He takes another swig before handing the bottle over to David, enjoying the bitter taste the beer leaves in his mouth. This is good, he thinks – getting pissed together, like friends used to do, before the Big Headache came about. David would surely scoff at the description, remind him that they’re colleagues at best, but as of right now, he can’t bring himself to care.
Too bad that they have no choice but to ration their supplies of alcohol, which means they can’t get as wasted as he would have chosen to; still, David has stopped looking like a man bored to death of his own continued existence, and that has to count for something, he supposes.
He sits back against the headboard, bumping against David’s elbow in the process; David curses softly under his breath, glaring down at where the beer was sloshed on his shirt, then settles for downing the rest of the bottle instead.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, reaching for the tattered handkerchief he keeps in his pocket, and makes a half-hearted attempt at mopping up the mess on David’s clothes and bed. David promptly shoves him away, though not as roughly as he’s expecting; he removes his shirt, throwing it carelessly in a heap on the floor, and reaches for a new bottle.
Dave clears his throat, trying not to stare, yet failing miserably. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, he knows that, but it’s been a couple of decades since the last time he got laid, and David’s chest is unexpectedly nice to look at, all things considered.
“For Coke’s sake, Dave, what’s the matter with you?” David mutters somewhat grumpily, hand poised to pass him the beer.
“Nothing,” he shrugs, grabbing the bottle, and taking a long sip from it. David would most likely kick him out of his room, and he’s not particularly relishing the prospect of spending yet another night in the company of his own thoughts.
Their hands brush momentarily as he hands back the bottle, and it’s enough to send a jolt of want down his spine. Enough of it, Dave, he chides himself, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. What is the matter with you?
When he dares to glance over at length, he finds David staring at him intently, his expression unreadable as he brings the bottle to his mouth. Well, fuck this, he thinks, and it’s more an act of bravado than anything else when he reaches over, and purposely runs his palm across David’s bare chest.
He waits for the moment when David will finally snap at him, surprised that he hasn’t just yet. Feeling uncharacteristically bold – though he reckons it’s mainly down to the alcohol running through his veins – he traces the outline of David’s stomach, inching progressively lower, stopping just short of groping at his crotch. Their eyes meet briefly, and he fancies David’s piercing gaze is now daring him to see it through, whatever this is; emboldened, he reaches for his belt, then the fly of his faded denim jeans.
David’s fingers are now digging almost painfully between his shoulder blades. Clumsily, they scoot closer, the half-drunk beer bottle lying forgotten on the floor as they start moving, seeking to find a rhythm that would work for both of them.
“David,” he exhales, chasing a feeling that’s been eluding him for way too long. “Fuck.”
He can hear David’s laboured breathing, his muted grunts of pleasure as they squirm against one another. The next thing he knows, he’s shuddering to a finish, David following him a handful of moments later; then they just lie there, blood still ringing in their ears, until David stirs and reaches for something hidden under the mattress.
“Cigarette?” David’s voice is carefully neutral, though he looks miles more relaxed than he’s seen him in a long time.
“God, yes,” he nods, gratefully. He lets David light it for him, then takes a deep drag, inhaling the smoke almost greedily.
“That, ah – it wasn’t all that bad,” David murmurs at length, clearing his throat for good measure.
Dave only grins at the ceiling, turns around to press his lips briefly to the tip of his shoulder.