Tangible Schizophrenia


Rum and Nonsense

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gawain/Tristan
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Ideas originated with the movie, not me.
Summary: Friday night. Tristan’s a playful drunk.


Ten minutes. Ten minutes to run down to the corner store and get more chips, and when Gawain came back…

Well, it could have been worse. He could have been picking Galahad-bits out of the furniture. Which reminded him…he went over to the window facing the alley and looked out. Nope, no body.

“I wouldn’t have thrown him that way,” said the floor. Lazy and drawling, with that faint unplaceable accent that only came out when Tristan was especially tired. Or, apparently, slightly on the far side of tipsy.

He was sprawled over the line between the carpet and the linoleum, hair flopping in his face and shirttails flipping about to show how low the rise of his jeans was. The fingers of his right hand were idly spidering over a mess of textbooks, while from his left hand dangled a nearly empty rum bottle. Frankly, he looked like what Gawain thought about during long boring subway rides. Except for the unfocused, dizzy eyes, which made Gawain want to contemplate strangling Galahad.

“Then where did you throw him? I kind of need him to pay the rent, you know.” Gawain closed the window. As he did, he thought he heard a disappointed sigh, so for good measure he yanked shut the curtains. Some of the people living in the building across the alley set the hairs on the back of his neck to prickling. Especially the two girls that lived directly opposite him. “Tristan?”

The bottle was swinging, its bottom just missing Tristan’s nose. He was staring at it the way cats did at pendulums in cartoons, and any moment now Gawain almost expected the man to take a swipe at it. Tristan caught him staring and he blushed; the other man just raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

From the bathroom echoed the sound of a man in reverse gastric distress, which both answered Gawain’s question and gave him an exit. He scooted around Tristan, who was still mesmerized by the bottle, and ducked in the bathroom. “Galahad?”

“Thank God my hair isn’t your length.” Galahad fumbled the faucet-knob open and washed the vomit off his chin and mouth. “Christ. Your boyfriend’s got some stamina, you—well, I guess you would know. Ick. Shit, I think I made myself sick again.”

Gawain smacked him upside the head. Then he grabbed Galahad by the waist and held him straight until it looked like Galahad wasn’t going to fall over the toilet. “What did you do to him?”

“Hey, hey, it was consensual. And--hey. We just drank a lot of rum. What the fuck do you think I am, some druggie rapist? Oh, fuck. Ew. Ew.” And down went Galahad to cling to the toilet bowl again.

Sighing, Gawain let go of him and flushed the toilet. “Sorry. I didn’t really think you…but maybe someone fucked up the alcohol because he looks like—”

“—I know. He gets even weirder when he’s drunk—no wonder he never is.” A hand weakly pushed at Gawain’s shin. When he didn’t move, it curled into a fist and smashed his toes. “Out, dammit. Maybe I’m just going to spend the night in here…”

Bad-tempered little bastard. Just for that, Gawain was going to wait another hour before he offered any aspirin. Water Galahad could get himself, and anyway, it didn’t look as if he’d be able to keep anything down for a while.

Back in the main room, Tristan hadn’t moved. With another sigh, Gawain crouched down by the other man’s head and pulled away the bottle. He spotted a second one beneath the coffee table and set them both on top, then rested his arms on his knees. “What the hell were you two doing?”

“I think…” Tristan was taking an unusual amount of care with pronunciation “…that he promised to—” two hands rose to make limp quote marks “—‘fuck off’ for the night if I could down more rum in one swallow than he could.”

He could still put together whole sentences and signify grammar, so he wasn’t that far gone. And Galahad was an idiot—he never could handle much rum and there was plenty of beer in the fridge, yet here he was challenging Tristan? “You must have really pissed him off.”

Tristan shrugged and rolled over to pick imaginary lint off of Gawain’s sneakers. Then he pushed himself up on his elbows, accidentally bumping his head on Gawain’s knee. At least, Gawain thought it was an accident. But then Tristan made a strange little murmur and rubbed his cheek against Gawain’s knee. He poked his head in between Gawain’s legs. “I don’t think I was trying to—what?”

“You two each had a bottle? Aren’t you—don’t do that.” Gawain had grabbed Tristan’s head and pulled it up, but instead of knocking it off, the other man had promptly twisted around to nibble on Gawain’s fingers. It looked like Gawain was going to spend most of the night arguing with his cock and biting his lip. “I should drag him into bed first, and then you to the car.”

