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David hates meetings. It's normal to hate meetings, of course, but somehow he has the sense that he hates them even more than that, to the point that he finds himself drifting into lengthy daydreams in which the soulless BBC executives who requested the meeting die in various comically-violent ways. First squashed beneath an anvil Wile E. Coyote-style, then slipping on a banana peel and landing in an open manhole, then eaten by piranhas that are raining from the sky in some sort of freak thunderstorm. Some days he can do this and keep enough of his attention on what he's actually supposed to be doing, but for some reason that doesn't quite work today, and he ends up getting an elbow in the ribs from Rob on three separate occasions. By the time the meeting is over, David can feel a bruise coming up just under his ribcage on the left side and his hand is cramped from signing a truly farcical stack of paperwork. He stalks out into the hallway, leaving Rob behind, with every intention of going straight home and opening a bottle of very strong alcohol.
When he's waiting for the lift, however, there's the touch of a hand on his elbow. He turns, irritated, but then he sees it's Charlie and his brain immediately loses all ability to function.
"Er," he says stupidly, and then, "I mean, hello!" Oh my god, he thinks. Maybe I should just bash myself over the head with an anvil.
"Hi," says Charlie, with a faint, sly twist of his lips. "Er, how are you?"
"Er, fine," David says. He swipes his hair back from his forehead nervously, tries to think of something sensible to say, and falls back on ranting. "Other than suffering from a potent desire to do injury to the next person who hands me a form to fill out."
Charlie looks amused. "And if I said, 'Do you want to go to the pub, please check yes or no and explain your answer in the box provided...'"
"I'd have to beat you soundly about the head," he says. "So if you're going to do that, wait until I've had a few drinks first, because then my aim will be shit."
"Is your aim particularly good before you start drinking?" Charlie asks.
David gives an exaggerated sniff of offense. "You clearly haven't seen me play table tennis."
-----
They end up at a place they've been a few times before, a tiny pub around the corner from White City that has relatively decent food. David rants for a bit about paperwork, and Charlie nods sagely along with it until suddenly David runs out of steam in the middle of a sentence and just finishes with, "And, so, yes. That's... yes."
"Absolutely," Charlie says, straight faced, and David rolls his eyes.
"And how are you?" he says, with pointed politeness.
"Oh, you know," says Charlie, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. But he takes the opportunity to change the subject fairly graciously. "I've been working up a bit about Oscar Pistorius, so, rapidly losing faith in humanity. What little faith in humanity I had, that is. The only thing holding me back from drowning myself in a bath of gin is the fact that I walked in on Al watching that Youtube video of the surprised kitten."
David snorts beer up his nose, then regrets it almost immediately. "What, really?" he says, when the fiery pain in his nasal passages finally begins to ebb. "Somehow he doesn't strike me as a kitten type of person."
"I know!" Charlie says, sounding gleeful. "I'm going to get to give him shit about it for the rest of his life. It's brilliant. I think that's possibly the most embarrassing thing he could have been watching, really."
"More embarrassing than porn?" David asks. It's a natural question to ask, even though he has to stifle the flush that rises automatically to his cheeks at thinking about pornography in the presence of another human being, much less another human being that, actually, he'd like to go to bed with.
Charlie considers for a moment. "Yeah. I mean, porn would have been bad, but just sort of normal bad. Everyone watches porn, though, so I don't think it would surprise me in the same way that this did. Unless it was, I dunno, foot fetish porn or something super personal like that. That's what's most embarrassing about the kitten thing – the fact that it totally ruins his image. It's like a full 10.0 in the Olympic Watching Embarrassing Shit event."
"I'm envisioning you developing a scoring rubric now," David says. "And carrying around a set of cards with numbers on." He mimes holding up a pair of cards. "'Video of hedgehogs mating set to soundtrack of heavy breathing, 9.2. High marks for being adorable, but in a disturbing way.'"
Charlie cackles wildly. "Oh, fuck yes. That guy with the double rainbow, 8.1. High score for being a not-very-funny thing that your parents heard of three years ago, but loses points on originality."
