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.au: The Hours of Instruction - D/M (R/NC17) 15.20
Title: The Hours of Instruction
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warning: PG/PG13 for now; R/NC17 eventually.
Disclaimers: If the boys were mine, this season would notbe happening have happened.
Advertisements: Catholic school AU. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 challenge #01 (AU) and philosophy_20 challenge #08 (Faith).
Chapters: 01; 02; 03; 04; 05; 06; 07; 08; 09; 10; 11; 12; 13; 14
Notes: Finally had the chance to sit down and type this out. I owe tons of comments, emails, and flist-checking, which I will try very, very hard to do tomorrow. I have something of a reprieve Tuesday evening, for the first time in three weeks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the end, Trinity hadn’t needed hours of sermons, armies of icons, or Professor Rose’s class to convert Martin from an atheist to a believer. No, it only took Martin five minutes behind the Parents’ Day registration desk to conclude that, not only was there a god, but he was an angry, vengeful god at that.
Did God still accept blood sacrifices? He’d have to look into that… And speaking of which, Martin had already found the perfect candidate.
“Don’t forget to hand out those lanyards for the nametags,” Preston said for the thousandth time. “And you don’t have your nametag on yet.”
“I won’t, and I will.” Martin congratulated himself on sounding at least somewhat civil.
The way Martin figured it, not even an abstract, impersonal Fate could produce his current situation, trapped as he was for the next few hours with Preston and fleets of rich, overbred old people with the prospect of his own parents materializing at any time. He’d checked the registration packets – they were all organized by student name – and sure enough, there were two packets listed under Martin Fitzgerald.
Three hours with Preston, of all possible students in the school. Martin had discovered this when he and Danny had finally gone to check the activities registration forms on Thursday, and Danny, the bastard, had gotten to help lead tours around Raine and the rest of the sports complex. Martin, as a first-year transfer, had been deemed too ignorant to do anything else except hand out packages and nametags.
Correction: To hand out packages and nametags with Preston. Danny hadn’t let him hear the end of that until they’d separated earlier this morning.
“At least you’ll be out in public,” Danny had pointed out somewhere between kisses during their early-morning makeout session.
“Oh, shut up.”
“That is, unless you’re disappointed…” And Martin had been paranoid enough by that point that he’d pulled away and demanded to know if Danny had a problem, if he was jealous, and Danny had said no of course not in a way that said he really was.
Again, it would have been funny if their quasi-relationship hadn’t been so bizarre and unorthodox to begin with. Martin had kissed Danny one last time, relieved when Danny responded naturally, like he hadn’t just said what he’d said, like the conversation hadn’t even happened at all, and they’d let it go at that.
Probably not a good idea to go over the conversation or the events that bookended it. Martin barely kept himself from rubbing his neck, where there was the faintest bruise right underneath his collar.
“Hey, can you get these people?” Preston asked, rudely interrupting Martin’s daydream. He pointed to a stuffy-looking couple standing on the other side of the desk. “I gotta get more maps.” He paused on the edge of turning away. “And put your nametag on.”
“Sure.” Martin pasted a smile on his face, ignored the commandment about the nametag, and said, “Welcome to Trinity. Can I have your son’s name?”
“Aren’t you a nice boy,” the mother cooed, and yes, he still had it, the mindless, cooperative smile that projected niceness and cooperativeness and, now, Catholicism. “We’re the Clancys.”
“Percy,” the husband coughed. He wore a Trinity tie – a tie with the Trinity seal on it – Martin thought in vague disbelief. “Percival Clancy. He’s a senior.”
Martin fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead handed the Clancys their packets – and lanyards, because as Preston had pointed out, the women wouldn’t want to get safety pin holes in their blouses (so fucking chivalrous, Preston, God) – and watched as they walked off. The next few couples were uneventful, then came Ashley’s mother.
“Oh, you’re Martin.” Mrs. Eagleton regarded him from underneath her thatch of blond curls, so much like her son it was odd, like seeing Ashley in drag. (Martin tried very hard not to laugh at this.) She smirked, probably knew what he was thinking because Ashley would know, and said, “Ashley told me about the pizza.”
Martin stared at her until she laughed – a lot like Ashley again, which weirded him out even more with every passing second – and tossed her ill-disciplined hair over her shoulder. “Well, why don’t you hand me the pleas for money from the alumni and I’ll be out of your way.”
