There is sometimes a measure of guilt in trading friendship for a good dessert. But it seemed clear at the time that Pres didn't want to be followed, that it wasn't one of those tests (more common among high school girls than college boys in his experience anyway) to see if someone cared enough to follow the skulking away, and so Loki is only getting back to the suite after dessert and another drink.
     He slides off his coat as he steps into the living room, glancing over at the abused sound system. "Pres?"

     The sound system's been muted in favor of the television. Pres is out of his suit jacket by now; it's been tossed onto a lamp (fortunately turned off), and his shoes litter the floor. He's sprawled on the sofa, and he's evidently raided the minibar, because there's an assortment of tiny bottles of alcohol lined up on the coffee table. The television is on, muted, and two porn actresses are miming sexual ecstasy badly. About two-thirds of the bottles are still sealed.
     He shifts, knocking his cane down. "Fuck." He shrugs and sits up straighter, looking over the back of the sofa at Loki with rumpled hair, shirt partially unbuttoned. "Oh, hey. Good dinner?"

     "The pastry chef can do unholy things with chocolate and espresso," Loki says, folding his coat neatly over the back of a chair. And because he can't stand to see it hanging like that, he picks up Pres's jacket to do the same. He watches the television momentarily while he takes a spot on the couch, sprawling in turn. "I should've thought to get some for you. We could probably still have it sent up."

     "Nah. I'm good." Pres half-closes his eyes. "I'm full, anyway." He rubs a hand over his belly, leaving the cloth hanging skew, and he licks his lips. "Glad you enjoyed it, anyway. So am I going to have to tell you to keep your hands off my sister?" His tone is half-joking, but with a mild belligerence under it.
     He turns, grabbing the remote and tossing it to Loki. "Find something better. You can tell they're faking it."

     "She's too young for me, and not my type," Loki says dryly, catching the remote in both hands. At least two thirds of that is true. "I'd end up covered in ribbons. That being said, I think I've done my dancing for the vacation. It's not really my thing."
     He begins clicking up through the porn offerings, more or less at random. Faking it, faking it, still in the setup stage, faking it, oh god not into that kink, faking it... "We might be better off with cartoons. Or tormenting the sound system some more." He watches Pres sidelong. If you keep radiating that at me, I'm going to end up wanting to jump you and panicking at the thought simultaneously, which would be...pretty fair, come to think of it.

     "Nah, no cartoons," Pres dissents. "Last time I watched cartoons while drinking, I spent half the night dreaming about being held down while Mickey Mouse took bites out of my butt." He rolls a hip against the cushions, reaching for one of the miniature bottles of Bailey's.
     "I'm crippled, you know," he says without looking at Loki. "You don't have to not look at me. I'm not that bad."

     Loki toes off his shoes, and turns on the couch, drawing his feet up in front of him. "Sorry," he says. "That wasn't what--" He stops, and shrugs, because there are some things that explaining just make worse. The remote goes flying back across the couch. "Pick something you like. If you're going to drink, I could mix you something more interesting than straight shots."

     Pres picks up the remote, fumbling with it. "Sure, something to drink that's interesting sounds good." He starts clicking through the channels. "I'll see if I can find anything more to your tastes, yeah?"

     "Oes," another voice cuts in, a grin evident in it. Pres does not react as Gwilym slides out of the shadows, dressed in his finest black armor. "Like himself, oes? You are doing better than I had feared, though not so well as I had hoped." He looks Pres up and down critically, then Loki himself. "How are you feeling?"

     It's a good thing Loki's already slid off the couch to head for the bar by the time Gwilym appears, because he has a terrible poker face. So much for hoping this vacation would be low stress.
     He covers the gap between Pres's question and his response by sweeping up two handfuls of bottles on his way back to the bar. "You were on a whiskey kick, right? I can work with that."

     "Whiskey sours," Pres agrees. "Though I had some vodka, too. All grain and stuff, yeah? I should probably drink some water at some point, but right now I just don't care." He keeps flipping through the channels - it's all porn or pay-per-view, it seems. Such are the luxuries of the presidential suite.

