat, and: “Shit,” and it was David that bridged the gap, pressing their mouths together hard, and their teeth banged, but they opened their mouths and it was, it was, it was.
Jack couldn’t move for a second. He couldn’t process. David’s tongue was in his mouth. David’s lips were pressed against his, he could feel the vibrations of David’s moan through his teeth. It was unbelievable, unthinkable, and David wound his hands up around Jack’s neck, opened his mouth wider and did--oh! Something amazing with his tongue, and Jack stopped thinking.
Jack licked a line over David’s lips, and down his jaw, and David was gasping helplessly against him. And Jack raised his hands, twined them in David’s hair, then down grappling at the front of David’s shirt, the coarse fabric sliding through his fingers, then over David’s ribs and around his back, pressing them together. He felt David’s heartbeat thrumming against him, as real as anything he had ever felt. And there was so much; so much feeling, so much touching, so much David, that Jack thought he might have lifted off of the roof, thought that he might actually be in the stars.
Or was it just David?
He wasn’t sure. The thoughts were coming slow through the smoke of whiskey, and anyway, all that he could think of was the way David felt against him, under his hands, the way David tasted like buttermilk and sweat and toothpaste, and then David was pressing his mouth into the hollow of Jack’s jaw, against his ear, and Jack keened and shuddered, spread his hands, and slid them unapologetically under David’s shirt, let his fingers graze over the ridges of David’s spine, shoulder blades. And then the shirt was off, over David’s shoulders, and Jack was paralyzed for a moment, at the expanses of skin suddenly free and under his fingertips. David was beautiful, so beautiful, under the moonlight, the stars shining up from behind his skin, and Jack felt overwhelmed, needed more.
And then David was rolling on top of him, pulling helplessly at the bottom of Jack’s undershirt, then desperation turning him uninhibited, tearing, and the buttons clattered on the rooftop, the thin cotton tore from seam to seam. And they were pressed, hip to shoulder, skin against skin. And Jack was bucking up against David’s hips, and everything felt right, the sparks flashing behind his eyes, the weight of David pressed against him, the cold bite of the wind on the rooftop.
Jack bit the crook of David’s neck, where the neck smoothed evenly into shoulder, and David gasped and moaned on top of him, ground his hips down against Jack’s, and god. God. God. He could die now, he really could. He was falling out of himself, spilling like milk from a jug, pulling up to meld against David. He pressed his hands over David’s back, traced over the shoulder blades jutting out, shaking with the cold or maybe with something else, and someone groaned throatily, but Jack wasn’t quite sure who.
It was too much. Jack rolled over, flipping David under him, because he couldn’t be this out of control, he couldn’t let this mist bear him up too far, or he would fall round the moon and never come down, but god, David was spread beneath him, staring up at him, and his lips were red and swollen, and pressing everywhere, and Jack felt himself rising like a balloon, helpless into the stars. He bowed his head, and rocked their hips together, slowly at first, and then rhythmically, anxiously, needingly.
And David was making soft grunting noises in the back of his throat. Jack wanted to touch it all, wanted to feel it all, David’s skin and muscle and heat, and everything pressing up against him, he needed it like nothing he had ever needed before. He drew his hands in languid circles over David’s ribs, up and coasting, and David shuddered against him, and Jack was full. Full of need, full of desire. Full of satisfaction and maybe joy or something like it and. And. And.
And there were stars behind his eyes, and under his fingertips, and all around, bearing him up, and he was thrusting helplessly, and David was leaning up, pressing his mouth, his teeth, his breath against Jack’s neck, and everything spun for a second that felt like an eternity.
When Jack came back into himself, he felt himself panting, harsh, ragged breaths, felt David’s heart beating erratically against his ribs, and he felt as though he had never been more sated in his life, and though he has never been more certain, or content.
But the warmth was dissipating, and he felt fear like ice settling into his stomach. Silence fell, and the only sound was their ragged breathing, reverberating over the rooftop, and Jack couldn’t look up, couldn’t look over, couldn’t meet David’s eyes because he didn’t know what he would see. He was falling out of his cloud, and suddenly he didn’t know where the ground was, and the stars had all gone out at some point, when he wasn’t looking. And now he felt suddenly and terribly alone, on the rooftop, in the deep, dark sky.
He rolled off of David, humiliated, felt his face burn against the moonlight, felt David’s arm next to him, could still feel David’s warmth spreading up and along his entire body, the shivers that made his feet feel loose and unhinged. “Jack,” David said, and his voice was husky and soft, breakable. And Jack looked over, looked at David, and how the curls spread around his head like a hood, and how wide his eyes were, the way his eyelashes clumped, how David was looking at Jack like he was lost and Jack was his lamp or lantern, like Jack was his harbor.
And Jack couldn’t help it, couldn’t analyze it, couldn’t stop it, he leaned over and dropped a soft, lingering kiss on the side of David’s face. He sat up, and tried not to look back at David. Because maybe he had just given the whole game away, and maybe now David knew, and maybe Jack didn’t want David to know. Maybe David would get up and leave, and that would be it. And Jack would be all alone.
And so he sat, and finally felt like he was grounded, the tiles of the roof against his hands like anchors, the wind whipping at his cheeks, and he had forgotten what it was like to be here, to be shackled. And he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to look. The moon was too far away, and David was too close, and he felt as though he were spiraling out of control. And he thought that maybe he should get up and leave.
But then David’s hand fell, warm and damp against his back, palm open, and fingers light and uncertain. And then the hand was traveling up against his shoulder, down his arm, and then twining with his fingers against the rooftop. And David put his chin in the crook of Jack’s shoulder.
And Jack smiled.
Sunday Night by muskular