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petraTitle: In which we discover how much fun it is possible to have while clothed
Fandom: Les Misérables (words 8,000-11,000 of 35K+)
Summary: A group that nearly missed trending on Twitter.
Pairing: Various, some established, some nascent. In this chapter: Courfeyrac/Grantaire, for the local values thereof.
Notes: Explicit consensual sex.
On AO3 very shortly.
On the way to R's apartment, R forewarns David, "There are people who keep their apartments at peak condition for entertaining guests at all time, every IKEA bookshelf spotless and with something placed faux-artlessly just so to accentuate the tome the host would most like to be asked about reading, whether it's a work of lengthy fiction like War and Peace or some more frothy confection by Deepak Chopra chosen to give the sense of being a deep thinker without the effort of paying attention to the intricacies of philosophy. No one puts a bowl of glass marbles just so by their copy of Aristotle unless they've been through the wars, or at least through a bachelor's degree in philosophy. And those would probably prefer you to think they favor Foucault or Barthes, as Aristotle is startlingly passe when it comes to the finer things in life."
"Ah," David says. "Barthes, sure," in the precise tone of someone who'd never read Barthes but knew when someone was being namechecked whom he ought to have read.
David was charming enough to get away with it. That was the trouble with him, and with all the rest of his merry crew. R resumed, "I don't do anything like that. If it's a good day, I put the issues back in the longbox. If it's not such a good day, there may be all manner of undergarments strewn about the place."
That got David to smile, at least. "As long as you don't try to get me into any of them."
"Only the ones that would suit you and accentuate your gender performance," R agrees cheerfully. "Though you'd look smashing in a basque. Have you ever been in Rocky? No, you're a bit young for that, really, aren't you."
The latter description makes David bristle, or at least flex his admirable pectoral muscles. He does dress to show them off, most days, and if R had a set as well-defined R would do likewise. "I never found a cast I clicked with. Not because I'm young, but because it's not my scene."
"Not quite your kind of queer."
"Yes, if you want to put it that way."
They're half a block from R's third story walk-up apartment, which is plenty of time for David to pretend he was going somewhere else and head off in a different direction well before anyone needs to get to the point of kissing on the front stoop. Not that there are stoops in this part of town, but that's never stopped anyone from making out in front of a front door and blocking traffic for other people who only want to get to their duly appointed meeting of politically angry people. "If your kind of queer is effectively limited to the kind of twink gym bunnies you have all those pictures of on your phone, you may as well head home, and no harm done." Though he must have noticed at some point that R has abs approximately equivalent to the average teddy bear's, and would be more at home in a relatively open-minded bears' club than anywhere that expects waxed chest and hard bodies. "On the other hand, if you're a size queen, I've got a bigger one than any of the bio-dudes I know, if I can remember where I put it."
David laughs without hesitation. He's always been hard to startle, whether he's actually as open-minded as he wants to seem or he saves all of his catty comments for his phone, which he doesn't have in his hand for once. He might refrain from tweeting the whole escapade if R's lucky. "I'm not, exactly. I mean--everyone is, up to a point, aren't they, but I know my limits."
"That's as good a place to start as any." R lets them into the building. "Up the stairs, and up the stairs, and then up the stairs. I think the last time I did the dishes was when my mother came to visit two months ago. Think of it as a vast science project if it bothers you. I'm investigating the local yeasts and other drifting creatures in view of discovering precisely how long one should wash dishes before one puts food on them, considering that they're all building up at all times on any available surface." It's not so easy to hold forth about dishes and climb two stories' worth of stairs, but it's worth the effort when David snorts in amusement.
"I'll keep that in mind. What do you feel about lips and skin, that sort of thing?"
"They should be thoroughly cleansed before making any contact. Either boiling water or Purell by the quart." R unlocks the apartment door and takes a sniff that would be more surreptitious if it didn't come after all those stairs. The sweet-smoky-rotting scent of home has been worse, and it has been better. The scent of cask-aged t-shirts isn't overwhelming at the door, or just inside it, which is where David pauses once the door's locked.
