FILL: The way it should be, Revolution, Miles Matheson/Bass Monroe, Mish.
He doesn't even play baseball, Miles sneers, but Bass just looks at him, steady. He'd gone to the fucking homecoming dance - date and all - because Miles had to be there, and this was just a barbecue. If he had to go, so did Miles.
"Fucking baseball. Get a real sport," Miles mutters. "At least it's out by the lake and we can swim and shit."
Bass hides his smile and plays his top card. "There'll be a keg. And since it's off-season..."
Espresso-dark eyes light with the kind of enthusiasm that Miles Matheson reserves for booze, sex, and - jackpot - drugs. "What'd you score?"
"A little weed. Supposed to be good, though. We do the barbecue thing, swim a bit, then take off up the lake."
He doesn't say "just the two of us". Doesn't have to. He knows they'll both get handsy once they get a few beers onboard, and god, if they swim ... they'll be horny as fuck, and neither of them are known for their self control. So they'll do what they always do, bro it up for the masses, then disappear.
Bass licks his lips, mind glazing over as the days events unroll in his imagination. He's picturing beads of lake water making their way down the planes of that long, bony back, catching one with the tip of his tongue. Following another, maybe, tugging off Miles's swimshorts so he can watch it venture lower, sliding into the cavern between two low hills, his recently discovered Promised Land. Reaching around to grasp ...
"Bass?"
He coughs a little and his voice is croaky when he finally manages to summon it.
"Fuck the barbecue. Not like we'll be seeing any of those dudes once we ship out. Let's just head up the lake ourselves."
"You don't want to say goodbye?"
"Nah. Just you and me, brother. The way it should be."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-06-20 12:44 am (UTC)He doesn't even play baseball, Miles sneers, but Bass just looks at him, steady. He'd gone to the fucking homecoming dance - date and all - because Miles had to be there, and this was just a barbecue. If he had to go, so did Miles.
"Fucking baseball. Get a real sport," Miles mutters. "At least it's out by the lake and we can swim and shit."
Bass hides his smile and plays his top card. "There'll be a keg. And since it's off-season..."
Espresso-dark eyes light with the kind of enthusiasm that Miles Matheson reserves for booze, sex, and - jackpot - drugs. "What'd you score?"
"A little weed. Supposed to be good, though. We do the barbecue thing, swim a bit, then take off up the lake."
He doesn't say "just the two of us". Doesn't have to. He knows they'll both get handsy once they get a few beers onboard, and god, if they swim ... they'll be horny as fuck, and neither of them are known for their self control. So they'll do what they always do, bro it up for the masses, then disappear.
Bass licks his lips, mind glazing over as the days events unroll in his imagination. He's picturing beads of lake water making their way down the planes of that long, bony back, catching one with the tip of his tongue. Following another, maybe, tugging off Miles's swimshorts so he can watch it venture lower, sliding into the cavern between two low hills, his recently discovered Promised Land. Reaching around to grasp ...
"Bass?"
He coughs a little and his voice is croaky when he finally manages to summon it.
"Fuck the barbecue. Not like we'll be seeing any of those dudes once we ship out. Let's just head up the lake ourselves."
"You don't want to say goodbye?"
"Nah. Just you and me, brother. The way it should be."