It was like being custodian to a sullen child. When their car arrived, Freddy was forced to strong-arm Larry from his chair, shoulder wedged under his armpit. He was sluggish and stone-limbed as they inched their way through the yacht's sparsely populated main cabin. Sophie waved goodbye, gifting Freddy with a private smile of solidarity; he shrugged helplessly and returned it.
"Why're we leaving?" Larry slurred, "always gotta have it your way."
Freddy stayed silent and simply allowed the words to settle under his skin. Once inside the limousine, Larry grumbled and slumped against him repeatedly. Occupying himself by watching the sparse flow of night time traffic, Freddy remained silent and tolerated the continued distractions. Strained moments passed and one poorly aimed squeeze too many had Freddy pushing the whiskey-soaked, amorous deadweight back against the limousine seat. The awkward pattern of behavior lasted the duration of their 45 minute drive; an endurance test that had Freddy close to pulling out his hair in frustration. Larry swerved back and forth between acting sloppily affectionate and brooding; seemingly on a whim. It was baffling, and Freddy was in no mood to play guessing games, so he steeled himself and just did what needed to be done to get them back safely.
It spoke well of the security guard that he made no comment when Freddy wrapped his arms around Larry's thick torso and led him down the hallway to the elevator.
"I can't believe I had to fucking go into your wallet to pay the driver," he griped, mostly to himself, "and who the fuck only keeps hundreds?"
"Wallet's a funny word," Larry mumbled into his neck and snorted.
Freddy didn't know whether to laugh or roll his eyes. When the elevator pinged, he hoisted Larry inside and propped him up against the interior wall.
"You can't possibly be this drunk," Freddy grumped, trying in vain to smooth down the wrinkles in Larry's suit jacket, "you've gotta have a good thirty pounds on me, man."
"Not drunk, jus'tired."
"Uh-huh."
They kept walking. It took a feat of gymnastics for Freddy to balance Larry on one shoulder and reach into his jacket pocket for his keys. The door eased open and he let out a labored sigh, not even bothering to remove his shoes; the carpet was the last thing on his mind. Compared to the hallways they'd just braved, the trek to the bedroom seemed remarkably short.
"Spread your arms," he urged gently, posing Larry next to the bed.
"Spread your legs."
Freddy ignored the blurry-eyed leer, then yanked the other man's arms from his side and began to remove his suit piece by piece.
"Get into bed."
Surprisingly, Larry didn't challenge his command, collapsing onto the mattress, limbs spread helter-skelter. Freddy made quick work of his own suit, folded it as neatly as the situation would allow him, and joined Larry in bed. A blissful handful of minutes passed where he thought his companion had fallen asleep. Then the springs groaned as Larry turned and draped his weight over him, body warm and loose with alcohol. His breath stunk of it and Freddy felt his eyes prickle. He kept still and allowed the other man's muscled arms to wrap just this side of too-tight around him. Larry kissed over his face and neck, slow and desperate, and he had to force his breathing to remain even.
"What is it?" Freddy finally asked, voice strained and reedy.
There was just enough light coming in from the city lights below to illuminate Larry's face. His eyes were dull, bloodshot, and wet. Freddy froze like a rabbit as a meaty palm cupped his face.
"Why do you do that shit? Just to fuck with me?"
Confusion made Freddy's stomach flip-flop.
"What're you talking about?"
"About th'money. Acting like ya hate it when I spend it on you. What'did ya 'spect?"
"You think I'm playing it up?"
"I don't know what to fucking think. What if I like treating ya to something nice e'ery once in a'while? It might mean a lot to a lonely old fuck like me. That ever occur to ya?"
Larry's voice was hushed, like he was somehow less vulnerable if he kept his words blanketed by the quiet of the night. Freddy shivered.
"Don'play with me. I can'ttake it," Larry finished, and curled up against his neck, out like a light.
Freddy blinked into the darkness and forced the air into his lungs as the walls closed in around him.
