InsaneJournal

Holiday Bits Part 2
Quick fic posting before I have to disappear & take my exam (Noon Monday - 5pm Wednesday, I'll be writing. Cross your fingers for me).

Kiwi asked for Horsepower 'verse, something with Noah.

This one got away on me. 2000 words. Worksafe. Takes place three days after One-Horsepower.

For mahokiwi: Balthier finds out that brother means "twin."


Fran says his habit of grocery shopping at four a.m. is ridiculous, the vainest of his habits and that’s saying something, but he can’t bring himself to buy bread and Mountain Dew and the store-brand Cheerios (because the bag really is cheaper and they taste the goddamn same) in the daylight like normal people. He’s not ashamed, not really, he just—growing up, all of those things were just always there, in the cupboards. And the cook never shopped at the Bi-Lo, that’s for certain. Anyway, it’s not for his sake he shops when the store is near-empty—it’s for his bike. For her pride. It’s asking too much to let people see the wire carriers he has rigged, let people see the white plastic bags and hear him cruise carefully out of the parking lot. No, this only happens when it’s so late it’s not even late anymore, when the only people to see him are the bleary-eyed stockers and the empty carts in the parking lot, strewn and staying that way until the dayshifters show up. And if he does all this on what’s really Sunday morning, he won’t see anyone else he knows, certainly.

He never bothers with a cart in the store, though if he walks by one of the strays in the parking lot, he’ll roll it back to the others inside. He doesn’t bother with a cart because the bike won’t carry that much—he gets a basket, almost walks right through the produce section entirely, feels guilty, goes back, and picks up a bag of apples. They’re from New York, from upstate, and this is the perfect time of year for it, a week past Halloween and even Alabama feels crisp some mornings. His ears are cold without his helmet—tonight is downright brisk.

He’s in the cereal aisle, sneaking up on the economy-sized bags, and there’s someone else here not wearing an ugly orange apron. It’s Basch. The impulse to turn around and skulk in the paper products hits fast, but hot on its heels is how much he liked Basch, having the help moving his stuff, the slick pressure of his tongue, and if he’s worth kissing—an anomaly, a slip-up, but hot—he’s worth saying hello to.

It’s Basch, and he has a knit cap pulled low over his ears, a hooded sweatshirt bunched at the back of his neck. He might have gotten a haircut—pity—but Balthier can’t tell because it’s all fabric, and then he’s not looking at Basch’s hair because he’s wearing flannel pants of all things, blue plaid, like he rolled right out of bed and needed Special K, because Basch probably eats the healthy stuff, as good as he looks. He’s got his hands buried deep in the front pocket of the sweatshirt, and he yawns. It’s so goddamn cute Balthier can’t help it: he makes sure the aisle’s otherwise empty, puts down his basket, and stealthy as he can be, he slides his hand around Basch’s waist with enough detour over his perfect ass to make Basch startle.

Balthier grins. “Are you up early or late?”

Basch’s eyes go wide, and he looks at Balthier like he’s never seen him before, and that’s a hell of an expression to give a guy who sucked your cock three days ago. And then Basch’s lip curves into a smirk Balthier doesn’t remember seeing the other night.

“Basch,” Basch says.

“Yeah?” says someone—someone who sounds an awful lot like Basch, more, even, than Basch beside him—from the next aisle. Footsteps on the speckled white tile, and there is Basch, his hair pinned to his neck by an identical knit hat. He has a box of waffle mix in his hand. He’s wearing jeans, but an identical sweatshirt, too.

The Basch whose ass Balthier’s hand is on says, “You didn’t even mention me?” His arm slips around Balthier’s waist, tugs him closer, and the embarrassment of the situation—and its near-unbearable hotness—is starting to sink in. Balthier hopes his eyes aren’t too wide, is glad it’s not in his nature to gape.

“Did, too.” Basch tosses the box of waffle mix into the cart, looking alert and easy like it’s not almost three hours until the sun will even think of coming up. “Hi.” Basch grins, and his eyes flick down and back up.

“You left out the part where ‘brother’ means clone.” It’s possibly too early for this. He can’t be accountable, can he, at this hour, if he says something stupid, like he thinks he just did? The Basch beside him, the one whose hand is definitely no longer on his hip but on his ass—and Balthier supposes that’s fair because that’s where his hand is, too, and he should really move it but he doesn’t—that Basch tsks.

“Clone? I’m smarter and better looking.”

“And older.” Basch puts the emphasis on the first syllable like what’s probably five minutes is really fifty years. “Balthier, this is my twin. Noah, Balthier.”

Noah lifts his hand from Balthier’s backside and offers it to shake. Balthier takes it, and he doesn’t think he’s ever shaken anyone’s hand after it was on his ass.

“Good to meet you.” How not-surprised he is worries Balthier. Like Basch has talked about him.

When he lets go, Noah picks up two bags of the store-brand Lucky Charms, puts them in the cart. That leaves Balthier a step from Basch, and he doesn’t quite know how to greet him. He just accidentally groped the man’s twin brother. They’ve fucked. It’s not a handshake situation. The kissing—that was a fluke. He can’t really sneak up and grope him now, so he stands there, feeling ridiculous, but Basch only backs up a step, picks up Balthier’s basket, and hands it to him. And while both of Balthier’s hands are on the plastic, Basch leans in, as if to kiss his cheek, and Balthier will turn his head. He will turn his head because the kissing was a fluke and a mistake. He will, and he does, and the muscles shift—and his lips are square against Basch’s, opening, and he licks against Basch’s mouth. Basch pulls away, grinning.

