savetheearth | I Guess That I Just Thought Maybe We Could Find New Ways to Fall Apart [Friday, January 23]

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I Guess That I Just Thought Maybe We Could Find New Ways to Fall Apart [Friday, January 23]

Who: Lazarus Lawliet and Cesar Sanchez-Ortiz
What: Lazarus and Cesar go out drinking and then back to Cesar's place to watch Star Battles, which Lazarus has never seen.
Where: Cesar's place
When: Backdated to January 23, Friday
Warnings: Slightly drunk people, highly suggestive content

The last time they'd been out drinking, it had gone surprisingly well, even despite the strange and stressful lead-up. It wasn't every night that detective work required breaking into a house just to confirm what a cursory glance at the extermination van in the driveway would have revealed, and there were few strains of embarrassment that could quite compare... but Lazarus had suggested drinking at a dive bar, Cesar hadn't turned him down, and the evening had taken a better turn, considering.

They both liked science, and had found way too many things to say about it over shots and copper mugs of vodka and ginger beer. Though they'd seemed an odd pair, when they let their guards down around each other, it turned out that Lazarus and Cesar actually had a fair deal in common, to the point where Cesar had been open to doing it again at a later point... minus breaking into his coulrodendrobibliophiliac neighbor's house, of course.

Lazarus had found himself looking forward to the event, even regretting that he'd suggested two weeks instead of one. In that time, he found himself sending Cesar a few links to articles in science journals that had piqued his interest, realizing that it ultimately gave them more things to talk about, and by the time Friday the 23rd did come around, he arrived at the same dive bar slightly early, ordered the first round of drinks, and from there, got happy-drunk while discussing topics they'd apparently only grazed while drinking a couple of weeks prior. They even managed to get to those articles; a few drinks in, Cesar had brought up "Star Battles" again, a film that he recommended to Lazarus weeks ago. What started as a joke turned into a serious (if tipsy) suggestion for the remainder of the evening, and they'd settled up their tab, grabbed their coats, and gotten a cab back to Cesar's apartment.

Now, Lazarus leans against the wall as Cesar fishes for his keys outside his apartment. "Admit it, Robert Bakker was onto something in The Dinosaur Heresies. I favor T-Rex as a predator, not a scavenger."

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L cocks his head sideways, confused but ultimately accepting of the explanation. "I heard they started with IV, and then made V and VI, and decades later they made I, II and III."

Very difficult for a kid as obsessive-compulsive as Lazarus to hear, admittedly.

"Seems like a strange way to do things."

The lights go down, and the title crawl starts, and L takes another small bite of his chip. Watching him eat can be frustrating, if only because he's so biding and delicate about it. The chip is still not gone by the end of the title crawl, and by the time the mile-long starship destroyer appears onscreen, he's actually got two bites left, by his count.

"I don't like computer animation, as much," he confesses. "In older movies like this, it's definitely more fun to think about how they managed it with models and camera tricks. So..."

He pauses, squinting.

"...the small ship are the good guys, and the big ship, with the downward angle indicating dominance, that's bearing down on it... they're the enemies?"

Edited 2015-01-29 07:36 (UTC)

Camera angles? That is how the camera is arranged, isn't it? Cesar nods slowly. It's more analysis than he's usually given this kind of thing, but now that L's pointing it out...

{White and Black. Good and bad. Sort of.}

He means the General and the Princess' costumes, but it doesn't hold true with the soldiers. He keeps the hand up to sign more, but there's shooting onscreen, and he's too relaxed with alcohol and nostalgia to hunt that train of thought down where it lived. It must not have mattered very much.

Cesar has none of L's reserve in eating the chips, dipping several at once with Salsa and eating at a normal pace. Then he dips a few more and leans back, expertly guiding them to avoid dripping.

Cesar seems relaxed, and why shouldn't he be? He's at home, in his apartment, with a drink in one hand and a familiar movie on his televisions big screen. But it's a side of him that's very new to Lazarus, and it's admittedly fascinating enough to distract him periodically from the film he's supposed to be watching.