.•:*¨¨*:•..•:*¨¨*:•..•:*¨¨*:•.
It felt like a drill bit was working its way through his skull. Larry doubled over and blindly grabbed for a pillow to press over his face and stilled when he felt the emptiness next to him. The events of the previous night slammed back like a slingshot and he was hit with a cold panic. He didn't even bother getting dressed, hoisting himself from the bed as quickly as his hangover would permit him.
"Freddy?"
The living room was empty, same with the kitchen. Something sour began to crawl up from his stomach into his throat. He hurried to the bathroom and braced his hands over the toilet bowl, trying to determine whether the nausea was real or of his own making. The feeling passed and he wandered back into the bedroom, mind dull and gauzy. Freddy's suit was folded in a neat square on the chaise. So, he couldn't even bring himself to take it with him when he left. The corner of the mattress creaked as he sat down on it, numb.
"Hey, you look much better."
He jolted and looked up to see Freddy, naked but for Larry's wrinkled dress shirt, grasping a mug and standing on the balcony. The glass door was cracked open just an inch; not enough for him to have noticed it. Larry wanted to laugh in relief and at his own stupidity, but managed only an apologetic smile.
"I made fucking ass of myself last night."
"Don't worry, none of your important lawyer friends noticed."
The words were loaded; a little snide, a little wounded. Larry felt contrite.
"Come 'ere."
A beat passed as Freddy studied him for something, then saw it, opening the door and stepping through. The hem of the shirt barely covered him; as he walked closer, Larry could see just the tip of his foreskin peeking beneath it. Without thinking he reached out and cupped him, calmed by the familiar weight of it. Freddy positioned his legs on either side of his thighs and rested a hand on his bare shoulder.
"I was out there thinking."
"Oh?" Larry responded, not permitting his voice to echo the anxiety inside him.
"Just about what you said last night. I was pissed until I realized you wouldn't have said something like that unless..."
Fear gripped Larry tight and he shifted away, letting go.
"Unless what?" he managed, defensive and hoarse.
Uncertainty flashed in Freddy's eyes and he hesitated for a heartbeat.
"How you feel."
The words spilled from Larry's mouth, knee-jerk and sharp:
"Feelings have nothing to do with this arrangement. I think you'd better get your head around that right now, buddy boy."
For a split second, Larry could almost see the agony behind Freddy's eyes, then it was gone as if it had never been. It was easy to pretend that it hadn't.
"Sorry, my mistake."
His voice was flat, delivered with a practiced ease, and it set Larry on edge. The kid better at putting on masks than he'd given him credit for. He pushed gently at Freddy's legs so that he could get up from the bed.
"I've gotta get in the shower," he mumbled and made his way to the on-suite.
He tried to pretend that it didn't sting like a son of a bitch when Freddy didn't even offer to join him.
.•:*¨¨*:•..•:*¨¨*:•..•:*¨¨*:•.
They spent their remaining hours together in civil companionship necessitated only by their physical proximity. Freddy curled himself on the couch and watched A Clockwork Orange, silently pondering how Kubrick had managed to make a character who had been utterly repugnant and irredeemable in Burgess Meredith's novel into a sympathetic anti-hero. He considered asking Larry whether or not the onus of individual responsibility had been stripped away by Kubrick's depiction of a corrupt future society, but decided against it. Larry was engrossed in reading a document he'd pulled from his black leather briefcase, glasses resting on the tip of his flat nose.
"When you gotta leave?" Freddy ventured, just to shatter the strange stalemate between them.
"Does it matter?"
His temper burned quick and fast, stoked by Larry's indifferent tone.
"Yeah, I got friends I wanna hang out with."
"Don't let me stop you," Larry responded, casting a cool glance over his glasses, "I'll be gone when you get back. It'll save us both an awkward good bye, don't you think?"
Freddy was up and throwing on his shoes as quick as he was able without making a fool of himself. He could barely hear over the rushing blood in his ears.
"Have a good flight," he managed before closing the door.
