ds_flashfiction | Playing hookey

Because this is short and fun and my whole fuckin' *life* doesn't depend on it. (Exaggerate? Moi?) It does prove that I'm very literal-minded and generally write sap; just in case you didn't already know. Many thanks to

kassrachel, whose support and suggestions are both much appreciated. ::mwah::

Sprinkled with flintlock rifles, powder horns, Conestoga wagons, and, oddly enough, coonskin caps, the fraying beige curtains had sagged in the middle.

The white canvas of the wagon drifted an eighth of an inch to the left of the body, faulty registration. The brown barrel of the rifle never met the stock. The cap reminded Ben of an electrocuted squirrel.

Steve hated them, hand-me-downs from his two older brothers. He wanted blue ones, with silver spaceships, suns and moons and stars. But his mother said they were perfectly good curtains, so they hung in his room beside his bed.

Ben stared at them when they finished sliding slick lips, rubbing heated chests and groins, when Steve would murmur in his ear, “turn over, I want to do you.”

He memorized the pattern as Steve pushed Vaseline inside, pushed himself inside. He held still, jaw tight against the pain, let Steve do what he wanted. Wondered when Steve’s mother last washed them.

~o~0~o~

New and crisp on shiny brass hardware, the tartan curtains usually hung open. Unless he was there, sitting on the bed with Mark. Then Mark would draw them closed, teeth gleaming in the sudden dusk. Like a tiger spotting its prey.

Mark would arrange him on the bed, arms overhead, grasping the brass bedstead. Pants rucked down to his ankles. He turned away, gasping, as slick fingers slid over, around, inside. A strong hand forced his head back, into a sloppy kiss that made his lips tingle.

Husky-voiced, Mark quickly coaxed a climax from him. Urged him onto his side, knee bent, still panting from his orgasm. Slipped inside, grunting. He stifled his own grunt of protest, of discomfort. His eyes followed the warp and weft, red and green and white and yellow, over and under and over again.

He’d consulted reference books, asked around town, but couldn’t identify the tartan pattern. Not Black Watch, not dress Ferguson, or hunting McIntosh or McLeod. This bothered him.

~o~0~o~

He turns over, tugging the wool blanket higher around his neck. Soft from use, the old blanket rises and dips over the forms on the bed, a contour atlas of lethargy. The thick satin band at the top slips between his fingers.

“Ray? Are you awake?”

A groan confirms his suspicions. He reaches out, pulling the warm body against his, tucking him against his chest.

“Ray, what colour are your curtains?”

An eruption beside him, as Ray turns over and peers into his eyes. “Are you unhinged? Ben, I’ve just had the best sex in my life, and I was kinda hoping you felt the same, and you want to know what colour my curtains are?”

“Exactly.”

Ray sighs. “Green. With white stripes.”

“Ah. I wondered.”

Ray mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘freak,’ kisses him on the nose, and collapses half on top of him.

Ben wraps his arms around him and closes his eyes. He honestly hadn’t noticed Ray’s curtains.

Perhaps happiness *does* alter one’s perceptions.

Or can it be love?