     "This isn't stressful. Yet." Gwilym examines Pres up and down critically, stepping in front of Pres' line of sight to do so. Pres continues not to react, clearly unable to see him. "Though I don't intend to up the ante all that much, oes?" He focuses his one visible eye on Loki in an emerald wink. "You are, though," he adds more seriously, "doing better. Well enough for me to tell you so, and to offer my advice if you wish it."

     Go for it.
     As mental responses go, it's nearer sullen than grateful, but not to the point of being downright adolescent. So far. Loki pulls out a glass to pour in vodka, watching Pres and Gwi in the same place and trying not to let it feel too mind-bending to have different portions of his life crossing over at each other. "Speak up now if you have any objections to a white Russian, because the ingredients are limited here."

     "I'll take it." Pres sits up, pulling himself upright and turning to watch Loki from under half-lowered eyelashes. Behind him, a no-holds-barred orgy is in full swing. The theme seems to be, find a hole and fill it. "We could get more sent up from downstairs, if you want," he adds hopefully. He's only a little slurred.

     "I'll have one, if you've spares," Gwilym grins. "Never let a drink go begging, eh?" He goes to one of the plush chairs and sits down, able to keep both Loki and Pres in his line of sight. "You have the power to heal him, you know."

     ...Wait, what? How metaphorical are you being, there?
     Two white Russians in hand, Loki returns to set one beside Pres, and the other off to the side where it's presumably available for himself. Or for Gwilym, depending on what angle one's taking on the positioning. He curls back up in the space he left on the couch. "Sure, room service is a great thing. Or we can see how long it takes to exhaust my creativity within the limits of what's in the bar."

     "Ooh, creativity," Pres croons, more to himself than to Loki. He takes the drink with a wave of thanks, slouching back on his side of the couch. He stares at the porn free-for-all somewhat blankly. "Yeah, why not? Go wild. I'm gonna go take a leak first, though." He drinks half his glass, then bends to begin groping for his cane.

     "Don't get ahold of yourself," Gwilym answers, his grin slight this time. Present, as it seems almost always to be, but muted. He turns to watch Pres with a shrewd, dispassionate gaze. "He was wounded long before he came to this form. Look at him and think of what you know about him. It's the current injury that brings the pot to the boil, for certes - but you can't deny his other injuries. Go on and think about it, and tell me what you see."

     Loki reaches down to pick up the cane for Pres, ignoring Gwilym a moment. "You know me, I just fall back on vodka, chocolate, and coffee when all else fails. It's hard to go wrong combining those three."
     He's not like his sisters. More private in a lot of ways, for one. So how am I supposed to feel anything but guilty about digging through what he's feeling without his permission?
     He says that, and he's still doing the digging. He's used to living with ingrained bone-deep guilt about things he can't change and never chose to be responsible for.

     He picks up the cane and hauls himself up to his feet, limping towards the bedroom. "Okay, well, whip me up whatever, mister magician. I'll be back after I let out the Great Lakes." Pres grins lopsidedly over his shoulder. "Sorry, I know I'm kind of a pill these days. I... anyway." He turns quickly, hurrying a bit clumsily out of sight.

     "Pssht. You can see it without my gifts. You knew before getting them that he was torn about his sexuality. You knew before then about the pressure his ma's put on him, about what he might or might not want to do with his life, about his feeling thwarted. You knew about his relationship with his sisters, and you know it all now. All I gave you was the ability to confirm what you already know." Gwilym picks up the drink, taking a swallow and motioning towards Loki with the glass, cocking up a red-gold eyebrow. "It's easy to blame it on me, oes, and I'll accept my share of blame for the things which are my fault. But what I have given you is a key, and you've finally turned it in the lock. Remains to be seen, oes, whether you open the door?"

     He sits forward, leaning over his thighs to look at Loki with that faint smile and intent scrutiny. "You have the ability to make a difference in his life. He is your friend, oes? You worry about choosing for him, but you know damn well that he needs the help. Are you going to help him, or are you going to just sit there twiddling your thumbs and coming up with excuses as to why it's a bad idea? I'm curious, actually. How long will you watch him suffering without being willing to give him some relief..."