By the time the pub closes they've worked out a three-axis embarrassment scale, with each video rated 1 through 10 for grossness, twee factor, and being revealing of some deeply personal preference or interest. Plus a sliding bonus for videos in which two or more axes intersect with each other, which Charlie insists is necessary in order to encourage innovation in the field. Eventually the bus boy starts wiping the table next to them rather pointedly in the universal signifier of 'we're closing so get the hell out,' though, and so after a momentary interruption of the conversation for the obligatory exchange of "We should probably—" and "Yes, right—" they stand, pulling their jackets on, and head for the door.
"You say 'encourage innovation' like people are going to be falling all over themselves competing for the glory of being awarded the Brooker Embarrassing Youtube gold medal," David says, continuing his previous point. He holds the door open so Charlie can exit ahead of him.
"Ta," says Charlie, flashing one of his careless smiles, the kind that David finds hopelessly, devastatingly attractive. "I know, I know, a bit unlikely. Then again, people are perverse. It wouldn't surprise me."
He pauses on the pavement just outside the pub to tug up the collar of his jacket against the chill and David does the same; it's gone a bit colder since they went in, and he's not really dressed for warmth. Out of the corner of David's eye he can see that Charlie is licking his lips, eyes flickering sideways like he's thinking of saying something else but hasn't decided yet. David hesitates, a line ready on his tongue, but he doesn't want to interrupt Charlie's thought process. And then, suddenly, he yawns, startling himself. He hadn't meant to stay this late, but as usual being with Charlie had meant he'd completely lost track of time.
When he looks over again, Charlie is laughing at him.
"Go home, Mitchell," he says, nudging David with his elbow. "Get your beauty rest."
David sniffs. "I'm sure you have far more important things to do than sleep. Like canvassing the internet for kitten videos." But he leans over a little to nudge Charlie back, and they share a smile at each other before David makes himself turn away.
-----
By the time a month has gone by, David has mostly forgotten about this conversation; the space in his brain allocated to Charlie (which is rather a large space, he has to admit) has filled up with more recent information – the dark, tempting shadow of stubble beneath his jaw, the curve of his mouth when he's smiling at something against his own better judgment, the way that, in David's fantasies, he sometimes gets down on his knees, looking up at David from beneath his eyelashes as he parts his lips and—
Okay, that last image is taking up rather a lot of the available mental space, David has to admit. The trouble is that Charlie keeps looking at him, keeps touching him. Nothing obvious, nothing overt; nothing that says, in so many words, 'here I am, let's go to bed together.' Instead it's Charlie's hand spread flat across David's back as he passes by him in the pub, his palm warm and lingering just a fraction of a second too long. It's the way Charlie rubs his fingers over his mouth when he's listening to David talk, like he's thinking about lips and kissing. It's that Charlie has been suspiciously 'in the neighborhood' at least once a week for the past few weeks, thus ensuring that they have dinner or drinks fairly often, despite the fact that David is almost certain there is nothing interesting happening in Kilburn to draw Charlie's attention.
Of course, he's guilty of all that sort of thing himself, too – guilty of lingering where he thinks they might run into each other, guilty of spending too long looking at Charlie's mouth, guilty of touching him on the arm when a cleared throat would do the job. But since from his point of view all that sort of thing is most definitely an indicator of 'would like to fuck,' he stupidly can't stop wondering if that's what Charlie means by it all, too. Can't stop hoping.
And Charlie's close by, now – in the studio as a guest on the pilot of David's new panel show that hopefully will get commissioned. It's less than an hour until they have to be on set, and while David is sitting in the quiet of his dressing room trying to focus he's also acutely aware that Charlie is one room over and quite possibly not wearing any trousers. He can't think about that now, unless he wants to humiliate himself in front of a studio audience and a slew of Channel 4 executives, and so he decides not to brave the green room, to sit here instead and check email on his phone, a resolutely boring activity that hopefully will drive any thoughts of sex out of his mind entirely.
It is terribly boring. He flicks through a bunch of spam and a slew of facebook notifications before finally opening an email from his aunt – a long, rambling message that has been lurking in his inbox for a week like a time bomb full of guilt. The longer he leaves it, the bigger the explosion will be, he knows that much from a long history of receiving emails like this one. And yet he never can make himself read them right away.