"Shoes off?" he asks, the sign of a well-socialized person pretending he hasn't noticed the twelve pairs of shoes ranging from heels to Doc Martens tangled by the door of what is essentially a glorified studio apartment.
R pats his cheek. "You're sweet, but only if you're willing to risk stepping on all manner of things from the eldritch depths underneath the bed, the laundry, and who knows what else. Should I offer you coffee?"
"I'm not particularly thirsty." David's lips--entirely unwashed and devoid of hand sanitizer, which is all to the good--taste of the chamomile tea he'd been drinking, and while there are no fireworks or great revelations of long-submerged desire, it's a sweet kiss, worth deepening and exploring. He's not as cut as some young men these days, through his tight shirt or under it, but then he's got his studying to do. He sighs softly at the first touch of skin on skin. "Don't you dare use this against me, but I'm ticklish."
"Ah, I'll be careful." There's a roughness on David's cheek and chin, not unexpected at midnight. "And don't send me in to work tomorrow--or is that later today--covered in beard burn."
"Nowhere that'll show," David promises, and tucks his hands under R's shirt.
"How do you get this off?" he asks, tracing the bottom edge of R's binder.
"You don't today, unless you like breasts considerably more than I think you might. It's a nuisance, and it's not the easiest thing to fuck in, but if it makes you more comfortable we can turn off all the lights, pull down the blackout curtains, and pretend like hell."
David nips R's shoulder, a tingling burn following the touch. "Do you take home a lot of people who need you to pretend your dick is attached? 'Cause I've met you, and I can pretend if you want me to, but not without knowing I'm pretending."
"I could get you high if it'd help."
"No, thanks." Another long kiss and David takes a solid handful of R's ass, which doesn't have the sculpted contours of any gym bunny's derriere of any gender. "Leave your shirt on if you want, but pants?"
Those are easier, at least up to a point. For trips to the cafe at gone eleven, the soft packer's more than enough, since people know R there and don't go into long, drawn-out gender compliance inquisitions over a slightly baggy pair of trousers. "All right, so you should've lost the shoes," R admits. David kicks them off.
From there, it is not far to the bed--one of the virtues of a studio apartment--and David picks his way through the drifts of clothing both work-a-day and glittery without a comment. "There's a clean dildo somewhere," R says, and goes diving into a pile that consists of a leather jacket, two pairs of jeans with entirely different tailoring around the hips, and a tie that had gone missing some weeks before. "Or anyway, I've got some cleaner."
Once David finds the bed with its covers rucked back in a state of disarray, he sits on the edge of it. "What did you want it for?"
"Ribbed for his pleasure." R finds the toy in question and takes it to the sink. Boiling would be better, but there are time constraints and with a condom, it won't be anything to worry about. "It's polite to make your guests feel at home, after all. To give them what they're expecting, instead of some gaping chasm where their expectations falter and fall. There are gloves under that side of the bed."
"If you've got a gaping chasm anywhere other than in your logic, I haven't noticed." David pulls out four of the bright nitrile gloves, a searing purple that makes them easy to find in the covers or anywhere else. "Unless there's something specific you wanted. I'm flexible."
"How flexible?" R asks, joining him on the edge of the bed and setting down the toy before gloving up. "You're here, yes, well done, but you don't have your ankles behind your head yet. Do you save the yoga for the second date?"
"Absolutely." David's hand is warm on R's thigh, and goes higher. He raises his eyebrows when he gets a handful of damp cotton, packer, and all-natural flesh. "For the first date--or hookup--pilates is as far as I'll go."
"Pitch or catch? By preference, in this instance--God forbid I should pigeonhole you by implying, mm, that you would only do one or the other. False binaries, false binaries. Kiss me."
"Neither, right now." They ease, topple over sideways, and between the kissing and the hard press and give of David's erection through the glove, the question gets lost. There are no hands everywhere as there sometimes are with a new lover, only fingers concentrating where they're most useful. For a man who's never mentioned a girlfriend David either has good instincts, the fastest learning curve on record, or unforeseen depths regarding unforeseen depths.