     You and Maddie agreeing on something worries me deeply, you know that? Loki moves empty bottles from Pres's side of the couch into the wastebasket, and heads back to the bar. Right now it's a much less uncomfortable place than the living room proper.
     I'm trying to help how I can. If I seriously thought getting his pants off would improve matters long-term, and not just be fucking awkward the next morning, I'd be more inclined to try. He pours himself a two-layered shot, and downs it, eyes closed a moment while he lets that sink in. There are plenty of things I'd fix if I thought I could do it without fucking them up worse in the process. My track record's not great, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm leery of trying my hand at it on someone I actually like.

     "There are ways y' can help other than rutting. Rutting's just one of the more fun ones." Gwilym smirks at Loki, draining his drink with ease and not even having the grace to look affected by it. "Look. You want things to be nice and tidy and never inconvenience y'. I get that. I sympathize with y', even - just not very much. Life isn't tidy. I'm not saying you should plunge in without a single thought for the consequences - I'd have died a thousand times before I reached your age, if I thought that. But you can't hold out for the perfectly sanitized experience, either."
     He looks to the door through which Pres has gone, then back to Loki. "I'm not going to blather on endlessly. But you were given these gifts for a reason - and that reason is because of who you are and what you're capable of. Right now, the only one holding you back from achieving your true potential is yourself, Loki. Which, despite all his wealth and charm and intelligence and looks, puts you several thousand kilometers above your friend in there, and you and I both know it."

     Loki looks to that same door, and thinks in a not entirely focused way, Now I need a drink. Which he does not make for himself, as it's become time for a glass of water and finishing up with Pres's drink.
     You keep saying, "gifts". Mind cluing me in on the plural part there, or is this another one of these things that I'm just going to get condescended to about? Because if there's more I can do for Pres, I'm all for hearing it. Beyond dragging him to London for the summer and getting his leg fixed and playing it ear from there--
     If I knew what would help, I'd be doing it already.

     "You're too afraid to use it consciously, yet. Give it time." Gwilym sounds tolerant. "There will be more, as you learn, as you grow. I'm not condescending to y', you know. You're just so damned defensive. Think about it, oes? Or do y' want me to wait until he's asleep? I can come back."
     He looks at the television screen and smirks. "'Course, if I do, I can't say what kind of mood I might be in..."

     Loki stares into his glass of water, and he might be moody if he weren't so busy trying to actually think this all through. "I don't know that--" He stops, looking at the door. I'm not sure I want to know, given what the first gift was like. Fucking moral quandaries. But if it's already there, I'm better off getting some idea of how to handle this.
     He knocks back the glass of water, and pours himself another shot. I don't suppose written instructions are an option? The kind with helpful diagrams? If not, sure, come back later. Even if it does feel like condescension all over again to be given the choice, knowing Gwilym can and will show up whenever he very well pleases.

     The coalescence of shadows occurs to the left of Gwilym, and in that dark shimmer, that absence of light, there is a half-naked form and a face Loki might remember from Black Jack Davy's. The left side of his body, from his neck to where skin is then covered by armor is painted in inky tattoos of celtic ravens and the fragments of riddles and poems that can only be answered when looking at the Shadows in Whole, Right Hand and Left Hand together. It is the Left Hand that appears before you. His beautiful face shows no emotion. He is as blank and neutral as the universe itself. But his eyes, black with only a corona of emerald, smolder with anger.
     You are the weakest excuse for Non Action since Hamlet. I am tired of watching you. You complain and you simper and you wonder and you watch and still you do nothing.
     Aeron ap Davydd stares at Loki, No Man's Son. The shadows coil around him like living things. He is barely visible to the two of you -- the outer world (and Pres) do not feel him. Aeron looks to Gwilym. He expects rebuke, but he does not care. Doing nothing is safe. It is also cruel. You cannot sit on the sidelines forever, Loki. Time is only so forgiving.

     "Aeron."
     Gwilym says the name and nothing else, rising to his feet. Around him, the shadows darken, so that his visible skin glows, his emerald eye incandesces, his hair becomes alive like flame. He shakes his head and gestures with one hand outstretched, then turns to regard Loki thoughtfully.
     "My raven is less patient than I am, Loki. But he is correct in this. As cruel as you have thought me to be, I have not been inactive, and I have been cruel to be kind. The best roses grow only after pruning. You know this. But you fear to act, because of what might be. The past is in the past, oes? It is time for you to let it pass. Wake."
     He gives Aeron an exasperated look, and shakes his head again. I know my business, brawd. I am going to have to punish you for this, you know.

