Four Minutes
Dec. 8th, 2007 01:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i_am_tl_drTitle: Four Minutes
Characters: Ethan Rackham, Amos Larkin
Rating: R
Summary: Four minutes left to go, is this the end now?
Ethan hadn't been in London long-- barely time to leave his bags at the hotel and find a decently cleanly pub to sit and drink a few pints. He was standing at the bar, making small talk with the smirky dark-eyed bartender, when a sudden shrill alarm cut through the air and the television in the corner went black, then showed a test pattern.
"What's going on?" Ethan asked blankly, as if anyone around him had any more of an idea. The bartender's smirk had vanished, his pale face going paper-white, and some of the older patrons started to talk loudly, voices running over each others' in a many-accented river of babble. The sirens outside were echoed by a high tone from the television, and a calm proper voice started speaking.
"This is the British broadcasting service. This country has been attacked with nuclear weapons. Communications have been severely disrupted and the number of casualties and the extent of the damage are not yet known." Ethan licked his dry lips, glancing around-- this had to be a joke, for God's sake, he wasn't even supposed to be in London today, the conference had been delayed a week-- but no, all he saw were pale panicked faces. "We shall bring you further information as soon as possible. Meanwhile stay tuned to this wavelength, stay calm and stay in your own house."
"Not at this hour," the bartender said dryly, raising his voice a bit. "Last call, ladies and gents. On the house." For his part, he poured a fair glassful of whiskey and took a swig, making a face as the color came back to his cheeks. "How's about it, what's your pleasure?"
"One of those," Ethan said, and the bartender slid the bottle at him, grinning lopsidedly. "What's your name?"
"Amos Larkin," he said clinking his glass against the bottle.
"Ethan Rackham." Pushing red hair out of his face, he offered his hand. "Pleasure to meet you at the end of the world, Amos." Amos laughed, shaking his head a little; he set the glass down on the bar and hopped up onto it, proving himself built narrow and agile, and settled easily, kicking his legs over the edge.
"Isn't it, though?" Ignoring the people digging through the bottles behind the bar, Amos propped his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands. "Go on then, Ethan, tell me a secret. I promise I won't tell a soul."
"You're taking this pretty well," Ethan muttered, tipping back the bottle until his eyes watered from the burn. "Oh, god. Why not?" He looked up at Amos and shrugged. "I've been cheating on my girlfriend for the past five months. And I keep telling my lover I'll dump her for him, but I never really planned to do it."
Amos's lips shaped a perfect O of surprise before he laughed. "Oh my. That's even better than I was hoping for." He reached out and ruffled Ethan's shaggy red hair until the American brushed his hand away, annoyed. "Well, this'll make it easier on you, won't it? Greedy bisexual."
"That's one way of looking at it," Ethan said, giddy with fear and with the deep drinks of good whiskey he kept taking. "I've always tried to live up to that stereotype." When he looked back at the television, there was a radar image tracking the missile-- missiles, plural, even better, and how very grim. "Come on, help me live up to it one last time." Amos giggled, an honest and light giggle, hopping down from the bar easily.
"And here I thought you'd never ask, love." On even footing Ethan was shorter, and he let Amos pull him into the back room, away from the up-to-the-minute death count and the desperate drunks, even the sirens going quieter when the door closed behind them, Ethan pressing his lips just under Amos's ear, desperate, adrenaline-rushed.
"I told you a secret." He nipped, making Amos hiss a breath and fill both hands with Ethan's hair, tugging gently. "Your turn."
"I'm glad for the bombs," Amos said immediately, pulling Ethan's head back to kiss him properly, all teeth and heat and the buttery taste of the whiskey they'd shared. "I'm dying anyhow, rather do it quickly," he finished, lips dragging down Ethan's jawline, sucking at his throat for a moment.
"You are?" Ethan's instinct was to push him away; he pulled Amos closer instead, turned them around and backed the bartender against the door, hands tugging at Amos's shirt ineffectively until Amos raised his arms.
"Yeah, don't worry, nothing you can catch... not that it matters," he added flippantly, going for Ethan's belt. "Cystic fibrosis, and I'm not eligible for transplants because I'm, ahem, 'from an at-risk population group', meaning they think every fairy's going to get the bug and be a waste of an organ." He waved a hand dismissively. "Fuck 'em."
"Oh..." Stripping his own shirt off quickly-- everything had to be quickly, now-- Ethan wrapped Amos in his arms, feeling his shallow breath and the heat he put off. Amos gave him a wryly amused look and pinched Ethan's lean side.
"No time for sympathy, sweetness. Just, don't think I'm twisted for not minding overmuch." Hands skimmed up and back down Ethan's back, settling comfortably over his ass, and Amos made a pleased sound, tugging him closer. "Can't think of a better way to go out."
"Good point." It was a good way to wrap up his frivolous life, Ethan figured, and his biggest regret at the moment was that there was no time to trade blowjobs. It was the back room of a bar, after all, and there would have been symmetry to give his last one in the same sort of place as his first one... Amos pried him out of his thoughts with another needy kiss, demanding Ethan's full attention in the moment as they worked each other's pants open, shoving away fabric to fill their hands with heat and their mouths with moans. Ethan's fingers were rough with papercut scars, his shoulders richly freckled under Amos's occasional diverted kisses; there would have been bruises on Amos's pale throat if there was a tomorrow, his deft hands wringing gasps out of Ethan that gave his skin a momentary reprieve.
"C'mon," Amos said, his cheek pressed rough against Ethan's. "No holding back now." Ethan squeezed and Amos shuddered, groaning. "Fuck, why didn't I meet you yesterday?"
