The ceiling was very pretty. Little soldiers dressed as salt and pepper pots were waging a war around the light-fittings. But that was alright because it was a Tuesday and everyone knew it meant the Happy Hour was twice as long.
A horse walked through the room looking for amphetamine and jam sandwiches. Ethan giggled.
"Oooh, do that again."
Ethan looked down into the dilated green eyes of the table. "Why are you talking to me?"
Ethan giggled again. Then he licked the tabletop. "Tables don't talk."
"I'm a table?"
"I'm lying on the table," he told the oddly squishy, long-haired and leather wearing piece of furniture with the bemused expression, "and I am lying on you. So you must be the table."
"Oh." There was a happy laugh and the table rumbled nicely under him. Ethan laughed too. "I must've forgot."
"Mmmm," he purred, snuggling into the dirty white t-shirt that must have been the table-cloth.
"Ohh… that's nice. You must be a motorbike."
Giles-table nodded. "You purr and feel wonderfully good between my legs." He stroked a hand through his hair and Ethan-bike obligingly purred and rumbled deep in his belly before giggling again. "But your engine seems to keep stopping."
Ethan-bike frowned. "It does? Maybe I need kick-starting."
"Where do I kick?"
Ethan-bike stuck the tip of his tongue out to think and was distracted by the table trying to kiss him. He slapped the table soundly and tried to prop himself up.
"That was licking, not kicking," he scolded.
The table pouted. "But I always liked bikes."
"I can see that," the bike retorted, tugging at a leather sleeve. "What kind of table wears leather?"
"The kind that has a bike parked on it?"
"Shouldn't you sit on a bike, anyway?"
The table looked thoughtful. "We could try! But am I not a bit bigger than you?"
The bike would have been able to think better if the table had not been stroking its upholstery and seat. And the bike felt this was fairly important.
"Are your legs very long?"
"Mmmm?" Stroking over his back, nice and warm and tempting. He arched into it, vrrrring deep in his throat.
"I said," he stressed, running a finger over leather surface top, scratching it a little and enjoying the sound, "-Are your legs very long? Then I could park under you and you could sit on me."
It turned out easier than thought. Ethan-bike mourned his comfortable surface in relation to this floor which only held slight traces of the table's warmth and none of his slight curves, warp and knots. A pity, yes, but having the table's sturdy, firm legs astride him was a comfort in itself.
The bike vrrrrrrmed again and almost brought his front tyre off the ground in anticipation.
The table pressed in closer, moulding itself to his seat. He felt custom-made, brand new and raring to go. Arm-legs on his handlebar-shoulders, squeezing him and he felt like he was being revved.
"You need to drive me somewhere," he told the table, giddy and almost clawing the floor in anticipation.
"…Tables don't move very far, as a rule."
Ethan-bike pouted. Tyres deflated, he sunk a little. "But bikes do," he whined, screeching to a halt.
"If you go anywhere you'll have to leave me behind," the table said, hugging him a little then letting go.
"I don't want to." Stubborn, sour and he sounded like a six year old. Wait; weren't six year old bikes already so very out-dated?
He rumbled his engine petulantly. "I want you to ride me. With your nice leather jacket and your long, strong legs." Not that normal tables had much else. Or, indeed, leather jackets.
The table gripped him tightly and did horribly nice and unidentifiable things to what had to be near his headlights. Possibly his speakers. "You could put your kickstand down."
Ethan-bike decided he loved the table with all his miles. "Are we ready to try my engine out," he asked, "Or do we think my tank needs filling first?"
The table was busy fiddling with knobs and levers and buttons now. How and why was all lost out the window was the bike just thrummed happily. His table could ride him like this as long as he wanted.