She left at the same time that Preston came back, which was depressing, and Preston took up a station far too close to Martin, which was even worse.
“What was that about pizza?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Martin edged away.
An hour or so passed by, and Martin found his irritation increasing exponentially with every passing minute. They were stationed in the main lobby of Connor Hall, the administration and reception building, and the cathedral ceilings mercilessly amplified the sound of voices, footsteps, the bang of the door every time it swung shut. Martin winced, fought back the conviction that he was getting a headache. Pretending to be the clean-cut, dutiful Trinity scholar grated, pretending he didn’t mind Preston’s proximity grated even worse, the repetition and monotony when it was a nice day and he could be out with Danny somewhere really really really grated.
“Oh, look! There’s JR!”
Preston tensed – Martin could tell this because, again, Preston was standing way too close, and while it was cramped behind the registration desk it wasn’t that cramped – and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a bad word.
“JR, sweetie!” A woman burst out of the anonymous crowd, a smile plastered on her face, a smile directed at –
“Is she talking to you?” Martin glanced at Preston, who looked ill.
“Hey, Mom.”
“JR!” So this was Mrs. Preston. “Large” described her, Martin thought. Not her body, exactly, but her presence, the kind that bowled you over, that people had to notice, crowding up against her son, who withdrew in typical teenage revulsion.
“JR?” Martin echoed.
“It’s my nickname.” Preston had turned an interesting shade of red.
“He’s Joseph, Jr.,” Mrs. Preston explained, turning to Martin. “Well, actually, he’s Joseph Preston the Third, but everyone calls him JR. Isn’t that funny? And who are you? Aren’t you going to introduce me, JR?” Like a steamroller.
“Mom, this is Martin Fitz – ”
“Oh, you’re Martin!”
”Mom.”
“JR’s told us about you, of course. He says you’re very good in that theology class of yours. I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Preston.” She seized Martin’s hand in a formidable grip; it lasted for one excruciating moment before she turned back to Preston – JR – and said, “Well, honey, I know you’re quite busy. Your father’s late, I’m afraid, so I’ll just pick up the packets for the both of us. Will we see you at dinner? Of course we will; I remember the schedule saying that. Give me a kiss, honey – oh, never mind, I can see you don’t want to.” She swiveled back to Martin. “You boys, you’ll learn to appreciate your mothers one of these days.”
And like that she was off, plowing through the crowd like a battleship. Martin watched her go, torn between feeling faint and feeling outraged.
“Oh, my God,” Preston muttered, bright red and very definitely Not Looking at Martin.
“What did you tell her about me?” Martin hissed.
“Just that you were good in theology,” Preston said stiffly. “Hey, there’s a line. And put your nametag on.”
There was, unfortunately, which meant Martin couldn’t haul Preston into the back room and torture him for information. It’s not like he’s going to tell his parents about his stupid… his stupid… Dammit, he couldn’t even think the word; his brain utterly refused to acknowledge it. He probably just told them about theology, and that’s it. Has to be.
But the mere fact that Preston had told them about him, had informed his parents about Martin’s existence… That was indicative of something else. Unless maybe Mrs. Preston was the kind of mother who wanted to know the minutest detail of Preston’s life, which was very likely. That had to be it, Martin told himself as he handed out packets to the Garners, Ferrars, Powells, and Brights.
“Patterson,” the next couple said. “Michael and Diane Patterson.”
Martin flipped through the packets, blinked when no Patterson came up. He said this, and the wife, anxious and uptight in a black dress, blushed and looked around before lowering her voice and leaning over the desk.
“We’re probably under ‘Danny Taylor.’”
* * *
Tired. God he was tired, and they still had the first formal dinner of the weekend to go. He stood in his room alone, Danny had either been and gone or was still out at Raine, and didn’t know whether he wanted Danny there or not.
Why the hell do you treat him like this? He’d really wanted to say that, to demand to know why they stuck Danny in a goddamned monastery while they went off on vacation, why the state paid them to be foster parents when they actually only saw him two months out of the year.
