It's the oldest story in the world (edna_blackadder) wrote in theboysroom,
It's the oldest story in the world
edna_blackadder
theboysroom

Ficlet!

Title: Eight-Thirty on a Saturday
Author: edna_blackadder
Rating: PG
Pairing: Chuck/Geoffrey
Word Count: 526
Disclaimer: I’m not A, S, or P. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Chuck oversleeps.
Author’s Note: I wrote this a year and a half ago and somehow never posted it. Thank you for the beta, Sara.


Bright sunlight streams through the window, blinding Chuck. Fumbling around for his glasses, Chuck manages to bump his forehead against Geoffrey, curled up next to him and sleeping peacefully. For a moment, Chuck merely stares.

Geoffrey is so God-damned beautiful—FUCK. He’s spent the night. Every time, he always makes sure to leave after they finish, having a wife to lie to and a picture-perfect life to pretend he doesn’t hate, and that certainly doesn’t leave him time to cuddle with his pretty art teacher, whiling away the few hours of the day when the place isn’t so musky and dark—

“You stayed,” Geoffrey whispers as he opens his eyes, visibly touched. “Chuck—”

“Geoffrey, I—” Chuck’s protest is cut off as Geoffrey sits up to kiss him. Against his better judgment, Chuck doesn’t pull away.

When Geoffrey finally breaks the kiss, Chuck starts, “I didn’t mean—I should go—my wife is gonna kill me—”

“Chuck,” Geoffrey interrupts, “am I happy?”

“How should I know—I have to go—”

“I’m happy,” Geoffrey says, folding his arms. “Don’t go. Please.”

Chuck groans, staring pathetically at those hopeful eyes that can undo him frighteningly easily. “You know I don’t want to,” he says irritably, “but Claire’ll want to know where I was, and what if someone saw us come in together—people could talk!”

“Chuck, it’s eight-thirty in the morning on a Saturday,” Geoffrey whispers, leaning over to touch Chuck’s arm. “Stay with me a little longer. What’ll people think at ten-thirty that they won’t think at eight-thirty?”

At Chuck’s silence, Geoffrey continues. “I don’t want you to run back home to your wife every time. You two barely even speak. What does it matter? I want us to have nice morning together.”

Chuck sighs, feeling as though Geoffrey’s exposed chest is taunting him. He wants that too. It is cold outside. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay with Geoffrey. And he wants no one to ever know that.

Chuck’s expression is betraying him, he knows. Geoffrey kisses him again, and Chuck knows as he leans into it, intoxicated by the feeling of Geoffrey’s pillowy lips covering his own, that he is defeated. Geoffrey moves a hand upwards to caress Chuck’s chest, eliciting a moan from the history teacher, who can’t stop himself kissing back. This is what he wants, to lie in a cozy bed with Geoffrey, soaking up warmth as they kiss and touch each other, safely hidden in a secret place where no one can ever find them. He already hated leaving Geoffrey in the middle of the night to go back to his cold, dreary life. Now, it is next to impossible.

Scratch that, it is impossible. Chuck’s hand finds Geoffrey’s neck and pulls him closer. They continue to kiss, and Chuck surrenders far more willingly than he would have liked.

In the end, they meet halfway. A make-out session and a shower together later, Chuck leaves at nine-thirty, and Geoffrey does not protest. It isn’t perfect, but he doesn’t need perfect. He only needs Chuck.

The following Saturday, Chuck stays again, this time on purpose.
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