He enjoys aspects of it, but his eyes keep straying to the piles of equipment and models, the buried kitchen table, the boxes and mechanical parts, all hulking, shadowy shapes in the darkened apartment that are periodically lit by the flickering glow of the TV.

He realizes that his shoulders are tense; he tips back his drink for a generous sip, making a conscious effort to drop and relax them slightly. He reaches for his second chip in almost a half-hour of movie, by this point.

"I hope it's not any trouble that I came over tonight. It doesn't look like you have people over too often, so... thanks. I like the movie so far."

The movie isn't quite at a slow point, per se, but Cesar's seen it enough times that he doesn't care.

He looks over and gives L a reassuring smile, clapping a hand to his shoulder easily. Without drinks and bonding and Star Battles, he would feel the stress of an intruder in his living space far more keenly. Now? L is just inside his circle of friendship enough that Cesar wants him to have this experience. Drinks, old movies, chips--friends. L doesn't seem like he ever had that, not in the ways that Cesar did. He can't go back and fix years of solitude for him, but he can give him a late night of too much pop culture and a bang hangover the next morning.

So long as he doesn't start prying at anything painful, there's nothing that can ruin this.

When L agreed to come back to Cesar's place tonight, the intention wasn't for it to be as an intruder. The casual way he rifled through the lives of others when he was investigating was one thing, but being asked in, as a friend, with the light cast on him and not the mysterious objects surrounding him, waiting to tell him stories and spill sordid details... it's another thing entirely.

He wants to know, so badly that it's practically a physical sensation like an itch. It's been a long time since he's been inside a house or apartment that wasn't Tony and Richard's, and Cesar is right, in that he certainly didn't grow up with it or even experience it at all until very recently. He wants to ask... but he wants to enjoy the fact that he's in a residence with someone who welcomes his presence, and he doesn't even need to wear latex gloves.

He finishes his second chip, which was consumed at a pace as agonizingly slow as the first one, glancing at the strong, sturdy hand on his hard, thin shoulder. He brings a hand of his own up to poke at it slightly, realizing that seems odd and instead running a tentative fingertip along the curve of Cesar's thumb, and over a warm brown knuckle. The hand is pulled back with a particularly loud explosion, and L stares wide-eyed at the screen, taking another gulp of his drink.

Edited (I should be sleeping) 2015-01-29 08:48 (UTC)

There's a tap at his hand, and Cesar tilts his head to look over, realizing that he'd settled down comfortably as he was. Was this awkward?

A tapered fingertip brushes the back of his hand, tracing its shape, and two things occur to Cesar at nearly the same time. One is that L must not find the movie interesting, or he wouldn't be looking at Cesar's hand instead. The other is the sensation of L examining his hand itself, and the light feel of his touch. L's shoulder is warm, and he can feel practically each bone through the shirt. Cesar wonders if he accidentally squeezed the hand while doing so. Did L notice?

Light flashes from the TV, and L looks back towards it. He takes a drink, and Caesar does too, eyes pinching at the corners. Will L touch his hand again? Should Caesar stay like this while they watch the movie? Possibly. He's comfortable, and it didn't seem like L was objecting to it being there.

Prudence and personal boundaries sluggishly win the battle. He uses the hand to reach for more chips, insisting half-heartedly that this was the ideal result.

When it comes to Lazarus, typically things warrant notice when they are not awkward. That being said, he's accustomed to seeing himself in a certain spare, unappealing light that automatically negates any small notion that he might be in any way desirable, considering himself a stark realist in that regard. An attractive or experienced man might try to examine certain gestures and sift through them like sand for seashells in a quest for buried meaning, but Lazarus is almost willfully ignorant of them, to the point where they come full circle and wind up reciprocated anyway.

The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else.

He turns the glass in his hands, thinking about all the fingerprints he's leaving without his gloves. The DNA on the rim. The alcohol, making him a little bit more and a little bit less of who he really is.

The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.

He doesn't mean to be distracted from the movie, but the corner of a photo frame is ever-present in his peripheral vision, lit just enough by the flickering lights thrown off by the television to show two young men, both precious, smiling, irreplaceable.