They didn’t know who he was, of course, and thank God he hadn’t listened to Preston and put his nametag on. They’d probably find out later, with two more days of torment scheduled, and he still had to decide whether or not to tell Danny he knew, if it would be better for Danny to find out on his own. Either way, Danny would act like it wasn’t a big deal, and would probably say that – It’s not a huge thing, Fitz, chill – but it would be a big deal, and he’d either be mad at Martin for not telling or be mad at Martin for telling, because Danny was the kind of guy who’d shoot the messenger, if he had to.
His parents hadn’t shown up, either. That thought had kept intruding, bumping elbows in at odd moments, and Martin didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry that his parents had done this – that his father had done this. And why was it Victor anyway? He’d long since reconciled himself to his mother being away most of the time, but his father… Those absences still cut deep, in a way that Martin hated.
Fleming and another guy Martin didn’t know had shown up to take the next shift and Martin had escaped, managed to get away from Preston without punching him or demanding to know what he’d really told his parents, but couldn’t get away from the image of two packets still stuck under his name, and the memory of the Pattersons.
They’d looked normal, he realized as he stood in the semi-darkness of his room, and they’d stood out because of that. Middle-class, Diane Patterson in a black dress barely on the wrong side of expensive and fashionable, Michael Patterson in tie – not a Trinity one, but still boring and adult enough to be embarrassing for Martin to even look at – and a sports jacket that had probably been pulled out of the closet for this one occasion. He’d bit back the comments, So you’re Danny’s leechy not-parents. I’m his roommate and I think you’re assholes and a few others he’d wanted to make, and they still circled around his head.
Heavy, exhausting things to carry around, those thoughts. Not particularly caring about the fact he was going to wrinkle his last ironed shirt, Martin flopped down on his bed. There’d be hundreds of people packed into Coren, students and parents and the faculty, and it wasn’t like Father Bryant was going to leave to track down a missing student.
Sleep, yes. Sleep would be nice. He’d sleep all weekend and wake up when the nightmare was over.
He turned over on his side and tried to relax, finally managed it and found the odd hazy place between waking and sleeping when the door banged open.
“Sorry,” Danny said, sounding anything but. “What the hell? You’re sleeping.”
“You try dealing with Preston and hordes of cranky rich people.”
Fortunately, Danny laughed – an actual laugh, not the terrible fake one he used to cover up anger and frustration. “I’m guessing he’s still alive because you’re here and not chained up in the confessional. Or, you know, in prison.”
“Barely. You know, I met his mom?”
“Already? But you haven’t been dating that long.”
”Shut up.”
Danny snickered, unrepentant bastard. “So what’re they like?”
“His mom’s a piece of work.” Martin rolled back over, much better like this, being able to glare at Danny and watch him change at the same time. Danny was half out of his shirt, not bothering to reach for the other one yet and he knew that Martin was watching. Knew it and liked it. His shoulders shook a little, and whether he was laughing at Mrs. Preston or Martin, Martin had no idea.
“Did your parents show?”
“No,” Martin said shortly and, when Danny showed no signs of pursuing the topic of the Fitzgerald parents, took the chance and said, “But your foster parents did.”
Slightest tensing of Danny’s shoulders and it was gone, just like that – a wave, come and passed – and when Danny turned around with his shirt in hand his face was neutral. Silent, silent and he was going to make Martin say something, make some inane comment Danny could bitch at him for making.
“Is your foster father color blind or something?”
“What?” Danny blinked, obviously startled by the question, and shook his head. “No. Why?”
“His tie. Seriously, if I were his wife, I’d refuse to go out in public with him.”
That got the smile he wanted – not really the smile, exactly, but something close: starting reluctant at the corner of Danny’s mouth, creeping into something more honest.
“He wore that last year,” Danny said, staring down at Martin and his dark eyes were bright with humor and something else, something Martin didn’t dare examine/
Danny moved closer, dropping gracefully onto Martin’s bed, and Martin registered dimly that Danny didn’t have his shirt on, that his own shirt was only half-buttoned – there hadn’t been a point in buttoning it, if he wasn’t going to dinner – and he was on the verge of suggesting they skip out and the Pattersons could fend for themselves for the night, for the rest of the weekend even, when Danny bent down – did Martin mention Danny didn’t have his shirt on? Because he didn’t, and maybe God wasn’t vengeful and cruel after all – and kissed him.
Not like the way Danny usually kissed, playful and elusive, teasing in a way that made Martin feel a couple steps behind, but honest, tasting like gratitude and Martin let himself forget about silly things like unlocked doors and let himself feel this, hand on Danny’s neck to pull him closer.