“It’d be easier to just fuck me here.” Another liquid shrug, which somehow humped Tristan further into Gawain’s lap. The extra weight overbalanced them and Gawain teetered. Flailed. Fell on his ass when Tristan, a weird dazed grin on his face, lunged for Gawain’s…neck. His hands skidded off of Gawain and thumped on either side while he laved hot the pulse in Gawain’s throat and…wriggled.

This was insane. Really insane. And Gawain needed to stop squeezing Tristan’s ass if he really wanted to stop it. “Okay, you’re definitely not acting normal. How about we—mmph!”

He did try to resist the kiss, but even drunk, Tristan had better reflexes than him. So then Gawain just tried to play it unresponsive, but that was fucking impossible with Tristan sucking on Gawain’s lower lip like that. Finally Gawain’s temper—it was probably his temper—snapped and he pressed back, pried open Tristan’s mouth and shoved in his tongue. Of course, then Tristan moaned and went limp, which meant he was even harder to move than before.

Gawain’s stupid hand was still groping Tristan’s ass. It would have to be firm and perfectly rounded and in tight denim. And Tristan would have to really like it and express it in breathless noises and more wriggling and other ways that went straight to Gawain’s dick. “Tristan, you’re really drunk.”

“I noticed.” Warm little puffs of breath tickling Gawain’s collar. Then Tristan’s mouth followed them and he did his damnedest to burrow into Gawain’s shirt from top down.

It was one of Gawain’s few nice buttondowns, so he hastily undid the buttons before they could get popped off. He remembered what he’d been trying to do a second before Tristan attacked his shoulder and swirled hot wet curlicues all over it, consequently interrupting Gawain’s attempt to be…to be…something. “Um. Right. We could’ve just gone to your place, or maybe the Attic…”

“Where we might run into Dag and Fulcinia trying to make another baby. I’m drunk instead. I think I’ll live.” How Tristan rolled his shoulder and made it whisper ridiculously sexy come-hither crap in Gawain’s head, Gawain didn’t know. And he’d been staring at that body part, too. “Why am I still dressed?”

“Christ.” Gawain just stared for a moment. Too long, apparently, because Tristan pressed up to kiss him back into grabbing and stroking and doing something about those jeans. “You really…this is the first time I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Tristan did a hip-roll that helped Gawain get the jeans down to Tristan’s hips and that slowly squeezed Tristan’s thigh against Gawain’s crotch, which was demanding to be de-pantsed as well. That weird smile was still on Tristan’s face as he yanked Gawain in by the hair.

Hard kiss. All teeth, very little lips to cushion it, and only tongue afterward to probe and soothe the bruised parts. And pressure from mouth down, chests together because they were twisting in a roll and Gawain could not get his hands very far from Tristan’s buttocks. They just felt really nice to hold and massage and fuck, it was a good way to make sure their cocks stayed rubbing up against each other. Good thing Tristan’s hands could move, then—could trail down Gawain’s back and scratch a little at the small of it before going on, so Gawain almost shivered off his jeans.

“Because I don’t like getting drunk. People talk too much, and they can’t think as well…not really a good idea unless you think the other person won’t do anything.” And all the while, Tristan was nipping his way across Gawain’s chest, nuzzling at the sparse hairs running down the center. Licking lightly at Gawain’s nipple, which wasn’t all that sensitive but it was just the look and the thought of it, and that was enough to make Gawain’s breath come short. “I think I stuck Vaseline™ in the couch last time I was here.”

“You weren’t planning this, were you?” Because that would be way too much, even for Tristan.

But no, Tristan was shaking his head and laughing at nothing while his hand slid between them and oh fuck oh, his fingers were wrapped around both their pricks and damn. Good. Gawain had to slap around twice before he dug out the tin. “No. It’s for my hands—the raptor gloves chafe.”

Gawain buried his face in Tristan’s neck at the same time he put his greasy fingers in between Tristan’s legs. He liked watching Tristan’s face, but he also liked putting his mouth over the neck vein, over the vocal chords and feeling them flutter while his fingers worked open Tristan, while he kept his thumb sliding round the rim and occasionally running the nail along a tight wrinkle radiating outward from it. Because then he could sort-of hear the rumble of unvoiced words, and sometimes he even thought he could make out what some of them were.

