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nebulein · 2 years

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"So," Sharpy says, hand on Jonny's thigh, just those couple centimeters too high.

Jonny takes another sip of whiskey, lets the liquid sit in his mouth until the flavor of smoke coats the back of it, wood chips and pears filling his nostrils. Good stuff for good friends. "So."

Sharpy's smile gains an edge, dangerous and pleased. He always did like the game. And unlike Seabs, whose voice is always tinny over the facetime connection, Sharpy is real and here, a warm weight against Jonny's side.

It's late, Jonny's tired. His bones ache in that way that makes him feel old beyond his years, the times when he could absorb a hit and not even feel it later long behind him. These days the tiredness clings to him like a shroud, like a thick fog he has to wade through, too easy to lose himself in it. It's only October.

Sharpy's hand tightens on Jonny's leg. "For old times' sake?"

Jonny's knees pop when he stands, just another reminder that they aren't twenty anymore. But Sharpy's hair is still thick and his eyes still muster Jonny with the same mix of challenge and promise, like they did back then, when Sharpy staying after dinner wasn't a rare occurrence yet.

"You know the way," Jonny says, clapping Sharpy on the back, lets his hand linger a second longer than strictly necessary. "Or are you old enough to have forgotten it?"

"I'll show you old," Sharpy mutters, mock-affronted, but Jonny's answering laugh is real. It earns him a glance over Sharpy's shoulder, a split-second appraisal, eyes fond but voice exasperated as he shakes his head. "Just for that I'm putting you on your knees, boy."

It's baseless threats, easy banter, Jonny's knees definitely not made for that anymore, but something pulls tight in Jonny's gut nonetheless, a first spark of arousal. "Promises, promises."

"Don't worry, Jon." Sharpy turns around, quick enough that Jonny almost barrels into him. Sharpy's chest is right there. Jonny resists the temptation to rest his hands on it. "We'll find a better use for your mouth than all this talk."

The heat in Jonny's stomach ratchets up a notch, Sharpy close enough that Jonny can smell his aftershave, see the small cut where he must've nicked himself with the razor this morning.

"I can definitely think of one."

There's lines on Sharpy's face that didn't use to be there, both of them with a couple more scars and aches and grey hairs than the last time they did this, but Sharpy's gasp when Jonny slots their mouths together--that first sharp intake of breath like he didn't think Jonny would take him up on his dare, like he's surprised anew every time that Jonny wants this for real--that's old and familiar.

One of them will remember the way to Jonny's bedroom sooner or later, but Jonny's in no particular rush to get there. They may be old, but they've got time.

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