Nice and warm, God, Danny was so warm, shifting muscle and skin, breath huffing gently at Martin’s lips, body sliding low across Martin’s, and what he’d done or said to deserve this, Martin had no idea. Didn’t chase after the thought, too much to think about already – or not think about, trying to move to give Danny more space on the bed and not stop kissing to do it, trying to make it clear he wanted more now without Danny breaking off to laugh at his impatience.
Danny, the telepathic jerk, caught on, pulled away but didn’t laugh: only looked at Martin with something like bemusement and gratitude still, and he opened his mouth to say something or maybe kiss Martin again when something, someone pounded on the door.
“Martin?” And even on the other side of solid oak, his father's voice was powerful.
-tbc.-
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warning: PG/PG13 for now; R/NC17 eventually.
Disclaimers: If the boys were mine, this season would not
Advertisements: Catholic school AU. For
wordclaim50 challenge #01 (AU) and philosophy_20 challenge #08 (Faith).Chapters: 01; 02; 03; 04; 05; 06; 07; 08; 09; 10; 11; 12; 13; 14
Notes: Finally had the chance to sit down and type this out. I owe tons of comments, emails, and flist-checking, which I will try very, very hard to do tomorrow. I have something of a reprieve Tuesday evening, for the first time in three weeks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the end, Trinity hadn’t needed hours of sermons, armies of icons, or Professor Rose’s class to convert Martin from an atheist to a believer. No, it only took Martin five minutes behind the Parents’ Day registration desk to conclude that, not only was there a god, but he was an angry, vengeful god at that.
Did God still accept blood sacrifices? He’d have to look into that… And speaking of which, Martin had already found the perfect candidate.
“Don’t forget to hand out those lanyards for the nametags,” Preston said for the thousandth time. “And you don’t have your nametag on yet.”
“I won’t, and I will.” Martin congratulated himself on sounding at least somewhat civil.
The way Martin figured it, not even an abstract, impersonal Fate could produce his current situation, trapped as he was for the next few hours with Preston and fleets of rich, overbred old people with the prospect of his own parents materializing at any time. He’d checked the registration packets – they were all organized by student name – and sure enough, there were two packets listed under Martin Fitzgerald.
Three hours with Preston, of all possible students in the school. Martin had discovered this when he and Danny had finally gone to check the activities registration forms on Thursday, and Danny, the bastard, had gotten to help lead tours around Raine and the rest of the sports complex. Martin, as a first-year transfer, had been deemed too ignorant to do anything else except hand out packages and nametags.
Correction: To hand out packages and nametags with Preston. Danny hadn’t let him hear the end of that until they’d separated earlier this morning.
“At least you’ll be out in public,” Danny had pointed out somewhere between kisses during their early-morning makeout session.
“Oh, shut up.”
“That is, unless you’re disappointed…” And Martin had been paranoid enough by that point that he’d pulled away and demanded to know if Danny had a problem, if he was jealous, and Danny had said no of course not in a way that said he really was.
Again, it would have been funny if their quasi-relationship hadn’t been so bizarre and unorthodox to begin with. Martin had kissed Danny one last time, relieved when Danny responded naturally, like he hadn’t just said what he’d said, like the conversation hadn’t even happened at all, and they’d let it go at that.
Probably not a good idea to go over the conversation or the events that bookended it. Martin barely kept himself from rubbing his neck, where there was the faintest bruise right underneath his collar.
“Hey, can you get these people?” Preston asked, rudely interrupting Martin’s daydream. He pointed to a stuffy-looking couple standing on the other side of the desk. “I gotta get more maps.” He paused on the edge of turning away. “And put your nametag on.”
“Sure.” Martin pasted a smile on his face, ignored the commandment about the nametag, and said, “Welcome to Trinity. Can I have your son’s name?”
“Aren’t you a nice boy,” the mother cooed, and yes, he still had it, the mindless, cooperative smile that projected niceness and cooperativeness and, now, Catholicism. “We’re the Clancys.”
“Percy,” the husband coughed. He wore a Trinity tie – a tie with the Trinity seal on it – Martin thought in vague disbelief. “Percival Clancy. He’s a senior.”