It's easier not to breathe than to make embarrassing noises in whatever octave they want to escape in, with someone's hand doing what David's is in all the right rhythms. "Fuck" is less embarrassing than a groan that breaks too high, but not significantly, not when it comes out nearly soprano at the worst, best time, the peak of it all. Next time R swears to fall apart silently, to be less lost in the moment. To stay together, on top of things, in control of the awful noises that are possible in such cases.
Even if it was a good moment, fit to make anyone's knees shake with pleasure.
"All right?" David asks.
R kisses him again, bites at his lips until he shakes and his hips hitch, thrusting up. When he cries out, it is a strangled, manly bellow. Genes and hormones have blessed him with the kind of vocal chords that behave themselves in extremis, or at least maintain some form of consistency. "Better than all right?"
"Mm. Yes. You?"
"Best time I've had with my clothes on in weeks," isn't the highest praise, but it's true.
David yawns and covers his mouth with one wrist, just below the lurid glove. "You can take them off, but I don't know how much longer I'll be awake. I should get going soon." He doesn't add, "If you want me to go," which is gentlemanly of him, much like the sound he made as he came.
It's down to R to invite him to stay, or not. The bed is more than wide enough for two, a luxury and a hindrance in a small apartment, but sometimes useful in living up to a debauched reputation. "I do have to work tomorrow." A glance at the clock, and R corrects, "Later today."
"I can keep it together for another round if you want." David fidgets with the gloves, leaving R wondering whether the men-only circles of the city go without them as a rule. It's one less thing to worry about and one less layer to clean up after.
Saying "Maybe next time" feels like going out on more of a limb than offering him a pillow for the night. Everyone sleeps, just as much as everyone requires a bathroom from time to time. Merely sharing a bed is nothing compared to assuming that David will ever be willing again, much less willing and available simultaneously.
"Sounds good to me." David peels off his gloves. "Bathroom's to the right of the aquarium?"
"Yes." The only inhabitants of the aquarium are carefully posed action figures from a variety of animated series, all older than JM and possibly outside of David's generation as well. There's no water in it, only the brightly colored gravel common to fish tanks. It's less vibrantly alive than a tank of fish would be, but it's much easier to clean, and simpler to maintain than the period when R tried to keep it alive as a small greenhouse. Buying all necessary mind-altering herbs from better gardeners gets expensive, but it's much less frustrating than trying and failing to grow a crop from expensive seeds that require the kind of care and patience that some people provide instinctively and others have to discipline themselves to achieve regularly.
With the gloves and some nearby baby wipes, cleaning up without access to the bathroom takes approximately as long as it would with a second bath, which is the sort of room likely to occur in R's dwelling some time after R finds a real job, a permanent partner, adopts children, and takes in a rescue dog--that is, sometime after the fourth of Never.
David emerges with his hair wet all around his hairline, looking as though he's stuck his face in a full sink of water. "That woke me up," he says cheerfully. "I'd better go before it wears off."
Diffidence is not in R's nature, nor in his. "One more kiss for the road?"
It turns into five, and almost into an invitation, except that with every kiss, David's edging toward the door. Not fast enough that he's fleeing--he's too polite for that--but at a steady pace of punctuated equilibrium, he evolves right out into the hall. "See you," he says, and gets away without promising to call or text.
By then it's one in the morning and past time to sleep.
The next day is like every other work day: time to put on the uniform of someone who has no contact with customers and plenty of contact with food, to go into the back room of a small restaurant with its own oven and quality control standards that have everything to do with how the food tastes and nothing whatsoever with who the cook is, and chop and baste and stir and measure until the end of the day.
When it is not time for a meeting.
There are a series of messages from David during the day, as he is a more dutiful friend than anyone deserves, whatever his qualities as a lover. None of the texts involve a declaration of undying love, but are more to the point: "Marcus hasn't gone Edward Abbey yet. Says he's at work. All peaceful on w. front."