It was bizarre to experience satisfaction at keeping his voice completely devoid of emotion, considering that inside, he felt as lost and terrified as a child. As his sneakers scuffed the hallway carpet, all he could focus on was finding a phone so he could call Hilde.
Re: FILL: "Risk, Exclusivity, and Reward", Chapter 9/?
"Why're we leaving?" Larry slurred, "always gotta have it your way."
Freddy stayed silent and simply allowed the words to settle under his skin. Once inside the limousine, Larry grumbled and slumped against him repeatedly. Occupying himself by watching the sparse flow of night time traffic, Freddy remained silent and tolerated the continued distractions. Strained moments passed and one poorly aimed squeeze too many had Freddy pushing the whiskey-soaked, amorous deadweight back against the limousine seat. The awkward pattern of behavior lasted the duration of their 45 minute drive; an endurance test that had Freddy close to pulling out his hair in frustration. Larry swerved back and forth between acting sloppily affectionate and brooding; seemingly on a whim. It was baffling, and Freddy was in no mood to play guessing games, so he steeled himself and just did what needed to be done to get them back safely.
It spoke well of the security guard that he made no comment when Freddy wrapped his arms around Larry's thick torso and led him down the hallway to the elevator.
"I can't believe I had to fucking go into your wallet to pay the driver," he griped, mostly to himself, "and who the fuck only keeps hundreds?"
"Wallet's a funny word," Larry mumbled into his neck and snorted.
Freddy didn't know whether to laugh or roll his eyes. When the elevator pinged, he hoisted Larry inside and propped him up against the interior wall.
"You can't possibly be this drunk," Freddy grumped, trying in vain to smooth down the wrinkles in Larry's suit jacket, "you've gotta have a good thirty pounds on me, man."
"Not drunk, jus'tired."
"Uh-huh."
They kept walking. It took a feat of gymnastics for Freddy to balance Larry on one shoulder and reach into his jacket pocket for his keys. The door eased open and he let out a labored sigh, not even bothering to remove his shoes; the carpet was the last thing on his mind. Compared to the hallways they'd just braved, the trek to the bedroom seemed remarkably short.
"Spread your arms," he urged gently, posing Larry next to the bed.
"Spread your legs."
Freddy ignored the blurry-eyed leer, then yanked the other man's arms from his side and began to remove his suit piece by piece.
"Get into bed."
Surprisingly, Larry didn't challenge his command, collapsing onto the mattress, limbs spread helter-skelter. Freddy made quick work of his own suit, folded it as neatly as the situation would allow him, and joined Larry in bed. A blissful handful of minutes passed where he thought his companion had fallen asleep. Then the springs groaned as Larry turned and draped his weight over him, body warm and loose with alcohol. His breath stunk of it and Freddy felt his eyes prickle. He kept still and allowed the other man's muscled arms to wrap just this side of too-tight around him. Larry kissed over his face and neck, slow and desperate, and he had to force his breathing to remain even.
"What is it?" Freddy finally asked, voice strained and reedy.
There was just enough light coming in from the city lights below to illuminate Larry's face. His eyes were dull, bloodshot, and wet. Freddy froze like a rabbit as a meaty palm cupped his face.
"Why do you do that shit? Just to fuck with me?"
Confusion made Freddy's stomach flip-flop.
"What're you talking about?"
"About th'money. Acting like ya hate it when I spend it on you. What'did ya 'spect?"
"You think I'm playing it up?"
"I don't know what to fucking think. What if I like treating ya to something nice e'ery once in a'while? It might mean a lot to a lonely old fuck like me. That ever occur to ya?"
Larry's voice was hushed, like he was somehow less vulnerable if he kept his words blanketed by the quiet of the night. Freddy shivered.
"Don'play with me. I can'ttake it," Larry finished, and curled up against his neck, out like a light.
Freddy blinked into the darkness and forced the air into his lungs as the walls closed in around him.
