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Last Cigarettes
by Nicola
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: #1.03, 'Talk Show'
Eric was good at making himself invisible — discreet, casually unimportant — emerging only occasionally, to Get Things Done. Vince was the star, he always had been in their relationship: lounging, rockstar-perfect against the counter in the pizzeria and signing fake autographs on napkins for pretty girls who barely registered Eric take their order. These days, he faded from the paparazzi photos, was carelessly edited out of Strip anecdotes. Slumped together on the couch in a darkened corner of whatever club was hottest this week, Vince's hands rubbing and teasing lower, until Eric's belt buckle fell open and his teeth ground against his bottom lip: scenes instantly erased from the memories of people who didn't want to know.
Just like all the many girls, the occasional trickle of boys, Vince had never broken up with Eric. He was used to the ebb and flow of their relationship by now. The times when Vince was dating some girl (and it was like, for real); the sudden, glassy flash of his eyes, his arm falling across Eric's shoulder, and the abrupt insistence with which he said buddy. That was when it was over, Eric had learned. Things between them reset, for however long, until the flow changed. 3 days, 6 days, 2 weeks; once, it was four months. Maybe if they weren't such good friends, if Vince weren't so endlessly incapable of getting through without Eric by his side, it would be longer — maybe even for good.
The last time they'd broken up — or hadn't, because Vince didn't do that; he'd just stopped wanting to have sex with Eric, and you know, wouldn't some space be good? — Eric had moved into the guesthouse. Plenty of space. Enough space for Vince to realize that maybe he did miss the sex. As shitty as Vince was at breaking up, he was somehow surprisingly adept at making up. Eric didn't move back into the house, though. "Yeah man, you take a stand," Turtle had applauded, choking back laughter.
Eric sat on the roof of the house, cloistered in by jutting portions of tile (Drama had declared them avant garde for some reason) and warm night air. Their golf clubs lay discarded at his feet, and he rolled a spare golf ball idly along the ground using his left hand. He was smoking his fifth last-cigarette of the evening, although without the company of Emily. Emily, who probably wasn't callous or co-dependant, and definitely wasn't opening in a shit-hot movie this weekend. He blew a hazy cloud of smoke from the corner of his mouth, and frowned vaguely. Kicking old habits was overrated, anyhow.
"For someone who lives in the guesthouse, you spend a hell of a lot of time in the house," a voice behind him drawled.
"Actually, I think you'll find I'm on the house, not in it," Eric replied sardonically, without bothering to turn around to address Vince.
Vince slumped gracefully next to him. Eric leaned backwards slightly, pressing his thigh slightly against Vince's. He exhaled, and watched as the remaining tendrils of smoke buffeted slightly in the air, blurring his view of Pierce Brosnan's roof.
"Where have you been?" Eric asked.
"Oh. With whatshername. That girl," Vince replied disinterestedly. Impulsively, he reached over and stole the cigarette, tangling his fingers briefly through Eric's.
"Sara," Eric supplied expressionlessly. Typical Vince: suddenly they were dating and he didn't need to know her name anymore. "You gonna call her this time?"
"Uhh. Yeah. Maybe." He took a drag of Eric's cigarette and made a face. "These things taste like shit. I'd forgotten. Bad habit, E." He stubbed it out, and looked over at Eric, mentally retracing the conversation.
Vince paused. His mouth curved into slight, devious smile. "You want me to call her?"
"Yeah, I fucking want you to call her. Stop being such an noncommittal asshole. Call her and tell her you like her, call her and tell her you never wanna see her again. Just— do something."
The words sunk in, and Vince's face blossomed into an ear-to-ear smile. Eric had to grin, too. "Shit," Eric said. "I think the subtext here is rapidly becoming . . ."
Vince's lips covered his abruptly, and Eric felt the golf ball knocked swiftly out of his hand (a delay of falling, and then the distant plunk of it hitting concrete or tile). Vince's kiss was warm and dry, like faded sunburn. The rich choke of cigarette smoke still lingered as Vince's tongue curled lazily inside of his mouth, and Eric found that he couldn't breathe.
Vince broke away suddenly. "We fucked in the back of a limo. The show hired a limo for us."
Eric's head spun for a second, before he remembered: Sara. "Fuck you," he said loudly, although his laughter robbed the insult of any true malice.
Vince kissed him again, harder. "You're not going back to the guesthouse tonight, right?" he breathed.
"Uh huh," Eric managed, between kisses.
"Ohh, you think you're so unpredictable," Vince taunted, breaking away again. His fingers were unbuttoning Eric's shirt, and his head sank low. "I bet I can I make you stay." His tongue swirled briefly around Eric's navel.
"You're just as predictable, just as prone to bad habits," Eric retorted, his sentence punctuated by a sudden intake of breath and an unconscious jesus, fuck—
Eric couldn't recall ever fucking Vince in a limousine, although he knew Vince had done it with enough girls. Instead, he remembered them at 16, crawling all over the passenger seat of his dad's Volkswagen, hands finding rough leather and smoother skin; exquisite fumbling that never really resolved itself as anything more than inexpert handjobs. Moments lost in the manic energy of New York. Parked up in some shitty lot, choked with a specific Queens cocktail of scents: exhaust fumes, stale urine, cigarettes and weed.
Eric didn't miss home very much, not really — LA had sunshine and a dress code disposed to tits and ass — but he missed that smell, and all the stupid sentimentality attached to it.
August 2004
Muse music: Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
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