R leaves that one where it is, except to reply, "gd, gd it," and trust that David can figure out which of those is "good" and which is "god damn."
"Local rep on news at 12, says sorry about bill failure."
"bfd, too l8," for that.
"How's your beard burn?"
"fine, how ur str8 freakout?"
"Nonexistent."
"srsly?"
"Can't have a het freakout without het sex. See you at tomorrow's meeting."
That doesn't settle the question, but the way David acts at the meeting comes as close as anything will: to the untrained eye, there would be no difference in him from any other meeting. He puts his arm around MJ's shoulders at an emotional moment in the opening statements, such as they are, and keeps an eye on Marcus through his bare recitation of the legislative fuckup and how it put a damper on his week.
David does not at any point mention that he's been spending time--making time--with R.
It's not the most romantic gesture, but coupled with the texting under the table it's sufficient.
David writes, "We're keeping this quiet?" after neither of them mention it in their social update, while Shari is talking about going kitten-shopping with Joy, who's busy again.
"Their tiny little feet," Shari says wistfully.
"up 2 u," R writes back.
Adila gives R a stern look that's a prelude to a nonspecific lecture about how "we" should all pay attention to the meeting and not to electronic devices, which will all wait, unless there's some breaking news that "we" all grasp via some form of implanted chip that has nothing to do with checking the headlines every five minutes. Marcus does that no matter how many times Adila gives the speech, and David is always poking at his phone.
"any1 gd on grindr?" R sends David when he glances down at his phone again, slightly shamefaced but not deterred.
"No. Are you busy tonight?"
R considers this in light of not talking about it, the heartbroken look on MJ's face, and the way Shari's trying to explain Joy's latest contribution to the nondiscrimination act campaign. "come over if u want" is not the most artful way to phrase the proposition, but David grins when he gets it.
And again, with more abandon, later on.
It gets harder to keep the secret after that.
Fandom: Les Misérables (words 8,000-11,000 of 35K+)
Summary: A group that nearly missed trending on Twitter.
Pairing: Various, some established, some nascent. In this chapter: Courfeyrac/Grantaire, for the local values thereof.
Notes: Explicit consensual sex.
On AO3 very shortly.
On the way to R's apartment, R forewarns David, "There are people who keep their apartments at peak condition for entertaining guests at all time, every IKEA bookshelf spotless and with something placed faux-artlessly just so to accentuate the tome the host would most like to be asked about reading, whether it's a work of lengthy fiction like War and Peace or some more frothy confection by Deepak Chopra chosen to give the sense of being a deep thinker without the effort of paying attention to the intricacies of philosophy. No one puts a bowl of glass marbles just so by their copy of Aristotle unless they've been through the wars, or at least through a bachelor's degree in philosophy. And those would probably prefer you to think they favor Foucault or Barthes, as Aristotle is startlingly passe when it comes to the finer things in life."
"Ah," David says. "Barthes, sure," in the precise tone of someone who'd never read Barthes but knew when someone was being namechecked whom he ought to have read.
David was charming enough to get away with it. That was the trouble with him, and with all the rest of his merry crew. R resumed, "I don't do anything like that. If it's a good day, I put the issues back in the longbox. If it's not such a good day, there may be all manner of undergarments strewn about the place."
That got David to smile, at least. "As long as you don't try to get me into any of them."
"Only the ones that would suit you and accentuate your gender performance," R agrees cheerfully. "Though you'd look smashing in a basque. Have you ever been in Rocky? No, you're a bit young for that, really, aren't you."
The latter description makes David bristle, or at least flex his admirable pectoral muscles. He does dress to show them off, most days, and if R had a set as well-defined R would do likewise. "I never found a cast I clicked with. Not because I'm young, but because it's not my scene."
"Not quite your kind of queer."
"Yes, if you want to put it that way."