     Loki leans on his elbows, glass in one hand, and offers Aeron a gesture with the other that's obscene in at least a few countries. I never asked to be a hero. You want faster results, try putting together a an employee manual next time.
     He looks back to Gwilym, with a twitchy shrug. He doesn't have a defense to offer anymore, verbal or thought.

     Aeron tilts his head, quite raven-like, and looks between the two. Your inaction affects everything. You could choose to act. Instead, you waste and linger. Like death. The young man frowns and the shadows coalesce again, this time transforming him into a bird. He sits upon Gwilym's shoulder, his impatient talons digging at the armor. My King, you have my apologies. But I do not know how you stomach this sober. The bird is squat after that, grumpy, his feathers sticking out in all directions. He'll take the punishment. It'll be worth it if Loki actually makes a move. Twitches a finger. Lifts a hand to help his brother.

     "If I wanted a hero, I'd have picked someone else," Gwilym agrees. "You are not a hero, nor are you meant to be. You are my priest in this realm, instead. You have been called, and you will learn what that means." He sounds both sad and affectionate, almost avuncular. He steps forward towards Loki. "I'm not angry with y'. You're doing what y'can - but you're not doing the best you can, for me or for yourself. But we'll keep working on it, oes?"

     The clack of the cane on the floor is heard as Pres approaches. "Sorry it took so long. Being a gimp has its drawbacks. What kind of drinks did you make this time, anyway?"

     Loki straightens behind the bar, and says, "I got creative. I warned you about the coffee, didn't I?" He brings both glasses back to the couch, waiting for Pres to sit before he hands one over. "Tell me what you think."
     Seriously. Employee manual. Think about it. I might have a better chance of doing whatever it is you need if someone could explain it to me without devolving into aphorisms and metaphor.

     "It'd be nice, wouldn't it?" Gwilym ruffles Loki's hair as he passes en route to Pres with the drink. "But that's not the way it works, lad. Take action. Who knows? You might even enjoy it." He smirks, then steps back towards the shadows. "Or, as Aeron'd say, for duw's sake, just break down and fuck him already..."
     He winks, and steps back, raven and all, into shadows and is swallowed by them. How far he really goes - who knows?

     Pres holds his hand out for the drink. "Yeah, I could probably use some coffee. Drank some water while I was in the bathroom, took a couple aspirin. Just in case, y'know?" He looks over at the television, then down at his feet. "Sorry. You shouldn't have to fuckin' nursemaid me."

     In the shadows, a raven squats, opening its beak. It looks like it's preparing to launch off Gwilym's shoulders in a one-bird reenactment of Hitchcock's The Birds.
     You want it spelled out to you? In simple sentences so even you can understand it? See Boy In Fucking Pain. Stop talking. Start doing. Ass. I should pluck out your eyes and snack on them for the little use you make of them.

     A gauntleted hand lifts and knocks the raven tail for teakettle off his shoulder. Gwilym sighs. Are we going to have to have the talk about mortals being brittle again? I know y' were raised better. I swear...

     "This is called bringing a drink to a friend," Loki says, curling up in his corner of the couch. "The day I start fluffing your pillow for you, then you can worry about nursemaiding. And that I'll leave to the maids."
     I bet you train dogs by shouting "No!" at them at random moments too, don't you?

     The shadowed raven drops to the ground. But he doesn't stop there. Harbinger of Death and Dreams that he is, he trots toward Loki with his wings up and beak open. Hopping, he launches upward and then lands on Loki's shoulders. You speak bravely for one who is operating the machine without a manual, boy. My king commands me. And I am loyal to him. But I do not care about you. If you are brittle, that is your problem. If you break, it makes no difference to me. You want to say that shite again? Hmm? Think carefully before you answer. Shouldn't be hard. That's all you fucking do.
     The raven pushes off the priest's shoulder. Dear me, I hope that doesn't leave a mark... The bird breaks into a thousand birds and then a wisp of shadow like the breath of Charon before disappearing from view and consciousness.

