For the threesome challenge
May. 27th, 2003 02:52 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
murielperun.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionThis was a tough challenge, but something finally came to me. I don't know where this version of the characters came from. I seem to be going through a little angsty patch. ;-)
Slow Dancing
by Muriel Perun
He’s just back from the Territories sporting a two-day’s growth of beard, walking into a place too classy by half for the way he looks. Still wearing boots and flannel with his jeans, he feels like a lumberjack, the kind of guy who should be walking into a frontier bar, where the piano music stops dead while all the cowboys give him a long, cool, up-and-down look, but here the dancing and the drinking and the chatter just part around him as if he wasn’t there. This is Chicago, his own town, and he ought to feel at home here instead of like he has to take it by force. But there’s no red-clad presence hulking at his side anymore and he’s not even sure who the hell he is.
A drink would be good. A drink would be damn good.
The barkeep gives him the fisheye, like he’s thinking, Is this guy trouble? And Ray likes that, he likes it fine because it makes him feel real. The roar of talk and laughter rises around him as he drinks down half his beer. He’s wondering how anyone can stand to dance to that raucous beat until he sees them.
They’re on the raised dance floor, under that goddamned mirror ball, dancing close and slow.
Nobody else is dancing close. It’s not even a slow dance, but he can tell they’re moving to a tune only they can hear, and it’s making their feet step and their hips sway while their hands grasp and their cheeks touch. He’s whispering something to her, and she’s listening hard, and the look on his face says sex and the look on her face says sex and Ray’s getting stiff remembering how she moved in his arms the last time he held her that way.
Dancing slow always made Stella hot.
Ray licks his dry lips. Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drinks deeply, and the cold, bitter liquid sends a shudder through his frame. His thoughts twist into weird shapes, like when blazing hot lava meets the ice-cold ocean. As he lowers his glass, suddenly everything tilts and comes back into focus, but changed. He knew this place looked familiar. He and Stella used to come here to dance, it must be years ago. And now it’s her and Vecchio. Ray can’t stop watching them.
Now he sees what he’s been waiting for. Vecchio kisses her, and she kisses back. They almost stop dancing, and Ray wonders meanly if Vecchio can’t move his tongue and his feet at the same time, because there’s definitely tongue action going on, and Vecchio’s hands are all over her, sliding from her waist to her ass, and doesn’t anybody see what they’re doing in a public place? Ray looks around, but nobody’s noticing a thing. There are couples all around him kissing and touching like that, all blind to what’s happening an inch away. Ray’s the only one who sees, who cares, the only one who finds it provocative that Vecchio and Stella are practically humping on the dance floor.
Ray’s been away too long. He’s used to the far north where you’d never know if people had sex at all, where he made all his moves in private, which is what a couple of guys have to do if they want their neighbors to stay friendly.
Catlike, Stella’s rubbing up against Vecchio now, and his hands are gripping her waist like he can hardly stand it. Ray figures they’ll leave soon, and he wonders if they’ll make it out of the parking lot or if he’ll put it to her right there in the car.
Without looking, Ray picks up his glass, but it’s empty, and his mouth is filled with a sour aftertaste. That’s the thing that makes you have another beer, and then another—keep ‘em coming!—to put off the moment when your mouth has to hold that acrid taste of failure, futility, wasted time. Either you’re out there dancing or you’re at the bar drinking down the brewskis. There’s no feeling so bad in the world as standing at a bar with the taste of stale beer in your mouth watching somebody else get ready to go home and get laid.
Fuck if he knew why it hadn’t worked out—with Stella, with Fraser. Locked in a dance with one and then the other, Ray had known he couldn’t keep them. Sooner or later the music ended and he was alone, wanting another beer. He’d tried so hard to learn the steps, but—
Stella is standing at the edge of the dance floor while Vecchio slips through the crowd to get their coats. In Ray’s brain, the music takes hold, evoking a rhythm his body can’t refuse. He puts his glass down on the counter, missing the neat cork coaster to leave a wet ring on the polished wood. Awkwardly, Ray pulls out his wallet and pays for his drink, leaving the change on the bar. He moves forward to meet them as they head for the door. His hand lands on the thin shoulder.
“Hey, Vecchio,” he says, and for a second the look in the guy’s eyes makes him feel like a panhandler, and maybe that’s what he is with his crazy thoughts, his crappy clothes and unshaven face.
“Stan?” Vecchio says hesitantly, but Stella knows him right away. She looks pissed, asks him what he’s doing there—is he stalking them or what?—but Ray ignores her. He used to love her more than anything else in the world, but now she’s just gravy.
“Vecchio,” he says again insistently, tightening his grip, and when he sees the green eyes widen, he knows he’s all right.
Vecchio glances at Stella and then looks back in Ray’s eyes. He jerks his head once towards the exit. “Come on,” he whispers, and turns to Stella. “It’s okay, baby” he says to her. In her eyes the anger slowly cools to speculation. As they all walk out, Ray feels Vecchio’s hand at his waist, guiding him to the door.