He leans carefully back against the cushions of the dressing room sofa and scrolls through it. One paragraph about schedule changes to Radio 2 and how she just knows David could put a word in someone's ear about them, one paragraph about her knitting, two paragraphs about his cousin's daughter's ballet recital, and then two more paragraphs about his cousin's other daughter's performance in the school production of Jesus Christ Superstar. And a link, labeled 'Don't you think she has potential?'
With a sigh, David clicks on the link. He wouldn't bother, usually, except that he's going home for his brother's wedding in a couple of weeks and he knows he'll get quizzed about it. The video loads quickly, and a moment later he's wincing at the tinny sound of a sixteen year-old belting out 'I Don't Know How to Love Him.'
Then the door of the dressing room bursts open. Charlie stumbles in, his hair all tousled up on one side like something's been nesting in it. "Mitchell, I need you! You have to distract me from—"
David shrieks in surprise and drops his phone. "Charlie, what the fuck—" he says, but Charlie doesn't seem to be listening – is, instead, bending down to scoop David's phone off the floor where it had landed, the high-pitched song still spooling out of its speakers. David dives for it but Charlie gets there first, lifting it up over his head with a cackle and retreating back across the room.
"Ooh, what have you been you watching?"
"No," David says, standing up and taking two quick steps towards him. "No, this is absolutely not happening. Give me that!"
"David Mitchell, is this a musical?" Charlie crows. "Oh my god. I can't wait to tell the internet! This is easily 9.8 in the embarrassing Youtube Olympics, gold medal stuff."
David half wants to snatch his phone out of Charlie's hands, but a warning alarm begins to sound in the back of his brain at the thought of getting that close. Instead he straightens his back, deliberately working himself up into his comic state of high dudgeon to hide how genuinely flustered he is. "You are an utter, utter shit, Charlie. First you barge in here without knocking, which nearly gave me a heart attack, thank you very much, and now you're threatening me with exposure like some sort of freakish Youtube vigilante—"
Charlie bursts out laughing. "You've penetrated my disguise!" he says. "By day, mild-mannered media hack Charlie Brooker..." David raises an eyebrow at that, and Charlie tilts his head in acknowledgment of the point. "Okay, not mild-mannered. By day, curmudgeonly media hack Charlie Brooker... but whenever Youtube humiliation seems imminent he's there!"
"To make certain of it," David says, dryly.
"Well," Charlie says. "Yes. Obviously." He gives David a grin, and David can't help but smile back. Internet humiliation is nothing in the face of having Charlie Brooker smile at him.
"Fine, then," he huffs. "What do I have to bribe you with to ensure your silence?"
A very strange expression flutters across Charlie's face, but before David can try to figure out what it means, it's gone. "Hmm," Charlie says, stroking his chin in a way that's clearly supposed to indicate he has an evil goatee. "I think you'll have to owe me."
Something about the low tone of his voice sends a shiver over David's skin. God. He can't afford to start thinking about being at Charlie's mercy, not now. "Fine," he says shortly. "One favor to be paid at a later date. Provided it's not more humiliating than this." It's worth qualifying that. "My phone?" He steps closer, putting out his hand. By now the song has finished, and the quiet in the room is something just short of foreboding. This close he can see the bob of Charlie's Adam's apple as he swallows.
Charlie sets the phone into his palm, his fingertips just barely brushing against David's skin. "Deal."
David opens his mouth to say something – he doesn't know what – except just then a runner knocks on the dressing room door, and the moment vanishes.
-----
By the time the weekend rolls around David has a fair amount of work to be done – his column, learning his lines for Our Men, some edits on the script for the next couple of episodes of Was It Something I Said?, assuming they get to go on with it – which means, of course, that he's sitting at his computer staring at Twitter and wishing for something interesting to happen.
He knows Charlie's around, too, since he's been having a bit of back-and-forth with Richard Osman, but he can't think of anything in particular to say and somehow butting in just for the sake of getting Charlie's attention seems a tiny bit creepy.
