Subj: bored: a treatise of the self-reliant. or, self and lise.
Date: 12/9/00 11:32:31 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Alestar213@aol.com
To: ingoialo@yahoogroups.com


Ohhh, guys.

I am so bored.

I mean: a poignant, exquisite-- dare I say sensual?-- level of boredom here. The kind of intense boredom that . . would make a bored Bobby stare glaze-eyed at the television screen until three in the morning, and then hear Warren moving in the hall, towards the kitchen, and think, "self-destructive. funny." 

. . . 

And he moves himself into the hallway, and his shoulder bangs into the door frame, and his slippery socks skid his feet all over the hardwood floor.

Warren is standing at the corner, smearing blackberry jelly onto a peanut butter-covered slice of bread. His wings are settled against his bare back, his beaten grey sweatpants, trailing onto the linoleum, relaxed. He's humming something that Bobby's addled brain interprets as a fluttery version of "Dude Looks Like a Lady." He walks up behind him and props his chin on Warren's shoulder. 

"Whatcha doin?"

Warren starts, a little bit, and then cranes his neck to look sideways at Bobby's titled face. "Midnight snack."

"Mmm," Bobby says. A strand of golden hair falls into his face and he blows at it. "It's not midnight."

"A three-fifteen snack, then."

Bobby watches Warren grind the knife against the mouth of the jar, wiping off the excess jelly. Bobby says, "Mmm."

"You want one?"

"Nah."

"You sure?"

"Sure," Bobby says. "Sure and sure alike."

Warren laughs and shakes his head. "Okay. Can we go-- sit down?"

Bobby shakes his head no, the skin under his chin skimming across the other man's shoulder bone. He giggles, thinking, "waddle." He says, "Do you ever think about speaking some other kinda language?" 

Warren gives Bobby another awkward sideways glance and unconsciously flexes his shoulder. "I speak French, Bobby. So do you."

He shakes his head no again, but this time it's more obviously just the moving of skin against skin. "We went through some classes a few years ago, but we don't *speak* it. Not like English. It doesn't mean the things in our heads."

Warren grins, Bobby can feel it in the tightening of his neck. "That's just your way of saying that you didn't bother to remember any of it."

"Veux jouir avec te."

"--What?"

"See, you don't speak it either."

"No, I understood, I just--"

Bobby's mouth opens against his shoulder and his hands take hold of the elastic on either side of the sweats. Warren runs still. 

"Um. Bobby?"

"Oui," he replies, licking expirementally. "Zat est moi. Mon angelle." His hand slips beneath the elastic, falling down around the curve of a hip bone. Warren jumps, spinning around.

"Whoa WHOA, Bobby, Bobby. *Whoa*." He grabs Bobby's hands and pushes himself back against the counter, big-eyed. Bobby shrugs off Warren's grasp and stands back. He laughs.

"Jeez, man. Settle down. I was just kidding."

Warren's eyes widen further. He slumps against the counter and says, "Ohh. Oh." Then he shakes his head, laughing. "God, man." Laughs harder.

Bobby smirks at him, and Warren grins. 

"You're such a putz."

"I know." 

Still laughing, Bobby nods and moves forward again, putting his hands on those hips again, pulling, and pushing his thigh in-between Warren's. 

"Heh. hehm. um. Bobby?"

Bobby moves his leg against him, a little, and Warren's eyes go big, bigger, again. He leans in and says against Warren's mouth, "Settle, Warr. I'm just kidding." Then he kisses him. 

Warren's entire body jolts, trying to jump back and up at the same time, against the counter, blackberry jelly fallen on it. His wings come alive and spill to either side of him. Bobby releases Warren's hips and reaches beyond his shoulders, to the wings, taking hold and digging the tips of his fingers in. Warren's mouth opens. 

Bobby's leg moves firmly again, on him, and keeps moving. Bobby's hands skim through the feathers at Warren's back and Warren's hands jump jerkily to Bobby's slim waist, pulling him. Their mouths are together wetly, and sudden. 

Bobby pushes at Warren, takes his shoulders and pushes them back, and Warren beats his wings once, twice, and then he's sitting on the kicthen counter, legs spread. Bobby's mouth falls away to Warren's chin, his collarbone, down. Warren says, "God, god."

Bobby's open mouth on Warren's stomach tilts and says, "What?" Warren's head falls back and his hips buck up.

"I sat on my sandwich."

Bobby folds with a bark of laughter against Warren's thigh. Warren laughs, but bucks his hips up again. Bobby grins up at him. 

"Putz."

Then he uses his forearms to push Warren's legs wide-- and Warren watches as Bobby takes him into his mouth through the damp, thin, grey fabric. He says, "Hohh." 

And then, there's a shaking in his belly, and Warren's very aware of a mouth doing things through cotton, and he's scrabbling on the counter, and thank GOD that he's not sitting on the sink, or by now they'd both be dripping wet, the way his wings are flailing... 

Shit. Wings. Should, be, careful-- "Bobby." But Warren's grateful when Bobby, the joker, the bastard, doesn't really answer. And they're both wet, anyway. 

See, I can always count on you. 

"Bobby, god, you're--"

He moves up, down, and he takes a breath, a second, to stare up at Warren's tightly shut eyes, hands wrapped around the counter to keep him steady. 

Keep going. 

"You're still sitting on your sandwich?" 

Warren nods with his hips, missing moist, wanting, strained beyond peanut butter and jelly thoughts, and Bobby gets back to it, lowers his head. Because, all joking aside-- 

Warren gasps, ragged, hard, and slips off the counter, falling into Bobby, who catches him. Then he shakes and Bobby kisses him, and Bobby shakes. 

--Eventually, Bobby's head lifts from Warren's neck and he moves over to lightly bite his shoulder. Takes a few steps back and looks at his friend, whose eyes are too closed to be questioning. Coughs.

"Honest opinion."

Warren looks up at him.

"Something like, 'I forgot the punchline,' or something-- French?" Bobby makes a sashaying motion. "Is there an exit line for mouthing Warren off on a Tuesday?"

Warren squints at Bobby. "Unh?"

"That's your answer to everything." He shakes his head and turns to me. "Al?"

I gesture vaguely at the dark patch on Warren's pants. "Just-- go with the French."

Bobby nods. Moves over to Warren and kisses him softly. "Au revoir." Leaves.

Warren and I sit in the kitchen for a moment, and then I shake my head and call Bobby back. "No-- that's totally wrong. Try it again."

Bobby and Warren look at me. I say, "What're you guys-- begging for the Meteor?"

Warren coughs.