He bites his lip when Cesar's hand squeezes his shoulder, then slips away from it, breaking a connection, going for a chip.

L leans forward too.

I want to believe we're friends and that this is a good night. I want to believe that every night leading up to this one has been good, too, at least in that way. I want some truth in my life to be exquisite.

It's not an accident, but he goes above and beyond making it look that way, grasping Cesar's index finger instead of a chip while the other man's hand is still in the bowl.

"Sorry...! For a second, I thought you were... food."

Cold, slightly-salt-gritty fingers close around one of his, and Cesar blinks. It's like his mind is a clock where a big piece (alcohol-loosened) just slid into place, and there's no ambiguity this time. L grasping his finger. L climbing across him, with no regard to personal space or shame. L going for drinks with him, and the emails in Cesar's inbox.

It startles a silent laugh from him, genuine and buoyed by the satisfaction of solving a puzzle, along with the complete absurdity of his excuse. If Cesar had known he could answer all his questions by inviting them out for drinks, then maybe he'd get out more often. He turns to L.

{They need more salt and salsa before they'll taste like it.} His shoulders shake again; he's far more amused by the whole thing than he would be if he were sober. The TV cuts out the clarity of parts of the message when it switches to scenes in space, and he wiggles his his fingers, and then dips a chip in the salsa, holding it up as proof.

Edited 2015-02-01 06:09 (UTC)

The laughter, though completely silent, is startling enough to make Lazarus pull back and away. He had no objective, and he realizes that he is completely out of his element, here. Even if he knows what he wants, has perhaps known for longer than he will permit himself to acknowledge, communicating it in a smooth and natural way is beyond the grasp of his limited social skills.

And then there's Cesar's response, which L has to second-guess. Maybe the shifting, uneven shadows in the room are making the signs easy to misread, and he pauses before responding to what he's basically sure Cesar said.

"Oh? I guess we'll see about that."

Fuck. What the fuck, Lazarus. Fuck fuck fuck.

Oh? See about what, his finger's taste? He's still holding the chip, and a thought occurs to him that's daring enough to make him laugh again, this time in surprise. It's absurd, and completely not how he expected the evening to go. Since when does he even think about this kind of thing with guys, let alone L?

If he weren't drunker than he looked (it wasn't just rum in his own drink, there'd been two bottles in the kitchen, not just one), he might have the inhibitions to balk. As things are, everything's funny and thrilling, and he bites a corner of the chip, dragging fingers across the part coated in salsa.

Then he closes the gap between him and L, reaching for his mouth.

Unlike Cesar, Lazarus isn't in a laughing mood. The evening started on neutral ground and he's ended up delivering control of it right into Cesar's hands. A stiff smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he wonders if he's being ridiculed, if his statement really sounded as stupid as he was pretty sure it did.

He's surprised to see that Cesar's had enough alcohol to have such a good sense of humor about his own odd impulses. He's even more surprised when Cesar raises his suggestive statement by actually moving closer and offering him the chance to taste his fingers.

No, not offering; he's reaching with intent, and L responds automatically, grasping Cesar's wrist and closing his mouth around the ends of two of Cesar's fingers, quietly sucking them clean while the Storm Groupers onscreen shoot at the movie's heroes.

He doesn't make eye contact, because that would just be weird.

Edited 2015-02-01 07:44 (UTC)

Cesar's eyes widen, and he's distantly wondering how drunk he actually is, because his thoughts are swirling and every other scrap of attention is focused on the wet feel of lips pressing down on his fingers, and a soft scrape of tongue. He has his fingers in L's mouth. Salt, salsa--saliva.

His face feels burning hot, and he tugs at his collar with his free hand, as though wishing it were cooler in the room. Several long seconds pass, and he draws his fingers out, and he looks like he's about to taste them, too--but no, after a moment he wipes them on his pants leg, looking a little dazed. He can't believe that just happened. Did it really? Was that going too far?