Tristan always stiffened for the first fraction of a moment, showing Gawain the edge of fear, but then he would relax so fast and so completely that Gawain couldn’t help but be drawn along with it. Seemed natural after that to streak oily traces down the insides of Tristan’s thighs, to curse and fumble till their recalcitrant limbs let them align themselves, and then to slowly sit himself inside of Tristan. And then Gawain always had to pause and wait for his vision to clear up.

More puking sounds from the hallway. Gawain made a face, irritated at being dragged out of the nice two-person haze in which he’d been luxuriating. “Fuck.”

“Wasn’t a thump. So he didn’t pass out.” Nails dug into Gawain’s shoulders as Tristan pulled his attention back. Clamped it back, if anyone wanted to get literal.

Which Gawain did, and which he proceeded to nearly lose his balance in getting. His left knee was on the fucking linoleum and every time he tried to get the traction to shove in, it would slip and there’d be a moment of blind grabbing at each other. But he got used to it fast enough, and then he started to like it for how it brought Tristan’s shoulder, wrist, jawline to his mouth. How it trapped Tristan’s hand that was still wrapped around Tristan’s cock so Gawain could feel the sweat sliding over the knuckles and calluses, the heat they were building up between them. Messy, yeah, but he could lose himself in messy.

Except Tristan went first, unusually—he jerked up without any of the regular warnings and his mouth was a red double-arch capped in white, and his cry was a shivering delicate thing completely at odds with the ferocity with which his body shook. He collapsed slowly, hand weakly fisting in Gawain’s shirt as Gawain fucked through the after-tremors, nearly delirious with how they worked his cock, and then he lay there, panting and smiling at the edges of his open mouth. Eventually he recovered enough to flex muscles from hips to gut and take Gawain to his climax in a rush that left Gawain dizzy for minutes afterward.

“I can taste the fucking rum in your mouth,” Gawain snorted, licking the sweat from Tristan’s face. “Good brand.”

Tristan merely stretched, drawing out groans from them both, and nuzzled into the frizzing, tangled tail of hair that’d flopped over Gawain’s shoulder. He stayed that way while Gawain finally eased out of him, while Gawain slumped to the side and dropped an arm around Tristan’s arm to turn them facing each other. Then Tristan started moving, slow and rhythmic, his damp shirt twisting and untwisting around him. He nibbled his way up to Gawain’s mouth where he snapped playful air-bites before kissing Gawain.

“And you’re still drunk.” Possibly enough to have gotten Gawain soused secondhand, given Gawain’s level of thinking. Of course Tristan was. It wasn’t like fucking someone sober could actually be done outside of fiction.

“Are you two done?” called Galahad. “Can I come out and grab some ibuprofen? The bottle here’s empty.”

Gawain rolled his eyes. A quick assessment told him there wasn’t any fucking way he was peeling himself from Tristan in the next hour, let alone pulling his pants back up. “We’re not dressed.”

“Fuck.” One second. Then Galahad came staggering out, head blocked by a soft-core men’s porn mag he was holding. He shuffled to the kitchenette, found the aspirin and downed it. Didn’t bother getting a glass for the water to swallow it all the way down and just slurped from the faucet like a dog. “At least I couldn’t hear you. You guys were quiet this time…”

“We could be noisy.” Tristan squirmed gracefully—only him—out of Gawain’s neck long enough to throw Galahad a look that was equal parts taunting, amused, and just plain…floppy. He let Gawain pull him back down without doing much except biting Gawain’s nose.

Galahad didn’t even dignify that with a reply. But at least he remembered to shut the door when he walked out.

“You pissed him off,” Gawain muttered. He ran his fingers a few times through Tristan’s hair, slowing when his hand was almost free to stroke Tristan’s nape.

“Probably. I’m weird, so it happens a lot.” How Tristan said it wasn’t self-deprecating or sarcastic, but merely informing in a bizarrely innocent way. But when he looked at Gawain, there was something behind the inebriated daze that twisted hard in Gawain’s gut.

He pulled the other man closer and felt better when Tristan went soft against him, all the usual alert tension seeping out of him. “Yeah, but I like your kind of weird. You’re a…don’t kill me, but you’re a cute drunk.”

“I might be drunk, but I’m still going to remember that,” Tristan retorted, mock-offended. Then he grinned again, nice and lazy, before snuggling into Gawain. They were sticky as hell and Gawain was probably going to have to scrub the carpet, but he figured it could wait till morning. And he still had six hours till that.