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Vignette II: Untitled

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"This sucks", Dave says darkly, waving a hand vaguely, and Matthew nods. He knows that Dave isn't talking about the empty bottles on the table, or the crumbles on the couch, or the admittedly somewhat depressing music he put on himself.

Today has been the last day of production, and half of the cast wasn't even on set anymore.
And yes, of course they support the writers, but this show means a lot to both of them, is important for their careers, and it's frightening not to know what will happen to them at all. So when Harrison came to pick up Callista after work, and Balthazar said he had to go home to his family, they decided that they needed a drink. Like, right now.

And here they are, on the floor in the living room of Dave's apartment, getting really, really drunk, and despite the knowledge that he'll probably pass out on the carpet and feel like shit tomorrow, Matthew can't bring himself to care.

Then Dave says: "I need a joint", struggles to get on his feet, staggers off into the kitchen. And Matthew snorts, because, really, sometimes Dave acts far too much like his character.

He wonders if he should call Ioan, but he and Alice are out tonight, doing the kind of stuff that married people apparently do, and before he can take out his cell and send a text message anyway, Dave is back and flops down next to him, joint between his slender fingers.

"Want some?", he asks, and Matthew shakes his head and watches instead how Dave's mouth curls around the smoke when he exhales.

Dave catches him looking and grins lazily, eyes half closed. "You don't know what you're missing, dude", he says, and Matthew can't help but smile and lean a bit closer.

"You going to tell me?"

Dave laughs quietly, says "Going to show you instead", and that's all the warning he gets before Dave grabs his shirt and yanks him close. It's been years since he smoked pot and even longer since someone shotgunned him, and it's sharp and scratchy and for a second so strong that it almost blows him away.

That's probably why it takes him a while to realize that they're kissing. By the time he does, it's too late to pull back, even if he wanted to. He doesn't. Dave's mouth is open and wet against his, stubble scratching against his sensitive skin, fingers tangled in his curls, pulling.

The joint got lost somewhere on the way, and Matthew thinks that they should probably make sure that the carpet doesn't catch fire. But his hands are moving on their own, sneaking under Dave's tee, touching bare skin, feeling him shudder under the caress.

"So", Dave says, when they finally break apart, his fingers tracing a pattern on the inside of Matthew's wrist, "have you ever ..."

Matthew figures there's no need to lie. "A few times", he says, voice husky.

Dave grins. "Thought so", he says, and Matthew swallows, because Dave has been thinking about this.

"You?" he manages to get out, and when Dave shakes his head, Matthew feels kind of queasy, because even if Dave started this, technically, he somehow still wonders if he's corrupting him.

Then Dave's fingers sneak into the sleeve of his shirt, and the grin is still there. "But there's a first time for everything, right?"

And Matthew thinks about it for a second, about working on the same show, about Emily, who is - not here right now, about taking advantage and giving in, but he's too drunk and tired to follow this train of thoughts.

Instead, he leans in and whispers in Dave's ear, and Dave groans against his neck and says: "Dude, stop speaking Welsh. Unless you want me to come in my pants right now."