He rubs the back of his neck with his dry hand, blushing harder than ever. Just play it off, Sanchez-Ortiz. Embarrassment only sticks if you let it.

{Well?}

When Cesar's fingers pull back and leave his mouth, he does glance up, meeting the other man's gaze, noting the way his toasted skin is flushing even if he is clearly trying to behave like there's nothing strange or embarrassing or inappropriate about what just happened. It occurs to him that maybe there isn't anything wrong with it, and that's why Cesar's still smiling, even if heat is radiating off him and his cheeks are red.

"All evidence points to your fingers tasting just like food, but I don't think the nature of the sample was enough to make a conclusive statement."

Surprise. Is he asking what Cesar thinks he's asking? Cesar makes a mental note to stop asking this, since it looks like the answer is always going to be 'yes'.

He lifts his hands, wanting to sign something back, but he hesitates, blocked by a lack of signs: he never learned a technical vocabulary. He lapses into fingerspelling, before simply changing to simpler, shorter words.

{More testing?}

Was he aghast at his own daring before? He dips a couple of fingers into the salsa jar again and holds them up, waiting for some signal or gesture that he's not thinking incorrectly.

They're friends. This is just drunken fun, like a dominoed chain reaction, or like a convoluted Rube Goldberg machine, except there's a lot of different forces in play right now, and Cesar's pretty sure that 'platonic' isn't one of them. He can trace how they got here in fumbled mechanical components and meaningless equations, but it does nothing besides form a skeleton for his mind to hold. He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't want to interrupt the moment to think it through, either.

Edited 2015-02-01 09:03 (UTC)

Lazarus recognizes this feeling; it's the high that comes with pushing a boundary and transcending it without negative consequence. Either it's normal or too bizarre to question, but regardless, it's still being pushed, and not just by him. Whether it's purely the alcohol or his experiences with the overtly flirtatious Shou, he's able to roll with the new developments, at least for now. Lazarus is not cool, is in fact the epitome of anxious and neurotic, but he is above buckling under the requirements of treating this sort of adult situation like an adult.

"Same environment, with the same expected results?" he asks, maintaining their close proximity as he takes Cesar's wrist again and glances from his face to the salsa on his fingertips. "I guess the hypothesis is a theory now, which means it has to hold up to really rigorous testing. Otherwise, it's bad science. Second trial commencing."

The "second trial" is decidedly more biding and involved than the first. There is more salsa on Cesar's fingertips this time, which requires some tongue dexterity to lick the the space between them clean, and it's necessary to pull them more deeply past his teeth and lips to get at the juice that slides toward his knuckles. The process is still quiet, delicate, and absurdly focused for what it is, and he continues sucking at Cesar's fingertips for a few seconds after the last traces of salsa are gone.

"The potentially biased findings are that you might be too hot," he confesses slightly breathlessly, "but also that I might be cultivating a taste for spicy things."

Rigorous testing--?

L guides Cesar's fingers back into his mouth, and this time the 'test' takes him right down to the base of his fingers. His fingertips can feel the back of L's tongue, and the backs of his nails where the roof of L's mouth gives way to soft throat. There's tongue, and sucking, and Cesar doesn't think he's ever done anything this unexpectedly erotic in his life.

L pulls back, breathless and murmuring. Cesar's mouth is dry, and he realizes his own lips are parted, equally airless. He wants more, and at the same time he's pinwheeling, torn by the fact that this is out of nowhere, and that they're realistically not ready for this. They're drunk. What seems like a good idea now probably won't seem like a good idea later.

If Cesar were speaking out loud, he'd have to clear his throat. For now, he swallows reflexively.

{Inconsistent technique. Should repeat consistently.}

One of them should care more, but this is fine, and it isn't a big deal, and really, he wants more. His eyes are bright with alcohol and something else, and they rest on L's lips, transfixed.

