“Where do you get your clothes, James?” Richard leant forward to pluck at James’ top. Pink and purple. “Oxfam?” He was stretched out across the battered office sofa, socked feet squirming for warmth in James’ lap (James had to shift to retain his modesty). Motley behind-the-scenes telly life went on around without paying them a jot of attention.
“Piss off,” James said mildly, brushing Richard’s hand away. The gentle collision of fingers turned into an impromptu game of slaps, which turned into Richard grabbing James’ wrist and yanking him forward into a kiss before he could protest. It was rough and tasted of BBC canteen curry. When they broke apart, James smiled. “Can I buy you a pint?”
Richard raised an eyebrow.
“Only, I’d sort of heard that people tend to buy other people drinks when they want to get said people into bed.” James raised a hand to, intially, caress Richard’s ear or somesuch romantic twaddle, but ended up tugging on Richard’s hair instead (needs a haircut, as he was fond of pointing out not infrequently and rather hypocritically, hippie). “You know. Normal people. Remember them?”
James didn’t have a chance. Richard shut him up anyway, dragging him back down to kiss him again.