toujours_nigel: BFT (kaminey)
[personal profile] toujours_nigel
For [livejournal.com profile] applegnat

“We should get married,” Sophia tells him one evening, over the last slice of pizza.

He steals it. “Brilliant idea.” The cheese has congealed, and the guy running the place has been giving them dirty looks the last half-hour, but hey, he hasn’t seen her in a month—Sophia is a good girl who doesn’t believe in bunking school to hang out with him. “Let’s go tomorrow.”

“Mishka.” That. Is not a good look. And she’s wearing stilettos. “I’m serious.”

“Of course you are.” Blechh, the tomatoes have got stuck to the cheese. “D’you want some?”

“No.” She claws into his hand. “Listen to me.”

“I am.”

“We should get married.”

“You’re not eighteen yet,” he offers, because that’s safest, and, ouch.

“I didn’t say we should do it right now.” She leans forward, both pointy elbows on the table. “In a year, we’re going to get married.”

She sounds so earnest—and has her nails in so deep—that he thinks about it a moment before his brain comes back online. “Sophonisba,” he says, pushing aside the fact that they would be fucking, and didn’t we decide that was a bad idea? “Your Dad would kill me.”

“You won’t marry me because you’re scared of my father?”

“Considering I’m not Salman bloody Khan in a film, yes, darling, I would. Your Dad has guns. And connections. And very large henchmen.”

She shrugs it aside like that’s obvious, that’s irrelevant, Mishka, stop being such an idiot. “It’s our lives. We do what we want with them.”

“Seriously, woman, what are you, living inside a movie or something? Your Dad would slaughter me.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not.” He stuffs the pizza into his mouth, gulps it down. “Why do you want to, anyway?”

“Your boyfriends,” she says, pouts, “are prettier.”


*** *** ***

It’s easy. It has never been, before. How Guddu would groan and whine and lecture. Stick fingers down his throat and bring up all his meals from three years ago, back before he got a scholarship and fucked off to college, share a room with three strangers rather than his own brother. Bad enough it was gambling money—he thought it was gambling money, teen patti for hours on end with old men who eyed him with pity and young men who just glared—but to know it’s honest money, down on his knees in garbage, on all fours in cars with tinted windows—the knees of his raggeder trousers are torn clean through—upchuck all your meals in horror like that’s the taste of semen down your brother’s throat. Forget that, put it aside. Guddu’s no place here—save Guddu always has a place watching his life with terrified eyes.

But it is easy, once he gets past the shock of Mikhail being that way, doing that because he wants to—he knows all about pretending to want to, slavering at the sight of unwashed penises when you’re slavering at the thought of food—because Mikhail does all the work. Strips him, blows him, swallows—swallowing’s an extra ten bucks, but maybe rates have gone up in the last year—he just has to be moved, touched, kissed, train himself not to flinch in anticipation.

Because Mikhail’s hands are gentle on hip and thigh and flank, like gentling a high-strung horse, and his mouth is gentle on him, like the taste of him is something to desire and his smile is huge when he stands up and knots hands in his hair and kisses him like he’s something to desire enough to chase for months of not-really-casual encounters.
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