Over the course of his short life, L's made a lot of decisions that, with the benefit of hindsight, probably weren't such great ideas. In the grand scheme of all of his mistakes and regrets, this doesn't even register, and not just because it feels good in the present moment. He doesn't stand to lose a career, his freedom, or his life by sucking on Cesar's fingers; even the frozen dread of where those fingers might have been before ending up in his mouth isn't at the forefront of his mind. It actually gives him some sort of subversive, dirty thrill to think that he didn't try to coat Cesar's fingers in Purell beforehand. It's not the time or place to bring up tiny psychiatric victories, but it builds him up to wonder rather than worry about what else Cesar might have touched recently, and how.

He turns the rest of his body to face Cesar, tucking his feet and legs under him and sitting forward toward the other man, aware that his mouth is being watched. "Consistency isn't one of my strong points, which might make me seem like a bad scientist... but I like to think that I know something about chemistry. I'm all about getting a reaction."

Edited 2015-02-01 21:15 (UTC)

L's words draw another smile and silent huff that could be a laugh.

He finds himself turning to face him also, though it involves more upper body rotation than actually moving onto the couch: even with his added height, L's posture and position brings him level with Cesar's face. Cesar's still watching his lips. Is he as good a kisser as he is--whatever else he'd call that from before? He wants to know.

His left had has been holding a drink off to one side this whole time. It's going to spill if they get much more into this, and he lifts it, planning to set it aside--and then he stops to drink the rest of it before he does, downing it in a single breath. It was at least half a glass, and it burns the whole way down, warming him from the inside.

He puts it on the table and turns back to L, bringing his face closer to his. If L doesn't move back, he'll lift a hand to the other man's jaw, guiding him.

L's surprised he isn't more hungover than he is. He wakes up just as the Sun is beginning to rise on Cesar's couch feeling a little thirsty, and he runs a hand back through his tangled hair as he thinks back on the events of the night prior.

...oh.

...maybe some things are better processed after a cup of strong, black coffee. He straightens his clothes, tucking and fastening himself where he's hanging out or falling apart. Then, he shuffles toward the chair his jacket is draped over and fishes in the pockets for a stick of gum to ameliorate his stale breath. As he chews, he glances around at the apartment and all the things he's so immensely curious about.

He decides not to risk snooping, at least not while he's here in yesterday's clothes, with the scent of mingled sweat and sex clinging to him. As he puts on a pot of coffee and starts rifling around under the counters in the kitchen for a frying pan, he decides that even if he's not sure what he feels about the things they did, he at least doesn't feel bad, and hopefully, Cesar feels similarly.

As he's pulling the pan out of the cupboard, a notebook falls on its side. L stares at it for a second, curious, but also faint with hunger. He sets it atop a few boxes on the kitchen table; maybe after he's made a few plates of french toast and if Cesar isn't awake by then, he'll be bored and give it a glance. For now, he turns to the refrigerator, where he's happy to see eggs, milk and butter. He sets to work making batter, and he thinks he might have the ratio a little bit off, but cooking isn't an exact science or anything. He notices the rum from the night before, tips some into the egg mixture, and then shrugs and pours himself two fingers' worth. As he fires up the stove and begins the fine art of burning the hell out of breakfast, he mentally rehearses how to approach the night before with Cesar.

We had fun, right? It had been awhile, believe me I could tell.

No, maybe too coarse and suggestive for morning light.

I can be an adult about it if you can.

Too cold, impersonal, implying that it was a mistake to be moved past. Negative.

I really liked the movie last night.

Yes? Yes, it gave Cesar a chance to save face if he didn't want to address anything other than the movie, and an opening to bring it up if he did. L congratulates himself on his foresight and thoughtfulness as the kitchen steadily fills with smoke and the egg mixture peels off and sticks to the pan when he attempts to flip the slice.

Cesar stays on the couch, apparently dead to the world. The blinds are closed, the cushions are actually quite comfortable, and he could probably sleep the rest of the day away, if he tried.

This is, of course, when the smoke detector goes off. The alarm is piercing, and it feels as though someone's driving a twin pair of nails straight into his skull. Cesar comes awake with a silent cry, a groggy flinch, and a brief attempt to smother himself on the nearest cushion. (No success.)