Martin fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead handed the Clancys their packets – and lanyards, because as Preston had pointed out, the women wouldn’t want to get safety pin holes in their blouses (so fucking chivalrous, Preston, God) – and watched as they walked off. The next few couples were uneventful, then came Ashley’s mother.
“Oh, you’re Martin.” Mrs. Eagleton regarded him from underneath her thatch of blond curls, so much like her son it was odd, like seeing Ashley in drag. (Martin tried very hard not to laugh at this.) She smirked, probably knew what he was thinking because Ashley would know, and said, “Ashley told me about the pizza.”
Martin stared at her until she laughed – a lot like Ashley again, which weirded him out even more with every passing second – and tossed her ill-disciplined hair over her shoulder. “Well, why don’t you hand me the pleas for money from the alumni and I’ll be out of your way.”
She left at the same time that Preston came back, which was depressing, and Preston took up a station far too close to Martin, which was even worse.
“What was that about pizza?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Martin edged away.
An hour or so passed by, and Martin found his irritation increasing exponentially with every passing minute. They were stationed in the main lobby of Connor Hall, the administration and reception building, and the cathedral ceilings mercilessly amplified the sound of voices, footsteps, the bang of the door every time it swung shut. Martin winced, fought back the conviction that he was getting a headache. Pretending to be the clean-cut, dutiful Trinity scholar grated, pretending he didn’t mind Preston’s proximity grated even worse, the repetition and monotony when it was a nice day and he could be out with Danny somewhere really really really grated.
“Oh, look! There’s JR!”
Preston tensed – Martin could tell this because, again, Preston was standing way too close, and while it was cramped behind the registration desk it wasn’t that cramped – and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a bad word.
“JR, sweetie!” A woman burst out of the anonymous crowd, a smile plastered on her face, a smile directed at –
“Is she talking to you?” Martin glanced at Preston, who looked ill.
“Hey, Mom.”
“JR!” So this was Mrs. Preston. “Large” described her, Martin thought. Not her body, exactly, but her presence, the kind that bowled you over, that people had to notice, crowding up against her son, who withdrew in typical teenage revulsion.
“JR?” Martin echoed.
“It’s my nickname.” Preston had turned an interesting shade of red.
“He’s Joseph, Jr.,” Mrs. Preston explained, turning to Martin. “Well, actually, he’s Joseph Preston the Third, but everyone calls him JR. Isn’t that funny? And who are you? Aren’t you going to introduce me, JR?” Like a steamroller.
“Mom, this is Martin Fitz – ”
“Oh, you’re Martin!”
”Mom.”
“JR’s told us about you, of course. He says you’re very good in that theology class of yours. I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Preston.” She seized Martin’s hand in a formidable grip; it lasted for one excruciating moment before she turned back to Preston – JR – and said, “Well, honey, I know you’re quite busy. Your father’s late, I’m afraid, so I’ll just pick up the packets for the both of us. Will we see you at dinner? Of course we will; I remember the schedule saying that. Give me a kiss, honey – oh, never mind, I can see you don’t want to.” She swiveled back to Martin. “You boys, you’ll learn to appreciate your mothers one of these days.”
And like that she was off, plowing through the crowd like a battleship. Martin watched her go, torn between feeling faint and feeling outraged.
“Oh, my God,” Preston muttered, bright red and very definitely Not Looking at Martin.
“What did you tell her about me?” Martin hissed.
“Just that you were good in theology,” Preston said stiffly. “Hey, there’s a line. And put your nametag on.”
There was, unfortunately, which meant Martin couldn’t haul Preston into the back room and torture him for information. It’s not like he’s going to tell his parents about his stupid… his stupid… Dammit, he couldn’t even think the word; his brain utterly refused to acknowledge it. He probably just told them about theology, and that’s it. Has to be.
But the mere fact that Preston had told them about him, had informed his parents about Martin’s existence… That was indicative of something else. Unless maybe Mrs. Preston was the kind of mother who wanted to know the minutest detail of Preston’s life, which was very likely. That had to be it, Martin told himself as he handed out packets to the Garners, Ferrars, Powells, and Brights.
“Patterson,” the next couple said. “Michael and Diane Patterson.”
Martin flipped through the packets, blinked when no Patterson came up. He said this, and the wife, anxious and uptight in a black dress, blushed and looked around before lowering her voice and leaning over the desk.
“We’re probably under ‘Danny Taylor.’”