He’s just back from the Territories sporting a two-day’s growth of beard, walking into a place too classy by half for the way he looks. Still wearing boots and flannel with his jeans, he feels like a lumberjack, the kind of guy who should be walking into a frontier bar, where the piano music stops dead while all the cowboys give him a long, cool, up-and-down look, but here the dancing and the drinking and the chatter just part around him as if he wasn’t there. This is Chicago, his own town, and he ought to feel at home here instead of like he has to take it by force. But there’s no red-clad presence hulking at his side anymore and he’s not even sure who the hell he is.
A drink would be good. A drink would be damn good.
The barkeep gives him the fisheye, like he’s thinking, Is this guy trouble? And Ray likes that, he likes it fine because it makes him feel real. The roar of talk and laughter rises around him as he drinks down half his beer. He’s wondering how anyone can stand to dance to that raucous beat until he sees them.
They’re on the raised dance floor, under that goddamned mirror ball, dancing close and slow.
Nobody else is dancing close. It’s not even a slow dance, but he can tell they’re moving to a tune only they can hear, and it’s making their feet step and their hips sway while their hands grasp and their cheeks touch. He’s whispering something to her, and she’s listening hard, and the look on his face says sex and the look on her face says sex and Ray’s getting stiff remembering how she moved in his arms the last time he held her that way.
Dancing slow always made Stella hot.
Ray licks his dry lips. Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drinks deeply, and the cold, bitter liquid sends a shudder through his frame. His thoughts twist into weird shapes, like when blazing hot lava meets the ice-cold ocean. As he lowers his glass, suddenly everything tilts and comes back into focus, but changed. He knew this place looked familiar. He and Stella used to come here to dance, it must be years ago. And now it’s her and Vecchio. Ray can’t stop watching them.
Now he sees what he’s been waiting for. Vecchio kisses her, and she kisses back. They almost stop dancing, and Ray wonders meanly if Vecchio can’t move his tongue and his feet at the same time, because there’s definitely tongue action going on, and Vecchio’s hands are all over her, sliding from her waist to her ass, and doesn’t anybody see what they’re doing in a public place? Ray looks around, but nobody’s noticing a thing. There are couples all around him kissing and touching like that, all blind to what’s happening an inch away. Ray’s the only one who sees, who cares, the only one who finds it provocative that Vecchio and Stella are practically humping on the dance floor.
Ray’s been away too long. He’s used to the far north where you’d never know if people had sex at all, where he made all his moves in private, which is what a couple of guys have to do if they want their neighbors to stay friendly.
Catlike, Stella’s rubbing up against Vecchio now, and his hands are gripping her waist like he can hardly stand it. Ray figures they’ll leave soon, and he wonders if they’ll make it out of the parking lot or if he’ll put it to her right there in the car.
Without looking, Ray picks up his glass, but it’s empty, and his mouth is filled with a sour aftertaste. That’s the thing that makes you have another beer, and then another—keep ‘em coming!—to put off the moment when your mouth has to hold that acrid taste of failure, futility, wasted time. Either you’re out there dancing or you’re at the bar drinking down the brewskis. There’s no feeling so bad in the world as standing at a bar with the taste of stale beer in your mouth watching somebody else get ready to go home and get laid.
Fuck if he knew why it hadn’t worked out—with Stella, with Fraser. Locked in a dance with one and then the other, Ray had known he couldn’t keep them. Sooner or later the music ended and he was alone, wanting another beer. He’d tried so hard to learn the steps, but—
Stella is standing at the edge of the dance floor while Vecchio slips through the crowd to get their coats. In Ray’s brain, the music takes hold, evoking a rhythm his body can’t refuse. He puts his glass down on the counter, missing the neat cork coaster to leave a wet ring on the polished wood. Awkwardly, Ray pulls out his wallet and pays for his drink, leaving the change on the bar. He moves forward to meet them as they head for the door. His hand lands on the thin shoulder.
“Hey, Vecchio,” he says, and for a second the look in the guy’s eyes makes him feel like a panhandler, and maybe that’s what he is with his crazy thoughts, his crappy clothes and unshaven face.
“Stan?” Vecchio says hesitantly, but Stella knows him right away. She looks pissed, asks him what he’s doing there—is he stalking them or what?—but Ray ignores her. He used to love her more than anything else in the world, but now she’s just gravy.
“Vecchio,” he says again insistently, tightening his grip, and when he sees the green eyes widen, he knows he’s all right.
Vecchio glances at Stella and then looks back in Ray’s eyes. He jerks his head once towards the exit. “Come on,” he whispers, and turns to Stella. “It’s okay, baby” he says to her. In her eyes the anger slowly cools to speculation. As they all walk out, Ray feels Vecchio’s hand at his waist, guiding him to the door.
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