They're half a block from R's third story walk-up apartment, which is plenty of time for David to pretend he was going somewhere else and head off in a different direction well before anyone needs to get to the point of kissing on the front stoop. Not that there are stoops in this part of town, but that's never stopped anyone from making out in front of a front door and blocking traffic for other people who only want to get to their duly appointed meeting of politically angry people. "If your kind of queer is effectively limited to the kind of twink gym bunnies you have all those pictures of on your phone, you may as well head home, and no harm done." Though he must have noticed at some point that R has abs approximately equivalent to the average teddy bear's, and would be more at home in a relatively open-minded bears' club than anywhere that expects waxed chest and hard bodies. "On the other hand, if you're a size queen, I've got a bigger one than any of the bio-dudes I know, if I can remember where I put it."
David laughs without hesitation. He's always been hard to startle, whether he's actually as open-minded as he wants to seem or he saves all of his catty comments for his phone, which he doesn't have in his hand for once. He might refrain from tweeting the whole escapade if R's lucky. "I'm not, exactly. I mean--everyone is, up to a point, aren't they, but I know my limits."
"That's as good a place to start as any." R lets them into the building. "Up the stairs, and up the stairs, and then up the stairs. I think the last time I did the dishes was when my mother came to visit two months ago. Think of it as a vast science project if it bothers you. I'm investigating the local yeasts and other drifting creatures in view of discovering precisely how long one should wash dishes before one puts food on them, considering that they're all building up at all times on any available surface." It's not so easy to hold forth about dishes and climb two stories' worth of stairs, but it's worth the effort when David snorts in amusement.
"I'll keep that in mind. What do you feel about lips and skin, that sort of thing?"
"They should be thoroughly cleansed before making any contact. Either boiling water or Purell by the quart." R unlocks the apartment door and takes a sniff that would be more surreptitious if it didn't come after all those stairs. The sweet-smoky-rotting scent of home has been worse, and it has been better. The scent of cask-aged t-shirts isn't overwhelming at the door, or just inside it, which is where David pauses once the door's locked.
"Shoes off?" he asks, the sign of a well-socialized person pretending he hasn't noticed the twelve pairs of shoes ranging from heels to Doc Martens tangled by the door of what is essentially a glorified studio apartment.
R pats his cheek. "You're sweet, but only if you're willing to risk stepping on all manner of things from the eldritch depths underneath the bed, the laundry, and who knows what else. Should I offer you coffee?"
"I'm not particularly thirsty." David's lips--entirely unwashed and devoid of hand sanitizer, which is all to the good--taste of the chamomile tea he'd been drinking, and while there are no fireworks or great revelations of long-submerged desire, it's a sweet kiss, worth deepening and exploring. He's not as cut as some young men these days, through his tight shirt or under it, but then he's got his studying to do. He sighs softly at the first touch of skin on skin. "Don't you dare use this against me, but I'm ticklish."
"Ah, I'll be careful." There's a roughness on David's cheek and chin, not unexpected at midnight. "And don't send me in to work tomorrow--or is that later today--covered in beard burn."
"Nowhere that'll show," David promises, and tucks his hands under R's shirt.
"How do you get this off?" he asks, tracing the bottom edge of R's binder.
"You don't today, unless you like breasts considerably more than I think you might. It's a nuisance, and it's not the easiest thing to fuck in, but if it makes you more comfortable we can turn off all the lights, pull down the blackout curtains, and pretend like hell."
David nips R's shoulder, a tingling burn following the touch. "Do you take home a lot of people who need you to pretend your dick is attached? 'Cause I've met you, and I can pretend if you want me to, but not without knowing I'm pretending."
"I could get you high if it'd help."
"No, thanks." Another long kiss and David takes a solid handful of R's ass, which doesn't have the sculpted contours of any gym bunny's derriere of any gender. "Leave your shirt on if you want, but pants?"
Those are easier, at least up to a point. For trips to the cafe at gone eleven, the soft packer's more than enough, since people know R there and don't go into long, drawn-out gender compliance inquisitions over a slightly baggy pair of trousers. "All right, so you should've lost the shoes," R admits. David kicks them off.