Tired. God he was tired, and they still had the first formal dinner of the weekend to go. He stood in his room alone, Danny had either been and gone or was still out at Raine, and didn’t know whether he wanted Danny there or not.
Why the hell do you treat him like this? He’d really wanted to say that, to demand to know why they stuck Danny in a goddamned monastery while they went off on vacation, why the state paid them to be foster parents when they actually only saw him two months out of the year.
They didn’t know who he was, of course, and thank God he hadn’t listened to Preston and put his nametag on. They’d probably find out later, with two more days of torment scheduled, and he still had to decide whether or not to tell Danny he knew, if it would be better for Danny to find out on his own. Either way, Danny would act like it wasn’t a big deal, and would probably say that – It’s not a huge thing, Fitz, chill – but it would be a big deal, and he’d either be mad at Martin for not telling or be mad at Martin for telling, because Danny was the kind of guy who’d shoot the messenger, if he had to.
His parents hadn’t shown up, either. That thought had kept intruding, bumping elbows in at odd moments, and Martin didn’t know whether to feel relieved or angry that his parents had done this – that his father had done this. And why was it Victor anyway? He’d long since reconciled himself to his mother being away most of the time, but his father… Those absences still cut deep, in a way that Martin hated.
Fleming and another guy Martin didn’t know had shown up to take the next shift and Martin had escaped, managed to get away from Preston without punching him or demanding to know what he’d really told his parents, but couldn’t get away from the image of two packets still stuck under his name, and the memory of the Pattersons.
They’d looked normal, he realized as he stood in the semi-darkness of his room, and they’d stood out because of that. Middle-class, Diane Patterson in a black dress barely on the wrong side of expensive and fashionable, Michael Patterson in tie – not a Trinity one, but still boring and adult enough to be embarrassing for Martin to even look at – and a sports jacket that had probably been pulled out of the closet for this one occasion. He’d bit back the comments, So you’re Danny’s leechy not-parents. I’m his roommate and I think you’re assholes and a few others he’d wanted to make, and they still circled around his head.
Heavy, exhausting things to carry around, those thoughts. Not particularly caring about the fact he was going to wrinkle his last ironed shirt, Martin flopped down on his bed. There’d be hundreds of people packed into Coren, students and parents and the faculty, and it wasn’t like Father Bryant was going to leave to track down a missing student.
Sleep, yes. Sleep would be nice. He’d sleep all weekend and wake up when the nightmare was over.
He turned over on his side and tried to relax, finally managed it and found the odd hazy place between waking and sleeping when the door banged open.
“Sorry,” Danny said, sounding anything but. “What the hell? You’re sleeping.”
“You try dealing with Preston and hordes of cranky rich people.”
Fortunately, Danny laughed – an actual laugh, not the terrible fake one he used to cover up anger and frustration. “I’m guessing he’s still alive because you’re here and not chained up in the confessional. Or, you know, in prison.”
“Barely. You know, I met his mom?”
“Already? But you haven’t been dating that long.”
”Shut up.”
Danny snickered, unrepentant bastard. “So what’re they like?”
“His mom’s a piece of work.” Martin rolled back over, much better like this, being able to glare at Danny and watch him change at the same time. Danny was half out of his shirt, not bothering to reach for the other one yet and he knew that Martin was watching. Knew it and liked it. His shoulders shook a little, and whether he was laughing at Mrs. Preston or Martin, Martin had no idea.
“Did your parents show?”
“No,” Martin said shortly and, when Danny showed no signs of pursuing the topic of the Fitzgerald parents, took the chance and said, “But your foster parents did.”
Slightest tensing of Danny’s shoulders and it was gone, just like that – a wave, come and passed – and when Danny turned around with his shirt in hand his face was neutral. Silent, silent and he was going to make Martin say something, make some inane comment Danny could bitch at him for making.
“Is your foster father color blind or something?”
“What?” Danny blinked, obviously startled by the question, and shook his head. “No. Why?”
“His tie. Seriously, if I were his wife, I’d refuse to go out in public with him.”
That got the smile he wanted – not really the smile, exactly, but something close: starting reluctant at the corner of Danny’s mouth, creeping into something more honest.