Still, that doesn't mean he can't imagine things – imagine Charlie slumped on the sofa in his flat with his computer in his lap, grinning at some amazingly hilarious thing that David has typed, or maybe leaning forward, licking his lips, as if he's as eager to see David's name roll across the screen as David is to see Charlie's, as if they're in the same boat.
While David's lost in his imagination, Charlie's still tweeting.
David ponders clicking on it, but he really should be working. He can justify reading Twitter, barely, as networking, but he's not sure he can justify getting lost in a maze of Youtube videos.@charltonbrooker: Funniest thing I've seen all week: youtu.be/LEcYkZhlVlc
Another tweet loads.
It's followed by a repeat of the previous tweet, this time with a different link. David raises an eyebrow, then clicks on the first link before he can stop himself.@charltonbrooker: Sorry, wrong link, pretend that never happened. Really. No, really.
It's a cage full of bunnies frolicking, which would be bad enough except that it's set against a backdrop of truly ridiculous country fiddle music, and half the time the video is out of focus, to boot. David starts to smile, just a little at first, until suddenly he discovers he's grinning fit to burst. He flips back to the Twitter tab and opens up a direct message, typing quickly.
Charlie's reply pops up a second later.@realdmitchell: DM @charltonbrooker: 9.4. Full marks for twee and a bonus of .6 for the background music. Silver medal at least.
It's a little too close to what David has been worrying about, and he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, in involuntary reaction. Brilliant, he thinks. I'm definitely creepy. But before he can figure out how to answer with something that makes it clear he's not actually stalking Charlie, he gets another message.@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: Motherfucker. Have you got eyes in the back of your head or something? It was only up for a second!
It doesn't read like a brush-off, and David breathes out again, relaxing a little.@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: You're trying to take over my superhero territory. But there's only room for one Youtube humiliation vigilante in this town, pardner.
There's a long minute before Charlie replies.@realdmitchell: DM @charltonbrooker: You've caught me. I guess I'll have to find my own superhero identity. Can I be Boring Pedant Man or is that position filled, too?
@realdmitchell: DM @charltonbrooker: By the way, can not taking the piss for this count as what I owe you? Otherwise I could go on about bunnies for some time.
David sucks in a breath. That can't be... he can't really be calling me adorable. Can he? It's a weird compliment – not exactly what he might have been irrationally wishing for, but also not something you'd think to say to someone who was just a friend.@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: No deal. I've already had around a billion bunny tweets in the last 15 seconds alone. Humiliation already complete.
@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: And Boring Pedant Man – give yourself more credit. Adorable Pedant Man, at the very least.
Another set of messages appears almost immediately.
David has to laugh at that, even while some part of his brain is frantically over-analyzing every syllable. He types out a reply, feeling greatly daring, then hovers with his cursor over the 'send message' button for a long moment before he clicks it.@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: That's what your legion of fangirls would say, isn't it? That you're as cute as a little bunny?
@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: I wonder if someone's secretly filming you and setting your life to a backdrop of country fiddle. Then I could watch you on Youtube.
@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: I have made myself sound like a bit of a weirdo at this point, haven't I?
The next thirty seconds pass with agonizing slowness.@realdmitchell: DM @charltonbrooker: Just a bit, yeah. Then again, coming from you, 'you're as cute as a little bunny' is practically high romance.
The problem is, David thinks, that isn't a 'no.' It's not a 'yes,' either, but— Really it's as ambiguous as every other time he's thought maybe Charlie was possibly interested. But suddenly he's tired of it all, tired of wishing and not getting, tired of wondering. Most of the romantic attachments he's had in his life have been the unobtainable kind, and he's kind of got used to that. In a lot of ways he's found it was easier to want someone but say nothing, better to keep someone as a fantasy than risk humiliation or, worse, disappointment. Maybe some part of him has been going along feeling like this thing with Charlie is just more of the same. But he suddenly realizes he doesn't want it to be.@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: You know me – I'm nothing if not a smooth operator.
After he sends it, David lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. It's as explicit an invitation as he'd been able to make it. A moment later the inevitable wave of doubt hits, but it's too late – he can't take back the message. Instead he sends another one, fingers shaking a little.@realdmitchell: DM @charltonbrooker: Very smooth. Though to be honest all you'd have had to say was 'Can I take you out sometime?'