From there, it is not far to the bed--one of the virtues of a studio apartment--and David picks his way through the drifts of clothing both work-a-day and glittery without a comment. "There's a clean dildo somewhere," R says, and goes diving into a pile that consists of a leather jacket, two pairs of jeans with entirely different tailoring around the hips, and a tie that had gone missing some weeks before. "Or anyway, I've got some cleaner."
Once David finds the bed with its covers rucked back in a state of disarray, he sits on the edge of it. "What did you want it for?"
"Ribbed for his pleasure." R finds the toy in question and takes it to the sink. Boiling would be better, but there are time constraints and with a condom, it won't be anything to worry about. "It's polite to make your guests feel at home, after all. To give them what they're expecting, instead of some gaping chasm where their expectations falter and fall. There are gloves under that side of the bed."
"If you've got a gaping chasm anywhere other than in your logic, I haven't noticed." David pulls out four of the bright nitrile gloves, a searing purple that makes them easy to find in the covers or anywhere else. "Unless there's something specific you wanted. I'm flexible."
"How flexible?" R asks, joining him on the edge of the bed and setting down the toy before gloving up. "You're here, yes, well done, but you don't have your ankles behind your head yet. Do you save the yoga for the second date?"
"Absolutely." David's hand is warm on R's thigh, and goes higher. He raises his eyebrows when he gets a handful of damp cotton, packer, and all-natural flesh. "For the first date--or hookup--pilates is as far as I'll go."
"Pitch or catch? By preference, in this instance--God forbid I should pigeonhole you by implying, mm, that you would only do one or the other. False binaries, false binaries. Kiss me."
"Neither, right now." They ease, topple over sideways, and between the kissing and the hard press and give of David's erection through the glove, the question gets lost. There are no hands everywhere as there sometimes are with a new lover, only fingers concentrating where they're most useful. For a man who's never mentioned a girlfriend David either has good instincts, the fastest learning curve on record, or unforeseen depths regarding unforeseen depths.
It's easier not to breathe than to make embarrassing noises in whatever octave they want to escape in, with someone's hand doing what David's is in all the right rhythms. "Fuck" is less embarrassing than a groan that breaks too high, but not significantly, not when it comes out nearly soprano at the worst, best time, the peak of it all. Next time R swears to fall apart silently, to be less lost in the moment. To stay together, on top of things, in control of the awful noises that are possible in such cases.
Even if it was a good moment, fit to make anyone's knees shake with pleasure.
"All right?" David asks.
R kisses him again, bites at his lips until he shakes and his hips hitch, thrusting up. When he cries out, it is a strangled, manly bellow. Genes and hormones have blessed him with the kind of vocal chords that behave themselves in extremis, or at least maintain some form of consistency. "Better than all right?"
"Mm. Yes. You?"
"Best time I've had with my clothes on in weeks," isn't the highest praise, but it's true.
David yawns and covers his mouth with one wrist, just below the lurid glove. "You can take them off, but I don't know how much longer I'll be awake. I should get going soon." He doesn't add, "If you want me to go," which is gentlemanly of him, much like the sound he made as he came.
It's down to R to invite him to stay, or not. The bed is more than wide enough for two, a luxury and a hindrance in a small apartment, but sometimes useful in living up to a debauched reputation. "I do have to work tomorrow." A glance at the clock, and R corrects, "Later today."
"I can keep it together for another round if you want." David fidgets with the gloves, leaving R wondering whether the men-only circles of the city go without them as a rule. It's one less thing to worry about and one less layer to clean up after.
Saying "Maybe next time" feels like going out on more of a limb than offering him a pillow for the night. Everyone sleeps, just as much as everyone requires a bathroom from time to time. Merely sharing a bed is nothing compared to assuming that David will ever be willing again, much less willing and available simultaneously.
"Sounds good to me." David peels off his gloves. "Bathroom's to the right of the aquarium?"