     Gwilym looks exasperated in his brother's wake. He looks away from where Aeron went to where Loki is. "Not all men are created equal. I chose you because you are the one who's right for the job. You didn't want the job, and I know that. I'd say I'm sorry but I try not t' say things I don't mean, these days. But the truth is there, for you. When you see someone in pain, what d'you do? Feeling sorry for y'self is only valid if y' do something about the other person as well."
     He begins to grow insubstantial, fading into the shadows after Aeron. "I've laid it out for you pretty plain, at this point. You being stubborn doesn't hurt me - I've time aplenty. But it hurts your friend... when you have the keys to healing him. You do, remember that. I can help you heal him, but I can't do it directly. Only you can do that."

     Pres remains oblivious to the drama, the pathos, the angst. He has plenty of all three on his own, after all. "Oh, look," he says suddenly. "Gay amateur porn marathon. Huh. I didn't think this channel showed that." He flushes and quickly drinks.

     Loki turns jerkily towards the television, because it's either that or deal with--other things. "I don't think I've seen this one," he says vaguely.

     "I, uh. Know I haven't." Pres squirms, holding his drink in both hands. "Must've bumped the remote when I got up," he mutters, trying to find a comfortable position without taking his gaze off the television. He watches with the reluctant yet fixed gaze of someone who knows he shouldn't be watching, but just can't quite help himself.
     "Uh. Anyway," Pres mumbles, dropping his gaze suddenly and slouching down in his seat on the couch. "Like I said. Sorry to take so long. I should be okay now. So. Um. What d'you want to do tomorrow?"

     Loki watches the screen a moment while pulling himself together. "I don't know." This is like trying to work out how to use a cell phone from Japan. If I keep pushing the incomprehensible icons on the screen, at some point I'll be able to send a text message.
     He swivels around to look directly at Pres instead. "I mostly came on this vacation because I don't get enough chances to see you, otherwise. So whatever you're in the mood for, I'm sure I can cope." He smiles, thin and crooked but sincere. "Sitting inside playing video games might be a waste of an Oahu vacation, but it's still a change of pace from home. And there are other things to do inside."

     Pres reddens a bit, looking sidelong at Loki, and for a moment, he looks about, oh, five. "You aren't just saying it to make the crip feel better, right?" he asks, very quietly. "I know ... I know Maddie and Gillian wanted you here to keep me company. I just ... I'd rather you didn't come if you were doing it for them, y'know."
     He looks at his hands in his lap, then at the screen instead, trying to see it without really seeing it. This only halfway works. "So do you like guys? Or girls? Or both?"

     "I wouldn't have come to make Maddie happy," Loki says, watching Pres not watching him. "My tolerances with her stop before hair decorations, so they don't extend to ten-day trips. It didn't come up with Gillian. I came to see you. And maybe the sun. It gets cold in London."
     He throws a glance at the television screen, and gets back to looking at Pres. Who is, as long as he's thinking about it, easy on the eyes, constant misery aside. "Both, though I have worse luck with guys. Bad luck with both, but that's how it goes. You?"

     "I don't know," Pres mumbles. He downs his drink and pushes it aside, folding his arms over his chest and hunching down in his seat. "Mumsie'd have a cow if I liked anything other than girls, y'know? I don't know."
     He repeats it, the pain for a moment visible on his face, masks stripped away by alcohol so that the longing and uncertainty, desire and hurt are all briefly there, tumultuously mixed. "I keep telling myself it doesn't matter. Sex isn't important, right? But goddammit, I don't want to be president!"

     "Of course it matters," Loki says, both feet up on the couch now as he slides nearer Pres. "Some people are perfectly happy not ever dealing with sex, but even knowing that about yourself would matter. Fuck whatever your mother wants, because it's not like that's gotten you anywhere good so far."
     He reaches back to grab his drink for a swig, the ice cubes already melting through the coffee and cream in the glass. "If you wanted to be president, you wouldn't be suggesting credit card fraud. Which I am willing to run with if you'd rather that than the more legal option. Worst comes to worst, we both have access to good lawyers, and your mother isn't about to press charges against you."
     And now I'm just trying to avoid the real topic.
     "Guys or girls. What have you tried so far?"