It's not a denial, but it's enough of a joke that he can pretend the first one was too, if he has to. My impulse for self-preservation is running a little slow today, he thinks. Should probably work on that. At least I'll have plenty of free time for therapy if Charlie never speaks to me again.@realdmitchell: DM @charltonbrooker: Though if you're going to want me to wear a bunny costume or something, we'll have to negotiate.
At last his screen refreshes, showing a new message.
Oh, shit, David thinks. Are we actually doing this? He almost can't believe it.@charltonbrooker: DM @realdmitchell: I'm too much of a coward to have tried that right off. But... can I take you out sometime?
The phone only rings once before Charlie picks up.@realdmitchell: DM @charltonbrooker: Yes, you can. You really can. Charlie... fuck it, I'm calling you. Pick up the phone.
"Yeah?"
"Yes," David says.
Charlie puffs out a breath. "Oh, good. I wasn't hallucinating that." David laughs.
"Neither was I. So..."
"So," Charlie says, and then, "Right, okay, my turn. Do you have plans Friday?
"Er." David scrambles to get his calendar open. "No, I don't."
"Dinner, then? At, er, actually I'll come and pick you up? At seven?" Charlie sounds gratifyingly nervous, which makes David feel marginally better about the fact that his hands have gone a bit sweaty.
"Sounds good," David says. "Very good. Er, I mean... look, Charlie, I'm really..." He stops talking, shakes his head, and tries again. "I'm shit at this. But, yes."
"We can be shit together," Charlie promises, and David's momentarily impressed at how genuinely smooth that is until Charlie follows it with, "That's be shit, not do shit, obviously, because that is not really my kind of thing, I have to say. I mean, not to judge you if that is your kind of thing, and I mean that—"
"Charlie," says David, when Charlie pauses for breath. "It's not my kind of thing, either. So I think we're fine. Unless you really do want me to wear a bunny costume."
"Ha," Charlie says. "Ha. Ha. No, a bunny costume is not really number one on my list of fantasies involving you. Not even in the top ten."
David bites his lip. Hearing Charlie admit to fantasizing about him has made his face go bright red. "Nor mine," he says, and he can hear how breathy the words come out. "Christ, I'm not going to get any work done today if I start thinking about your fantasies."
"So I shouldn't mention that I really want to suck you off while you're sitting on my sofa with the camera on?" Charlie says flippantly.
"Oh, god," David says, and then, because he sure as hell can't let that go unmatched, "Would you let me fuck you on that sofa? Even with the camera still on?" He knows he's blushing now from the embarrassment of saying something so explicit, but if he's going to ruin his chances of accomplishing something today then he's damned well going to make sure Charlie's in the same boat.
Charlie makes a choking noise. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I mean. I really, really would." His voice shakes a little, and David can't help but imagine what his expression must look like right now – wide-eyed, lips parted, maybe flushed a little. David swallows.
"Right, okay," he says, trying to sound disciplined but actually sounding, he thinks, a bit desperate. "I think that might actually be the limit of what I can allow myself to think about without derailing my whole afternoon."
This time Charlie just laughs. "Fair," he says. "Me, too. And I've got— Well, anyway. I'll... see you, then?"
"Yeah," David says. "Friday."
"Friday," Charlie echoes.
-----
David's busy filming Our Men all week, so he genuinely doesn't see Charlie at all during the days that follow. He lets himself text once, during a lull in filming in the middle of the day on Thursday when he's actually beginning to feel a bit like he imagined the whole thing, but they don't actually have a conversation, just an exchange of "Still on for tomorrow at 7?" and "Yes. Definitely," which is enough to keep him from panicking about what will happen if Charlie doesn't turn up, but not enough to keep him from panicking about what will happen if Charlie does turn up.
At ten to seven on Friday he's dressed and as ready as he's ever going to get, so he locks the door of his flat and goes down the stairs to wait for Charlie in the building's dilapidated entryway. Rather than pacing, which is probably a bit compulsive-looking, he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through Twitter, looking for something interesting to take his mind off the fact that he's about to have a date with someone for the first time in months, and a date with someone he actually really likes for the first time in possibly years.