“He wore that last year,” Danny said, staring down at Martin and his dark eyes were bright with humor and something else, something Martin didn’t dare examine/
Danny moved closer, dropping gracefully onto Martin’s bed, and Martin registered dimly that Danny didn’t have his shirt on, that his own shirt was only half-buttoned – there hadn’t been a point in buttoning it, if he wasn’t going to dinner – and he was on the verge of suggesting they skip out and the Pattersons could fend for themselves for the night, for the rest of the weekend even, when Danny bent down – did Martin mention Danny didn’t have his shirt on? Because he didn’t, and maybe God wasn’t vengeful and cruel after all – and kissed him.
Not like the way Danny usually kissed, playful and elusive, teasing in a way that made Martin feel a couple steps behind, but honest, tasting like gratitude and Martin let himself forget about silly things like unlocked doors and let himself feel this, hand on Danny’s neck to pull him closer.
Nice and warm, God, Danny was so warm, shifting muscle and skin, breath huffing gently at Martin’s lips, body sliding low across Martin’s, and what he’d done or said to deserve this, Martin had no idea. Didn’t chase after the thought, too much to think about already – or not think about, trying to move to give Danny more space on the bed and not stop kissing to do it, trying to make it clear he wanted more now without Danny breaking off to laugh at his impatience.
Danny, the telepathic jerk, caught on, pulled away but didn’t laugh: only looked at Martin with something like bemusement and gratitude still, and he opened his mouth to say something or maybe kiss Martin again when something, someone pounded on the door.
“Martin?” And even on the other side of solid oak, his father's voice was powerful.
-tbc.-
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My eyes went wide several times, hehe.
loved:
“Aren’t you a nice boy,”
and
“Oh, you’re Martin!” Heeeeee!!
I adore them, their easy relationship it makes me float around in a hazy stupour, hehe! And the kissing without his shirt, sooo cute! Awwww, just awesome.
And OMG even I jumped when Victor banged on the door!
x xx
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I know :)
Are you making out with the Dred Pirate Roberts or matching wits with Vinnzini?
I actually feel like I'm being crushed by Fezzik *sigh*
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Martin had kissed Danny one last time, relieved when Danny responded naturally, like he hadn’t just said what he’d said, like the conversation hadn’t even happened at all, and they’d let it go at that.
Awww.. these two.
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Great chapter (as usual!). Love Martin's irritation with Preston & the way he hates Danny's foster parents in his head. And the kisses were just... *dreamy sigh* I can't wait to re-read this chapter at work tomorrow! :)
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This chapter was great. I loved meeting everyone's parents. I kinda felt bad for Preston. No one deserves a mother like that. :o)
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Heh. Somehow, Preston's mother barged into my head... It just felt like she needed to be really embarrassing, though I don't know why.
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I really hate VF right now for interrupting such a moment...
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Is it wrong for me to be cackling with glee? Because I am. Like, a lot.
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*cackles with you*
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i was enjoying that moment, also loking forward to some smexing. but no.
he just POUNDS on the door.
meh.
fucking awesome chapter though!!
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*snerk!*
I can't imagine anyone calling Victor that to his face.
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Amazing chapter as usual though. Loved the description of the parents.
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Lovely icon. *le sigh*
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Oh my, Martin, if you only knew which kind of ties your grown-up self will wear. That was so neat *g*. And so sweet of Martin finding the right thing to say to make Danny feel better.
But not so neat ending the chapter like this. I want to strangle Victor!
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I love the irony of that too. O how the mighty have fallen!
I want to strangle Victor!
Poor Victor, so abused.
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Poor Preston, with his mother and the scene in front of Martin. I was so amused at Martin's response to it all, I could clearly picture him glaring at Preston and wanting to know what exactly he'd said about Martin.
And Danny! Oh my beloved Danny. So sweet. Martin's concern about the foster parents and handling it all was perfect. The kissing was wonderful. And then bam! You startled me at the end with Victor at the door. Can't wait to see what follows.
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This fic just blows my mind with how well-written it is! Like, there's this massive cliffhanger the end (omg), but there's that one in the middle where we don't SEE Martin's interaction with Danny's foster parents. Gah. Although, seeing the information through Martin's eyes was good enough.
BWAH. Spending the day with Preston, and Preston's mother having heard of Martin?! LOVED IT. *giggles*
As for that cliffhanger at the end...what will happen next?!?! Ahh, I can't wait.
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And as for that cliffhanger... I don't know. Haven't thought that far ahead XD
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