     "Mumsie wants me to be president," Pres mutters fretfully. "I've never wanted it - I've never wanted to be a politician. I ran for student council every fucking year because of her, y'know? God damn it."
     He throws himself back against the cushions, his bad leg skittering for a moment. He glowers at it, then turns to look at Pres, the uncertainty rising with a hint of wariness again. "I ... just girls." He looks away. "I've never - done anything. With a guy."

     "Want to?" It's like looking off a cliff and walking forward to ask a simple question, some days. What's the worst that can happen? I could lose the last good friend I have who I actually trust. Them's the breaks. "You decide you're not interested, I'm not going to take it personally. And I'm not going to tell anyone." He shrugs, and doesn't take his eyes off Pres.

     Pres looks so startled that he could almost qualify as a cartoon character. "I - you're not joking, right?" His voice cracks. "I - I really don't think I can handle it if you're kidding, Loki. I mean. I don't blame you for not - not wanting to, I know I kinda - you know, my leg and all. I - if you're serious..."
     The look he gives Loki is filled with a mixture of longing and pure misery. He bites at his lower lip, then looks down. "I won't blame you if you're kidding. I just - I'm going to close my eyes now." And he does.

     "Really, Pres," Loki says, a touch of exasperation to his voice, "what kind of guy do you take me for? Did I ever fuck with your head like that before?" He slides closer on the couch, right up beside Preston. Knee to knee, and just waiting there. "Maybe more to the point, you've never fucked with mine, which is more than I can say for some people."

     He shudders, then nods. "I wouldn't," Pres says in a low, tight voice. He opens his eyes, looking over at Loki hungrily. "Do you - do you really want to? You aren't doing this just because you think I'm confused or something, right?"

     I'm almost certain "confused" wouldn't be radiating that much lust. "I should've said something back in L.A." Loki leans in, looking down, because now he's the one having trouble looking Pres in the eyes. "At the time, I just wasn't sure if you--I didn't want to make things weird. Stupid of me."
     He looks up with a quick, sharp smile. "Just promise me that if you decide you're not into me after all, you'll still come to London this summer. It's a good excuse for me to move out of my dad's flat and get my own space. I'm way too old to be living in my parents' metaphorical basement."

     "I promise," Pres breathes out, almost falling over himself to get the words out. He gives Loki another look, this one still uncertain but with undercurrents of eagerness and desire. It's with trepidation that he leans in to very cautiously rest a hand on Loki's thigh. There's still room for the oops lost my balance sorry to it, that's how cautious.
     "Besides," he tries to joke, "if I come to London, I can keep an eye on my sister. Way Maddie's eyeing Baz, both of them, probably."

     Loki does not at all flinch away from the hand on his thigh. In fact, he leans in a little closer. "I'm going to end up with half the Wests in London at this rate. That should keep things interesting." He lays a hand along the back of the couch, near enough to make a point without getting too...pushy. "Now, if you go stab the lead singer for the band I'm in, then it becomes a problem. So please don't."

     "As long as they're not all staying with you at the same time," Pres mumbles. He leans in a little further, cautiously, as nervous as a cat on the other side of a fenced off pit bull training ring. His hand kneads at Loki's thigh, then lets go as he turns to face Loki directly. "I love my sisters, but they can get - well, a bit much. I - don't hate your lead singer," he adds grudgingly. "I just hate the way my sisters fell for him."

     "That's fair," Loki says, shifting about again. So there's some nervousness on both sides, here, if not for exactly the same reason. For once in my life I can tell if someone is actually into me or not, and it just comes with more issues. Figures. "There are days I appreciate being an only child. Less to worry about." He rests his head against the couch back, watching Pres from a lower angle. "And I solemnly swear to never, ever get involved with either of your sisters, even in the extremely unlikely chance of either of them falling for me on the rebound."

     "Okay." Pres laughs a little, then nods jerkily. "Okay." He looks at Loki from under half-lowered eyelashes, leaning in a bit. He folds his arms on Loki's shoulder. "I - don't know how this is going to work," he warns. "I ... anyway. Yeah."
     Apparently he's made up his mind. There's sudden resignation and determination. And then he's kissing Loki with a certain amount of forceful eagerness.