"Yes." The only inhabitants of the aquarium are carefully posed action figures from a variety of animated series, all older than JM and possibly outside of David's generation as well. There's no water in it, only the brightly colored gravel common to fish tanks. It's less vibrantly alive than a tank of fish would be, but it's much easier to clean, and simpler to maintain than the period when R tried to keep it alive as a small greenhouse. Buying all necessary mind-altering herbs from better gardeners gets expensive, but it's much less frustrating than trying and failing to grow a crop from expensive seeds that require the kind of care and patience that some people provide instinctively and others have to discipline themselves to achieve regularly.
With the gloves and some nearby baby wipes, cleaning up without access to the bathroom takes approximately as long as it would with a second bath, which is the sort of room likely to occur in R's dwelling some time after R finds a real job, a permanent partner, adopts children, and takes in a rescue dog--that is, sometime after the fourth of Never.
David emerges with his hair wet all around his hairline, looking as though he's stuck his face in a full sink of water. "That woke me up," he says cheerfully. "I'd better go before it wears off."
Diffidence is not in R's nature, nor in his. "One more kiss for the road?"
It turns into five, and almost into an invitation, except that with every kiss, David's edging toward the door. Not fast enough that he's fleeing--he's too polite for that--but at a steady pace of punctuated equilibrium, he evolves right out into the hall. "See you," he says, and gets away without promising to call or text.
By then it's one in the morning and past time to sleep.
The next day is like every other work day: time to put on the uniform of someone who has no contact with customers and plenty of contact with food, to go into the back room of a small restaurant with its own oven and quality control standards that have everything to do with how the food tastes and nothing whatsoever with who the cook is, and chop and baste and stir and measure until the end of the day.
When it is not time for a meeting.
There are a series of messages from David during the day, as he is a more dutiful friend than anyone deserves, whatever his qualities as a lover. None of the texts involve a declaration of undying love, but are more to the point: "Marcus hasn't gone Edward Abbey yet. Says he's at work. All peaceful on w. front."
R leaves that one where it is, except to reply, "gd, gd it," and trust that David can figure out which of those is "good" and which is "god damn."
"Local rep on news at 12, says sorry about bill failure."
"bfd, too l8," for that.
"How's your beard burn?"
"fine, how ur str8 freakout?"
"Nonexistent."
"srsly?"
"Can't have a het freakout without het sex. See you at tomorrow's meeting."
That doesn't settle the question, but the way David acts at the meeting comes as close as anything will: to the untrained eye, there would be no difference in him from any other meeting. He puts his arm around MJ's shoulders at an emotional moment in the opening statements, such as they are, and keeps an eye on Marcus through his bare recitation of the legislative fuckup and how it put a damper on his week.
David does not at any point mention that he's been spending time--making time--with R.
It's not the most romantic gesture, but coupled with the texting under the table it's sufficient.
David writes, "We're keeping this quiet?" after neither of them mention it in their social update, while Shari is talking about going kitten-shopping with Joy, who's busy again.
"Their tiny little feet," Shari says wistfully.
"up 2 u," R writes back.
Adila gives R a stern look that's a prelude to a nonspecific lecture about how "we" should all pay attention to the meeting and not to electronic devices, which will all wait, unless there's some breaking news that "we" all grasp via some form of implanted chip that has nothing to do with checking the headlines every five minutes. Marcus does that no matter how many times Adila gives the speech, and David is always poking at his phone.
"any1 gd on grindr?" R sends David when he glances down at his phone again, slightly shamefaced but not deterred.
"No. Are you busy tonight?"
R considers this in light of not talking about it, the heartbroken look on MJ's face, and the way Shari's trying to explain Joy's latest contribution to the nondiscrimination act campaign. "come over if u want" is not the most artful way to phrase the proposition, but David grins when he gets it.
And again, with more abandon, later on.
It gets harder to keep the secret after that.
no subject
Date: 2013-04-15 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-15 10:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-15 04:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-15 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-15 04:47 pm (UTC)