Most of his feed, sadly, is taken up by people talking about football, and he rolls his eyes a little as he skims past it. But further down there's a book recommendation from Marianne that he makes note of, and then below that is a link from someone he knows only tangentially to one of the apparently millions of Harlem Shake videos that are making the rounds.
David knows it's a bad idea, he knows he's tempting fate given that Charlie is bound to arrive any minute now, but he somehow hasn't managed to actually see any of these things yet and anyway at least it'll be a distraction from the soul-crushing nervousness that's still threatening to take over.
He clicks the link.
He regrets it almost immediately. The music is low and thumping and incessant, but also a bit boring, even more boring than he generally finds music to be. The video doesn't appear to be the original, at least from what little he knows. Instead this one is a group of men underwater in a swimming pool, sitting at a table and wearing extremely tight bathing suits. One of them is wearing a stormtrooper helmet and doing a pelvic thrust. Dear god, David thinks. Then suddenly the music changes, and there are a lot more people in the pool, wearing all kinds of strange things and dancing like someone's dropped a live wire into the water.
"Mmm," David says, unimpressed. This is consistent with his usual reaction towards the category of Things That Are Big On The Internet, so he's not actually disappointed, just faintly bemused.
Then: "7.4," says a voice from behind him, and David startles. He thumbs his phone off and turns, to discover Charlie leaning against the side of the building and eying him with a bit of a smirk. "Would have scored higher if you'd actually started dancing," Charlie says.
"Amazingly, I'm not actually disappointed by that," David says sarcastically.
For a moment, all they do is look at each other. Charlie is wearing jeans, a dark button-up and a blazer, and David can't help but sweep his gaze over him, taking in the length of his legs and the way the pale skin of his hands stands out against the fabric where his arms are crossed over his chest. When David's gaze gets up to Charlie's face he can see that Charlie is blushing, just faintly.
"Which one was that?" Charlie asks.
"Oh," David says stupidly, and then, as he realizes what Charlie's talking about, "Oh, it's, erm. Some people underwater." Christ, he thinks. Come on, Mitchell, you have to at least pretend to be able to carry on a conversation.
"Oh, is that what you're into?" Charlie raises an eyebrow at him.
"Shut up," David says, but he can't help smiling. He tucks his phone into his pocket and takes a step closer. "Hello."
Charlie's smile looks a bit goofy. "Hi," he says. He pushes off the brick and takes a step towards David. Now they're almost close enough to touch. "I, er—"
David makes himself take the last step. "I'm going to lose my nerve in a moment," he says, then puts his hand on Charlie's shoulder and leans in to kiss him.
It's decidedly awkward for the first few seconds – Charlie's body frozen and still where they're pressed together – but then Charlie groans, a low, soft sound that makes something in David's chest quiver, and relaxes, and kisses him back. Charlie's hand comes up to cup the back of David's neck, his fingers curling against skin as he draws them closer together. David is hyper-aware of all his senses – he can taste something minty on Charlie's breath, can feel the rough prickle of stubble against his lips and the press of each fingertip.
David parts his lips, inviting, and Charlie moans again, kisses him lewdly and licks at the corner of David's mouth, scrapes David's bottom lip with his teeth until David is flushed and gasping. David sucks on Charlie's tongue, teases him with wet kisses, runs his thumb over Charlie's Adam's apple and down into the hollow of his throat. He can feel Charlie's body warm and solid against him, can feel Charlie's cock poking him insistently in the thigh, and it takes David a long moment to realize that he's actually got Charlie backed up against the side of the building, and wow, they are actually snogging in a doorway, how the fuck did that happen?
The reminder of the utter lack of privacy is enough to make David pull away a little, just enough that he can see all of Charlie's face but not far enough to stop them touching. Charlie is flushed, his lips a little reddened from kissing. And his hair is going grey, David notices suddenly, which shouldn't make him feel fond but does.