     Loki is saved from the need to figure out how much he has to explain--and surely Pres has seen enough porn that there's not a lot of mystery in the mechanics, here--by slightly unexpected kissing. Which makes everything that much easier, because he has at least twice as much practice on conveniently gender-neutral activity like that. He leans in and tries to keep up, his hand on the couch back curling into a tighter grip there. One of his knees is sliding in closer, while he's still caught in that phase between "sitting next to" and "climbing on top of."

     Pres clearly has had a fair amount of practice at kissing, though from the way he kisses, it's clear he's used to kissing girls, and being the kisser rather than the kissee. He leans in towards Loki further and further, one hand sliding oh so casually across Loki's chest. It's clear that the lack of breasts takes a little getting used to.

     Loki moves his free hand to Pres's shoulder in an attempt to not fall over backwards, sparing a brief worry for whether this is going to put too much stress on Pres's leg, followed promptly by the realization that falling over backwards with Pres on top of him wouldn't be a bad thing anyway. There's a small noise at the back of his throat, almost contented, as relaxes for the moment into sheer reaction and not needing to think about everything. Plenty there to react to.

     Pres is actually not a bad kisser. Possibly a little more forceful than he strictly needs to be; a little less attention to nuance, but then again, he's eighteen. Somewhat cautiously, he begins unbuttoning Loki's shirt, a bit as if half expecting to get his face slapped.

     Loki loosens his death grip on the couch long enough to go slide Pres's shirt out from his waistband, by way of encouragement. He's much more amenable than your average high school girls, and guaranteed not to end with any angry parents demanding to know what's going on.

     Unless Pres' mother suddenly bursts in, anyway. That seems not likely to happen, however. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, pulling back to catch his breath. "Not fair," Pres mutters. He finishes unbuttoning Loki's shirt, tossing the flaps of cloth back and sliding his hands up against his chest slowly while watching their progress as if hypnotized.

     "What?" Loki clears his throat, and tries again, more articulately. "What's not fair?" Life, the universe, and everything. He watches Pres watching Pres's hands, and tries not to get distracted by wondering how meta that is. Meta or not, it's....interesting.

     "I like it," Pres mutters. He leans in to nuzzle at Loki's chest, bumping with chin and nose before dragging his teeth lightly up along his chest. "I don't want to stop." He climbs clumsily forward onto Loki, his leg making it more difficult.

     Loki tilts backward, landing on an elbow. He sucks in a breath at the touch of teeth, saying distractedly, "That's not unfair, that's--don't stop."

     He doesn't bother answering verbally. He's too busy sliding against Loki, his mouth traveling up to tweak experimentally at a nipple, sucking the flat masculine disc of it between his lips before teasing it with his teeth and tongue. Pres slips a hand around Loki's waist, fingers rubbing lazily at the base of his spine as he spreads his legs wide to straddle Loki's lap. He murmurs, "Tell me if you don't like it."

     "Okay," Loki says faintly. He's trying to press himself up against Pres's mouth at the front and hand at the back at the same time, for inconclusive wiggling between the two points. We're really getting our money's worth on quality furniture here.

     Even so, the furniture makes squeaks and groans of its own, as if getting into the spirit of things. Pres hotly licks at Loki's nipple, sucking it with a wet, lewd pop before transferring his attentions to the other nipple. His tongue wanders in a gliding trail from the one nipple to the other, the hand that's free now wandering down to toy with the button at Loki's trousers before pulling away again skittishly. Maybe he's not quite ready to make that move just yet. "...D'you want to... um...move?" He's blushing, all of a sudden, losing some of his momentum.

     Loki's knee pulls back from a slide up against Pres's side, ending with a foot hooked loosely around his back. "...bedroom?" It's taking a moment to pull himself back from sensation to more prosaic speech. "Yeah, let's."

     Pres licks his lips and nods. He rolls awkwardly off Loki, with apparent reluctance. "...I'm gonna need help finding my cane," he mumbles. "Not like you can carry me, after all."

     Loki slides back, dragging his foot away. "Sure." And on tonight's episode of Seventeen Synonyms For Yes... He stands up, momentarily shaky for reasons that have nothing to do with general ability to walk. Cane. Right. He finds it to offer back to Pres. There's a flush to his cheeks that he's not even sufficiently aware of to be trying to ignore.