Wait. That's the fire alarm. There's several scents clinging to him right now, but he can smell smoke on top of it all, and he rolls onto his feet with the grace of an extremely hungover crocodile. The kitchen isn't far.

It's too bright in there. His eyes narrow to tired slits, and his hands are over his ears, unsuccessfully trying to blot out the misery. Someone else is in there, and they're already trying to get at the alarm, but Cesar can probably do it faster.

He turns off the stove, leaves the kitchen, and comes back with a chair.

It's really loud; too much for L's sensitive ears on a normal good day, and even moreso when he's just slightly hungover. The french toast remains on the stove, where it continues to char happily, and L is going at the fire alarm with a screwdriver.

When he sees Cesar appear with the chair, he on top of it in seconds after shoving it against the wall, where he jams the flat end of the tool under the alarm and pries it off with a reckless cracking noise. The plastic splinters when it comes down on the kitchen's tile, and he steps down, carefully avoiding the sharp bits as he makes his way back toward the stove and flips the third piece of utterly wrecked french toast.

"I'm making breakfast," he explains unnecessarily. Then, thinking back to his prepared way of addressing the previous night, he adds, "I really liked the movie last night. Thanks for having me come all..."

Fuck you, Freud, fuck you and your cigars and your mother

"Over, thanks for having me come over."

As smoothly as he can muster, he reaches for that two fingers of rum and downs it.

Edited 2015-02-03 06:16 (UTC)

The smoke detector gets ripped off the wall, and the horrific din finally cuts out. His ears are still ringing. His head is still pounding. His eyes and mouth feel like sandpaper.

L is talking, so Cesar swings his gaze over to stare blearily towards him. Some of the lines on his face deepen minutely, but they soon soften, resting on his words and the smoking toast. Cesar's not much of a morning person on the best of days, but he puts a hand on L's shoulder, pats, and ends with an encouraging hold.

Then he reaches for the coffee maker, feeling slightly nauseous. Spiking his own drink with something extra had been a terrible idea, especially when he hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd last had anything that strong. He'll pull himself together during his first cup of coffee, hopefully. Until then, he's flinching at small noises, and squinting as though the overhead light were the noonday sun.

Edited 2015-02-03 06:39 (UTC)

Though the subtleties of Cesar's changing expression are lost on L and he stiffens initially when the other man puts a hand on his shoulder, the gesture is a kind one, definitely encouraging, and any possibility that he might regret any aspect of what they did together dissipates contentedly.

He notes where Cesar gets his coffee mug, reaching for one of his own and waiting his turn to get a brew he can only assume is strong enough to fuel Cesar's work load. He notices Cesar squinting and very helpfully turns off the kitchen light, failing to consider the implications that might have for pouring coffee.

Cesar doesn't even look up as the light goes off, though he opens his eyes to a more comfortable width. There's light enough from the livingroom, as far as he's concerned, and it gives his eyes a more gentle time to adjust.

Something happened the night before, and he remembers a general conclusion that it was exhausting and good. More details float around haphazardly, but he needs at least a coffee and some advil before he's ready to sort them out. He reaches for the nearby coffee can, and glances down at the notebook it bumps.

Time stops. His heart stops, sounds temporarily cease, and the world runs slow while neurons fire in a frantic repeating loop. He puts the coffee can down and picks the notebook up, unable to look at anything else.

L found it. He must know what it means.

Is everything over?

L rolls his coffee cup idly between his palms, going to the sink and filling it with water before reaching into his sweater pocket for a pill sorter, dumping Saturday's assorted pile into his palm. He glances Cesar's way as he tilts back another day's worth of relative sanity with a mouthful of water.

"That notebook was under the counter... the kitchen's not really a good place for one, is it?" he asks, leaning against the counter, full attention on the way Cesar's staring at the object in his hands. Is it a cookbook, maybe a journal...?

"If you want, I can come over next weekend and help you organize your apartment. I don't mind, and I'm really good at it," he offers, taking another sip of water.

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~~TIME SKIP~~ The Next Morning

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TIME SKIP The Next Morning