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Life Outside The Small Screen

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It’s been eight days since that first kiss in the library and Josh still isn’t entirely sure how it happened, or what the hell his life is turning into. Oh, of course he knows the theory of it all (curiosity – abuse – anger – confusion – kissing – actually) but there’s still something borderline otherworldly about the fact that he, Josh, is sitting here on the sofa, in his family’s living room, with the remote control balanced on one leg, and practically half of Metis draped across the other.

Every now and then the dark-haired boy will make some comment about the movie – laugh at the awesome improbability of a fight scene, or debate the validity of some piece of SFX – and then it takes every square inch of Josh’s brain to try and remember what it is that they’re actually watching.

The small-screen universe playing out on his father’s pride-and-joy plasma is, so far as Josh is concerned, completely and utterly irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, and he actually doesn’t give a damn if the protagonist comes out alive at the end of it or not (apart from the fact that it’s a given anyway, since, seriously, it’s Hollywood, not art house). He’s barely even conscious of the fact that Metis has eaten practically the entire bag of peanut M&Ms on his own, and that’s the kind of thing that would usually get on Josh’s nerves, at least a little bit.

But then, usually he’d probably be a bit put out if one of his friends came over to watch a DVD and ended up leaning all over him quite like that, too.

Usually has clearly gone out the window. Hell, it went out the window a fair while ago.

And right now, this evening, tonight, here at this point in time and space, the only thing Josh is aware of, the only thing he cares about, is the warm weight of the boy beside him: the pressure of his head against Josh’s shoulder; the way his dark hair tickles at Josh’s neck; the feel of his thigh moving slightly against Josh’s thigh. Metis is… everything, and if Josh shifts his head slightly he can breathe in the already-familiar scent of Metis’s shampoo, and his skin, and the slight sweetness of the chocolate on his breath as—

Josh blinks slowly, and almost blushes as he realises that Metis is no longer watching the movie, but has turned and is watching him instead. The boy raises his eyebrows, reaches across Josh and picks up the remote. He hits the pause button and then wriggles on the sofa, moving so that one of his knees is now up against Josh’s thigh where his leg had been a moment ago, and so that his face is looking directly at Josh’s.

“Have you seen anything that’s happened in the last sixty-five minutes?” Metis asks, rather curious, somewhat critical, and either way deeply amused.

Now Josh is almost certainly blushing or, at least, he can feel his ears heating up with a touch of embarrassment and he knows they’ll be reddish, even if his face isn't.

Apparently Metis takes his silence as a no, because the boy rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, their fascinating gleam momentarily lost beneath his dark bangs, and drops the remote carelessly to one side. Then he moves again, so that suddenly that knee of his is somehow between Josh’s legs and he’s kneeling, straddling a thigh, balanced on the edge of the sofa, directly in front of Josh and half-sitting in his lap, and is muttering, “You could just say you’re not interested.”

In his attempt to look irritated (it fails), Metis somehow almost slides backwards off the sofa altogether, but Josh’s hands rise up without hesitation and grab him around the waist. For a moment they don’t move, Metis just looking at him, and Josh just concentrating on the feel of Metis beneath his touch. And then Josh pulls him in closer, to keep him steady, sliding Metis forwards towards him, that knee riding in closer against his crotch. Metis gives up the stern act and smiles, one of those goddamn beautiful, expansive smiles of his, and Josh can’t do anything but smile back.

It’s been eight days and Josh still really isn’t sure how the hell he got here or what exactly his life is turning into, but when Metis leans in, and their lips brush, and it deepens as mouths open, and tongues touch, and Josh’s hands rise up along Metis’s fine backbone, and Metis’s hands knot themselves at Josh’s neck… Well, then Josh is pretty damn sure that he doesn’t actually care. He just holds the boy, shifts closer, takes more, and lives it.