"God, shut up," Ethan said desperately, turning to cover Amos's mouth with his own, feeling himself coming closer and closer until the world went white--
Characters: Ethan Rackham, Amos Larkin
Rating: R
Summary: Four minutes left to go, is this the end now?
Ethan hadn't been in London long-- barely time to leave his bags at the hotel and find a decently cleanly pub to sit and drink a few pints. He was standing at the bar, making small talk with the smirky dark-eyed bartender, when a sudden shrill alarm cut through the air and the television in the corner went black, then showed a test pattern.
"What's going on?" Ethan asked blankly, as if anyone around him had any more of an idea. The bartender's smirk had vanished, his pale face going paper-white, and some of the older patrons started to talk loudly, voices running over each others' in a many-accented river of babble. The sirens outside were echoed by a high tone from the television, and a calm proper voice started speaking.
"This is the British broadcasting service. This country has been attacked with nuclear weapons. Communications have been severely disrupted and the number of casualties and the extent of the damage are not yet known." Ethan licked his dry lips, glancing around-- this had to be a joke, for God's sake, he wasn't even supposed to be in London today, the conference had been delayed a week-- but no, all he saw were pale panicked faces. "We shall bring you further information as soon as possible. Meanwhile stay tuned to this wavelength, stay calm and stay in your own house."
"Not at this hour," the bartender said dryly, raising his voice a bit. "Last call, ladies and gents. On the house." For his part, he poured a fair glassful of whiskey and took a swig, making a face as the color came back to his cheeks. "How's about it, what's your pleasure?"
"One of those," Ethan said, and the bartender slid the bottle at him, grinning lopsidedly. "What's your name?"
"Amos Larkin," he said clinking his glass against the bottle.
"Ethan Rackham." Pushing red hair out of his face, he offered his hand. "Pleasure to meet you at the end of the world, Amos." Amos laughed, shaking his head a little; he set the glass down on the bar and hopped up onto it, proving himself built narrow and agile, and settled easily, kicking his legs over the edge.
"Isn't it, though?" Ignoring the people digging through the bottles behind the bar, Amos propped his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands. "Go on then, Ethan, tell me a secret. I promise I won't tell a soul."
"You're taking this pretty well," Ethan muttered, tipping back the bottle until his eyes watered from the burn. "Oh, god. Why not?" He looked up at Amos and shrugged. "I've been cheating on my girlfriend for the past five months. And I keep telling my lover I'll dump her for him, but I never really planned to do it."
Amos's lips shaped a perfect O of surprise before he laughed. "Oh my. That's even better than I was hoping for." He reached out and ruffled Ethan's shaggy red hair until the American brushed his hand away, annoyed. "Well, this'll make it easier on you, won't it? Greedy bisexual."
"That's one way of looking at it," Ethan said, giddy with fear and with the deep drinks of good whiskey he kept taking. "I've always tried to live up to that stereotype." When he looked back at the television, there was a radar image tracking the missile-- missiles, plural, even better, and how very grim. "Come on, help me live up to it one last time." Amos giggled, an honest and light giggle, hopping down from the bar easily.
"And here I thought you'd never ask, love." On even footing Ethan was shorter, and he let Amos pull him into the back room, away from the up-to-the-minute death count and the desperate drunks, even the sirens going quieter when the door closed behind them, Ethan pressing his lips just under Amos's ear, desperate, adrenaline-rushed.
"I told you a secret." He nipped, making Amos hiss a breath and fill both hands with Ethan's hair, tugging gently. "Your turn."
"I'm glad for the bombs," Amos said immediately, pulling Ethan's head back to kiss him properly, all teeth and heat and the buttery taste of the whiskey they'd shared. "I'm dying anyhow, rather do it quickly," he finished, lips dragging down Ethan's jawline, sucking at his throat for a moment.
"You are?" Ethan's instinct was to push him away; he pulled Amos closer instead, turned them around and backed the bartender against the door, hands tugging at Amos's shirt ineffectively until Amos raised his arms.
"Yeah, don't worry, nothing you can catch... not that it matters," he added flippantly, going for Ethan's belt. "Cystic fibrosis, and I'm not eligible for transplants because I'm, ahem, 'from an at-risk population group', meaning they think every fairy's going to get the bug and be a waste of an organ." He waved a hand dismissively. "Fuck 'em."
"Oh..." Stripping his own shirt off quickly-- everything had to be quickly, now-- Ethan wrapped Amos in his arms, feeling his shallow breath and the heat he put off. Amos gave him a wryly amused look and pinched Ethan's lean side.
"No time for sympathy, sweetness. Just, don't think I'm twisted for not minding overmuch." Hands skimmed up and back down Ethan's back, settling comfortably over his ass, and Amos made a pleased sound, tugging him closer. "Can't think of a better way to go out."
"Good point." It was a good way to wrap up his frivolous life, Ethan figured, and his biggest regret at the moment was that there was no time to trade blowjobs. It was the back room of a bar, after all, and there would have been symmetry to give his last one in the same sort of place as his first one... Amos pried him out of his thoughts with another needy kiss, demanding Ethan's full attention in the moment as they worked each other's pants open, shoving away fabric to fill their hands with heat and their mouths with moans. Ethan's fingers were rough with papercut scars, his shoulders richly freckled under Amos's occasional diverted kisses; there would have been bruises on Amos's pale throat if there was a tomorrow, his deft hands wringing gasps out of Ethan that gave his skin a momentary reprieve.
"C'mon," Amos said, his cheek pressed rough against Ethan's. "No holding back now." Ethan squeezed and Amos shuddered, groaning. "Fuck, why didn't I meet you yesterday?"
"God, shut up," Ethan said desperately, turning to cover Amos's mouth with his own, feeling himself coming closer and closer until the world went white--