What now? David thinks. They could go on their date, have dinner and a drink or two like adults, do the dance of back-to-yours-will-you-come-in and maybe end up going home alone if they're both too afraid to make a move. Or they could go upstairs right now and he could put his mouth on Charlie's cock.
David knows which of these he would prefer – thinks, in fact, that he might genuinely die if he doesn't get to do something about his erection relatively soon.
Apparently Charlie is in the same boat. "Please tell me we can skip dinner," he says, and David is nodding before he's even conscious of it.
"Yes," he says, fumbling for his keys. "Yes, absolutely," and it's possible that he sounds a bit desperate but he can't bring himself to care. He's never been so grateful that Robbie isn't home.
They stumble up the stairs still touching – Charlie's hand sliding down from the back of David's neck to his shoulder – and David gets the door to his flat open with less difficulty than he might have anticipated. As soon as they're inside Charlie kicks the door shut behind him and turns, pressing David back against the wall of the entryway and leaning in so that he can rub their cocks together through the fabric of their trousers. David draws in a sharp breath, then another when Charlie dips his head to lick at the skin stretched over David's collarbone, to trace a swirling line in the hollow of his neck and then up and up until his mouth rests against the skin just below David's right ear.
"I haven't been able to think of anything else all week," Charlie murmurs, his breath sliding over David's skin and making him shudder. "Got absolutely fuck all accomplished. Feel free to tell me how pathetic that is, if you like."
"It's not pathetic," David says, gasping a little as Charlie's tongue begins to trace the shell of his ear. "I think you'll find it's fucking mutual, actually."
Charlie huffs out a laugh and starts undoing the buttons of David's shirt. David realizes, somewhat abruptly, that he's not actually doing anything besides gaping like a stunned goldfish, so he puts his hands on Charlie's hips, untucks his shirt and slides his hands up underneath until he can feel skin, warm and smooth. Now it's Charlie's turn to suck in a breath.
"Jesus," he says. "David..." He's almost got David's shirt entirely undone now, but seems to have been sidetracked by the way David's hand is skimming over his stomach, thumb tracing the trail of hair down from his chest into the waistband of his jeans.
"You should be naked," David says stupidly. "You should absolutely be naked."
"You, too," Charlie says, but then suddenly they're kissing again, desperate, dirty, and David can't think of anything for a long moment except for Charlie's mouth, slick and hot.
"Bedroom," he says, when he can tear himself away. "Bedroom and naked and yes, please."
The bedroom isn't far, only down the hallway, but it seems like it takes forever to get there. David's chest feels a bit cold where his shirt is gaping open. Once they're inside he shuts the door and turns to find Charlie just shucking off his blazer. There's a part of him beginning to gibber incoherently (Sex! With Charlie! Don't fuck it up!) now that they're not actually touching each other, but he resolutely shoves it to the back of his brain and strips off his shirt. Charlie's got his shirt off now, too, and David lets his eyes skim over the exposed skin of his chest; Charlie's a lot hairier than David is, but he likes it, can't wait to discover how it will feel pressed up against him.
"I want to—" he starts, and then can't make himself finish the sentence and just kisses Charlie instead, using the motion of his hand on Charlie's shoulder to reel him in serve as an excuse for touching him, for spreading his palm down over Charlie's chest until his thumb skates over a nipple. Charlie groans at the touch and so David rubs it a bit harder, rolling the nub between his fingertips until it's peaked and hardened and Charlie is making a whining noise in the back of his throat.
"Oh, god," Charlie says, tearing his mouth from David's. "Fuck, you— you should really take your trousers off." He has his hands on David's belt already, pulling the leather through the buckle, then thumbs open the button and takes the zipper down, pushing at the waistband of trousers and briefs until he can slide them down together. "And now you should—"
Charlie seems to have a plan here so David just goes with it, kicks his feet free of his pants and lets Charlie push him down onto the bed. Charlie goes to his knees on the floor beside the bed, his hands sliding up David's thighs, parting his legs so that Charlie can settle between them. The sight of him is almost enough to make David come; bare-chested, flushed, dark-eyed, the front of his trousers tented with arousal – he looks like something out of a porn film, out of David's late-night, fevered imagination.