“No tongue in the grocery store.”

“At least not in front of the kids’ cereal.” Noah points at a box of Cinnamon Life. “You two have to go up by the shredded wheat if you want to make out.” Noah does toss a box of corn flakes into the cart, and while Balthier is staring at the shelf, damning his whole mouth to hell, Basch puts the right kind of Oat Rings in his basket.

Balthier just looks at him.

“You had those at your place.” He puts his hand back on the bag. “Something different today?” There’s a tinge of pink at his cheeks, and Noah skates their cart down the aisle, conspicuously absenting himself.

“No. No, that’s—yeah.” Balthier looks at Basch’s hand, and Basch lets go, tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Thanks.” God, this is weird. And he wants Basch. He’s going to court-martial his mouth. Lips, tongue, teeth, all of it, because it’s treason. Treason’s a hanging offense. Like piracy. Piracy’s probably treason, too. And his lips and this kissing thing they think they’re doing—treason. Also, saying stupid things. Like, “So, who’s got the sweet tooth?” He can’t believe he’s making small talk about breakfast cereal. But he remembers Basch with the mint. Probably him, then.

Basch shrugs. “Both of us. The corn flakes are for the French toast. Makes it crunchy.”

“The French toast?” Not piracy or treason. He’s Alice. This is Wonderland. And he’s with Tweedle-Hot and Tweedle-Hotter. Or something. But it’s all too surreal and domestic to be reality.

“Breakfast,” Noah says, riding the cart back down the aisle with both feet up on the axle, like it’s a sled and all he needs are a string of dogs in front. Balthier is talking about breakfast with Alaskan twins at four in the morning. Noah stops the cart by moving his feet to the wheels themselves, and the sound is a dry scrape on the floor, the soles of his worn sneakers. “Finished a job yesterday. Making breakfast for the crew.”

“Well. Just the weekend crew. It was a side job. So, us and Posey. Dee doesn’t do breakfast.” Basch explains, looking at Balthier like he wants him to understand, like he’s met these two other people before, or like he might, and this is all too strange for the hours between Mountain Dew and tea.

“I’m telling him you called him Posey again.” Noah is rummaging through the cart, separating bread and syrup and two packages of bacon and sausage, ticking things off on his fingers. “He’s going to kick your ass.”

“Tattle-tale.” Basch grins. “Besides, you started it.”

“Irrelevant. We need vanilla, milk, and eggs.” Noah looks at his watch—not on his wrist, but one with a broken strap he has in the sweatshirt’s pouch. “Vossler will be there at five-thirty, and if you make him late for fishing, he really will kick your ass.”

“That,” Basch says, “is true.” He looks in Balthier’s basket. “Dairy aisle?” Noah is already mushing the cart toward the baking products.

He does need milk. Might as well. “So, who’s kicking your ass?”

“Noah’s not-boyfriend.” Basch lifts out two gallons of one-percent, holds them both in one hand. Balthier picks up a half-gallon of the same and tries not to think about Basch’s hands as much as he is. “They’ve been pretty ‘not-together’ for almost a year and a half.”

Balthier can’t help but laugh. It should be nauseating, how awake Basch is right now—he doesn’t even look tired—but he’s easy to be around. Until he bends over to pick up a carton of eggs, and his jeans tighten just enough—Balthier tries not to stare. He wonders if Basch would let him fuck him again, or if it’s a trade-only kind of thing. The other night, his sense got the better of him, and after they got back from the bike ride—it went too well—it was just the last two beers, handjobs for the road. But it’s not a good idea, anyway, it’s really not. They’re in the grocery store, talking about his brother’s relationship status. It’s unsettling.

But he asks anyway. “So, why do you call him ‘Posey’? And, for the record, that is worth an ass-kicking.”

Basch grins again—who smiles that much?

“His last name is kind of close to ‘azalea.’ And his jobsites always end up with a lot of landscaping.” Basch waits for him while he gets a six-pack of soda from the other side of the cooler. “But mostly I do it to get him riled up. It’s easy, but he’s a good guy.”

Basch is too friendly not to want to, so Balthier leans back, makes it obvious where he’s looking. “Must be. Your ass doesn’t look too kicked to me.” Basch blushes again, and Balthier wonders if he’ll ever get to see him in his cowboy hat. He wants to.

Noah’s already in the only open cashier’s line, and Basch puts the milk and eggs on the conveyor belt. Balthier pays for his things, and while he’s making sure everything fits into two bags, he notices Basch waiting for him again. Noah’s waiting just far enough away that it seems like he’s not listening, but Balthier is pretty sure he’s paying attention.

Basch has his hands in his back pockets. “You want to come over for breakfast? Since you’re already up. You can put your stuff in our fridge until later.”

The garage is closed on Sundays, and it’s tempting. But he’s also been up for a long time now, and it’s probably not a good idea. He still doesn’t really know Basch, and there’s his brother, and his brother’s…friend, and he doesn’t want to be a fifth wheel. And who invites anyone for breakfast, anyway?

“Noah and Vossler are going fishing at six.” And Basch looks him over again.

Everything constricts. “Ride with me, give me directions?”

Before they’re fully through the automatic doors, Balthier’s two bags are in their cart, Basch’s hand is in his back pocket, and Noah’s riding the grocery cart toward a pickup at least ten years newer than Basch’s. Basch settles behind him on the bike—this is the second time now—and Balthier finds himself wishing, for the first time in a long time, for a third.