|Conversation: Damien Hall and August Lowell|
Conversation: Damien Hall and August Lowell
Jul. 16th, 2007 @ 04:59 pm
Back in August's room, I slowly pull off my shirt, until I'm standing in his room in only horribly wrinkled trousers. I use the second alone to observe his room more closely for incriminating materials; guns, ladies' underthings, bloody clothes and the sort. I only see music manuscripts, creamy paper, and pens.
I hear his call and hurriedly remove my trousers, tripping over my own legs. August is already naked when I get there, and I grin slightly, peeking in the doorway.
"Is this how New August does things? I admit, it will be nicer to be clean for once instead of heading over my own place for a bit of a wash."
August's bath is splendidly large, enough room for me to turn around in without bumping into him. The water that spurts out of the faucets in jets is warm and lovely, and I let it stream over my shut eyes.
August is wetting his hair into dark, twisted and wavy strands. It is nearly straight, and for a second, I wonder whether or not it merely frizzes back into normality, or if he uses some secretive dandyish technique to make it curl wildly like that.
I can't help a small laugh, and I turn to him. "Could you pass me the soap?"
I laugh. "Much thanks, Lowell
I crouch to my knees in the cascading, gurling water and grab the bar. It takes a couple grabs, but when I get it, I stand, and I start soaping my arms and chest. Hah, yes! I was figuring out how to write this part without describing Damien "on his knees" under the "spurting, gushing faucets" sound all porny. Because bending over would just be too bad. I can't even write that without laughing.
I take a huge mound of soap and work it through my hair, leaving it piled up on my head in a mound while I awkwardly try to wash under each leg, while hopping frantically on the other.
August is singing something that sounds horribly cheerful and baroque and I cringe inwardly, in retaliation humming the beautiful cello opening from the melancholic third movement of Brahms' third symphony, closing my eyes to stop the soap from burning.
I blink as he tenderly smooths away the lather, prefacing it with a lecherous question made all the more ridiculous by his soaked figure and lack of clothing. I slide my hands over his slippery shoulders and kiss him, pressing our waists together.
"Once or twice, but it was too crowded to be anything but painful and awkward. I have high hopes for the future, though."
I remove my mouth from a bruised patch of neck long enough to stare at his face and grin in open admiration. "Boarding school? It took me 'till I was in college, and then only with enough alcohol to make me not myself." Yeah, I did happen to notice that. Yay for stringed instruments in general, I just see Damien as a cello aficionado for some reason.
I drop my hands from the small of his back and raise an eyebrow. "I'm going to assume that it was consensual, in that case. You are even more of a tart that I had expected, Lowell." I try to keep the amusement out of my voice and fail.
It's not so often I get to ask such personal questions like these, even if it is at the expense of other activities. I'm dying to ask. "How old were you?"
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