     He takes the cane, but even with the cane he's just not doing so well right now. He moves with the awkwardness of the man whose pants fit this morning but now are too tight. "Yeah, so. Uh." Pres limps forward, then stops. He laughs shakily. "Uh. Your room or mine?"

     "Yours," Loki says, because It's easier for me to get back to mine afterwards if you want to kick me out doesn't need to be said right now. He summons up a smile, distracted from what Pres is saying by...Pres. Funny how that works. He follows at an uncertain distance, somewhere between right up at his friend's side and a little further out.

     "Yeah, okay." Pres turns to lead the way, pushing the door open the rest of the way with his cane. He goes to the bed and sits on the edge of it, putting his cane out of the way but where he can get to it if he needs it. He then gives Loki a somewhat bewildered, somewhat skittish, entirely shy sort of look. "Um. Hi."

     Loki slides his shirt off the rest of the way to hang it neatly on a hook, because otherwise it's just going to end up crumpled on the ground somewhere at this rate. A terrible fate for a good shirt. "Hi," he says back, and sits next to Pres on the bed. It's hard to resist the urge to fiddle with the bedspread, to find something to do with his hands. "This--seems to be working."
     Before he can say anything more inane, he leans over to kiss Pres, because that did seem to be working pretty well.

     Anything he might have said is cut off by the kiss. Pres groans a bit, wrapping his arms around Loki and tugging him down onto the bed with him. He's a little less aggressive on the kissing this time, letting Loki get in on the action a little better.

     Loki follows Pres down, taking the opportunity to show off--not actually amazingly skilled kissing, by some standards, but he's able to make up for that with intensity. He rests a hand over Pres's shoulder, pulling in close so that there's more touching than lips and arms.

     He's a bit out of breath already, and he rolls onto his hip to help pull himself closer to Loki. Pres bats his head against Loki's shoulder, then flops in against Loki. "I - don't want you to think I'll get weird about this, okay?" Pres mutters. "I - you're my friend, dude. Pretty much the only friend I've kept over the last two years, y'know?"

     "Not weird is good." Loki curls up beside Pres, toeing him idly as he rests there. The socks should probably come off before they start looking ridiculous in context. "I meant what I said, about how sex matters, but keeping up with being friends matters more."

     "It's just - weird," Pres says finally. He palms a hand over Loki's chest. "No breasts. Not bad. Just..." He blushes. "You know what I mean?"

     "Yeah," Loki says, resting his head on the crook of his arm. "Different. And--" He shrugs his free shoulder, with a deliberate step back from running off into defensive analysis. "I get it."

     He nods a couple of times. "I... d'you mind if I ask you not to go anywhere?" Pres wonders quietly. "Tonight, I mean. I know," he shrugs, looking embarrassed. "It's stupid. You can say no and it'll be okay. I just ... I'd like if you'd say yes."

     "Yes, I'll stick around," Loki says. No hesitation, and easy as that. "Though at some point post-dawn I'm going to be hunting for coffee."

     "Good. I don't know how much longer I can stay awake," Pres admits reluctantly. "Damn drinks." He lets his head fall forward against Loki's shoulder, eyes closed. "Thanks. I'm - sorry. I know I'm a pain in the ass. But you're my only friend, man..."
     Drunken self-pity has now officially been attained...

     "It's okay," Loki says, draping an arm over Pres's side. We can work on that. Though how I'm going to help anyone else when I can barely manage socializing on my own is an interesting question. To think about later. "Don't worry about it tonight."

     Pres doesn't answer out loud. He just rolls in closer, forehead braced against Loki's shoulder, his eyes closed. He makes a snuffling sound that could be an answer or a choked-off sob. He doesn't argue, though, and the sound isn't repeated; it doesn't take long for his breathing to start evening out, after all he's had to drink tonight. In sleep, he relaxes.

     Loki lets out a breath, and slides an arm cautiously out to grab a pillow without shaking Pres awake. Not...that there really seems to be a high chance of that right now.
     Better than I'd expected, but we'll see what happens in the morning when we're both sober.
     Which turns into a yawn of his own. Time enough for worrying later.

Posted by rowan at April 03, 2009 01:59 PM