It felt like a drill bit was working its way through his skull. Larry doubled over and blindly grabbed for a pillow to press over his face and stilled when he felt the emptiness next to him. The events of the previous night slammed back like a slingshot and he was hit with a cold panic. He didn't even bother getting dressed, hoisting himself from the bed as quickly as his hangover would permit him.
"Freddy?"
The living room was empty, same with the kitchen. Something sour began to crawl up from his stomach into his throat. He hurried to the bathroom and braced his hands over the toilet bowl, trying to determine whether the nausea was real or of his own making. The feeling passed and he wandered back into the bedroom, mind dull and gauzy. Freddy's suit was folded in a neat square on the chaise. So, he couldn't even bring himself to take it with him when he left. The corner of the mattress creaked as he sat down on it, numb.
"Hey, you look much better."
He jolted and looked up to see Freddy, naked but for Larry's wrinkled dress shirt, grasping a mug and standing on the balcony. The glass door was cracked open just an inch; not enough for him to have noticed it. Larry wanted to laugh in relief and at his own stupidity, but managed only an apologetic smile.
"I made fucking ass of myself last night."
"Don't worry, none of your important lawyer friends noticed."
The words were loaded; a little snide, a little wounded. Larry felt contrite.
"Come 'ere."
A beat passed as Freddy studied him for something, then saw it, opening the door and stepping through. The hem of the shirt barely covered him; as he walked closer, Larry could see just the tip of his foreskin peeking beneath it. Without thinking he reached out and cupped him, calmed by the familiar weight of it. Freddy positioned his legs on either side of his thighs and rested a hand on his bare shoulder.
"I was out there thinking."
"Oh?" Larry responded, not permitting his voice to echo the anxiety inside him.
"Just about what you said last night. I was pissed until I realized you wouldn't have said something like that unless..."
Fear gripped Larry tight and he shifted away, letting go.
"Unless what?" he managed, defensive and hoarse.
Uncertainty flashed in Freddy's eyes and he hesitated for a heartbeat.
"How you feel."
The words spilled from Larry's mouth, knee-jerk and sharp:
"Feelings have nothing to do with this arrangement. I think you'd better get your head around that right now, buddy boy."
For a split second, Larry could almost see the agony behind Freddy's eyes, then it was gone as if it had never been. It was easy to pretend that it hadn't.
"Sorry, my mistake."
His voice was flat, delivered with a practiced ease, and it set Larry on edge. The kid better at putting on masks than he'd given him credit for. He pushed gently at Freddy's legs so that he could get up from the bed.
"I've gotta get in the shower," he mumbled and made his way to the on-suite.
He tried to pretend that it didn't sting like a son of a bitch when Freddy didn't even offer to join him.
They spent their remaining hours together in civil companionship necessitated only by their physical proximity. Freddy curled himself on the couch and watched A Clockwork Orange, silently pondering how Kubrick had managed to make a character who had been utterly repugnant and irredeemable in Burgess Meredith's novel into a sympathetic anti-hero. He considered asking Larry whether or not the onus of individual responsibility had been stripped away by Kubrick's depiction of a corrupt future society, but decided against it. Larry was engrossed in reading a document he'd pulled from his black leather briefcase, glasses resting on the tip of his flat nose.
"When you gotta leave?" Freddy ventured, just to shatter the strange stalemate between them.
"Does it matter?"
His temper burned quick and fast, stoked by Larry's indifferent tone.
"Yeah, I got friends I wanna hang out with."
"Don't let me stop you," Larry responded, casting a cool glance over his glasses, "I'll be gone when you get back. It'll save us both an awkward good bye, don't you think?"
Freddy was up and throwing on his shoes as quick as he was able without making a fool of himself. He could barely hear over the rushing blood in his ears.
"Have a good flight," he managed before closing the door.
It was bizarre to experience satisfaction at keeping his voice completely devoid of emotion, considering that inside, he felt as lost and terrified as a child. As his sneakers scuffed the hallway carpet, all he could focus on was finding a phone so he could call Hilde.