"God," David says, moaning. "Charlie—"
"I'm—" Charlie says, and then, "You are into this, right, because—"
"Believe me," says David fervently, "I am very into this." And then Charlie curls one hand around the base of David's cock, dips his head and licks at the tip, teasing. "Fuck," David says. "Oh, god, that's, yes. Very yes." He puts his hands in Charlie's hair, feeling the soft strands against his fingers, careful not to exert any real pressure.
"You can pull," Charlie says, the words whispering hot over the sensitive skin of David's cock. "Hard as you like."
"Fuck," David says. He tugs experimentally, then harder, and Charlie groans as he opens his mouth and goes all the way down at last, tipping his head back to take David's cock deep into his throat. Charlie's mouth is hot, slick, all tight suction and the press of tongue. David can't help but thrust a little, feels his hips hitch upwards in the need to get even more of himself into Charlie's wet mouth, and Charlie doesn't protest, just opens himself wider and takes it.
"Fuck," David says again. This seems to be one of the few words he can manage, given that all his braincells are busy cataloging the way Charlie's tongue is rubbing hard against the underside of his cock, the way Charlie's free hand is hot on his thigh. David gives up any pretense of control, just fists his hands in Charlie's hair and fucks himself into Charlie's mouth hard and fast until he tips over into orgasm and comes, gasping, shuddering.
When he can focus again he realizes he's still pulling Charlie's hair hard enough to be painful, but it takes him a moment to regain enough control of his fingers to let go. "Sorry," he says, and his voice sounds a bit shattered. "Fuck, Charlie, that was—"
Charlie has his face against David's thigh and his eyes shut. "Yeah?" he says. David can see that he's got one hand pressed against the front of his trousers.
"Yes," says David, and then, "Come here."
"I can just—" Charlie mutters, but David isn't going to let him get away with that.
"Come here," he repeats, tugging at Charlie's hair, and Charlie gets to his feet with a groan. David bats Charlie's hand away from his cock and starts undoing his trousers. "You're not going to deprive me of the opportunity to live out a fantasy, are you? That would be rude."
"Oh, well," Charlie says, but he's smiling a little, like he can't help himself. "Mustn't be rude. Marjorie Proops would have my head."
"Please don't mention Marjorie Proops when we're having sex ever," David says, tugging Charlie's trousers and boxers down. When he looks up again he has to stop for a moment and stare. Charlie looks even more like a wet dream now, his cock hard and flushed and thick, his hair all mussed by David's hands. "God. Come here."
This time he draws Charlie down onto the bed, rolls him flat on his back and straddles his thighs, then leans down to kiss him, open-mouthed and slick. Charlie groans, shuddering, puts his hands on David's hips and ruts up against him. The feeling of him – hairy and sweaty and all – is better than anything David's imagination has managed to provide him. He lays a line of kisses across Charlie's jaw, and Charlie's clear arousal makes him brave. "I want to suck you."
Charlie moans, his fingers tightening on David's hips hard enough to bruise. "God, yeah," he says. "Do it. Fuck, David."
David takes him at his word and slides down, pausing to lick at one of Charlie's nipples, tease it with the flat of his tongue, and then down again, until he can brace himself on one elbow and take Charlie's cock in his mouth. He loves the feeling of this – the weight of it heavy on his tongue, the stretch of his lips as he takes in as much as he can – and the way everything seems magnified, the quiver of Charlie's thighs and the sound of blood rushing in David's ears.
"David," Charlie says. One of his hands is cupped around the back of David's head, the other clenched in the sheets. "Your mouth, fuck, your gorgeous fucking mouth, oh—" David sucks him as slowly as he can, as sweetly, watching from beneath his eyelashes as Charlie slowly loses himself and comes undone, until he's arching and shuddering and coming in hot bursts over David's tongue.
Afterwards, David crawls up beside him and flops down on his back, sweaty and exhausted. They lie on the bed without speaking for a long moment.
"We need a new scale," Charlie murmurs eventually. "First axis – rating of one to ten for 'made me come so hard I may have genuinely injured myself.' In this case, ten."
David laughs. "Second axis – rating of one to ten for 'desire to repeat the experience.' In this case, eleven."