|Current music:||Coming Down - Pacifier|
Title: Toxic Shock
Author: Quai-Dian (Isilme)
Fandom: Pacifier RPS
Pairing: Phil Knight/Jon Toogood
Summary: Jon is intoxicated.
Archive Permissions: Archive anywhere as long as my email address is on it (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Disclaimer: I don't know these guys, but I saw them in concert once! Still, I'm making all of this up. Really. Not true.
Notes: For the contrelamontre drunk/tired challenge. 19:40 (I got a stopwatch, can you tell?). I apologise for the gratitious use of this song title. Pacifier, by the way, is a band from New Zealand that up until several months ago was called Shihad. They are groovy, baby. Check them out. Jon and Phil.
Jon had been at the party long enough to slip into blurriness. The lights bounced off his eyes and colors blurred and air felt soft, sliding over the bare skin of his arms. The music seemed to embrace him, float around him and melt into his head, a gentle thudding inside his skull. Not so much as it did when he played it, but enough to be comforting and familiar.
He was slumped on the sofa, ratty material scraping his skin where his shirt rode up in the back. His head rolled back and his eyes were closed, a heavier dizziness spilling through his body like warm liquid sinking into his blood through every pore. Every sound in room was background noise, one soft whirling, ebbing thing that was almost tangible. Voices indistinguishable, bass and guitar and drums just a beat, each echoing into the other seamlessly. Floating. Warm.
He wasn't sure why he heard the knock on the door. Maybe because it was a new sound, sharp and conflicting with the rhythm of the rest of the atmosphere. He lifted his head slowly, sure it weighed twice as much as usual, and cast his gaze toward the entrance, eyes sliding into focus several seconds later.
Phil. Impossible not to tell even through the haze in his brain and the smokiness of the air. His hair was wilder than usual, humidity Jon mused, whiteblond spirals falling crazily around his eyes. Jon was walking, even though he couldn't remember standing. Or even how he got himself that way. But he was moving and Phil was turning to hang his jacket on a peg next to the door.
When he turned back around Phil found himself face to face with Jon, so close they shared the same intake of breath. And Jon smiled, goofy and tipsy and wobbly, his forehead banging into Phil's once, twice before he rested them together. Dark brown eyes scrawled with the wisps of intoxication locked pale blue ones in place and Phil was stumbling backwards, their skulls knocking together again as his back collided with the door frame. Jon thought about laughing, but the notion died somewhere in the back of his mind and he was rubbing his nose against Phil's so softly it was barely a touch.
Phil's lips were moist, not from the weather but from the slide of his tongue some seconds before that Jon didn't remember. And they were warm and pliant and even though Jon couldn't be sure, they may have even pressed back. At least a little. But he lost that thought when he realized another point of contact at his center, their pelvises connected squarely, flush against each other. Jon hoped Phil didn't mind and he licked into Phil's mouth to distract him as he wrapped his hands around Phil's biceps.
Then Phil's greyblue eyes again, wider, little points of light reflecting off his irises and the gloss of saliva over pink lips. But there was a little crease between his brows, confusion or curiosity or something. Jon swooned and took a step back, pulling Phil away from the wall. And suddenly he was back on the sofa, his temple resting against the sharp bone of Phil's shoulder as the guitarist downed a shot of something clear and licked the excess liquor off his thumb. Karl poured again and Jon licked the spillage off Phil's fingers this time. Then off his lips.