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hardparadeAll the Harry Potter madness, and here I am, writing LMS fic. I have no clue why, it just came to me. Blame the jetlag, people, blame the jetlag.
Title: A Spectacularly Bad Idea
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Frank/Dwayne
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Uncle/nephew incest, alcohol-induced kissing?
Summary: Dwayne has never been drunk, and Frank feels sorry for him. The two of them decide to make Dwayne's 'first time being drunk' a good one.
A/N: From a conversation I had with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fakebody a while ago—admittedly, while drunk—about how Dwayne's probably never even had alcohol. Somehow it led to this. I wanted to include more funny-drunk!Dwayne, but it was hard to fit in. :(
It was a spectacularly bad idea. That's what it was. It'd been a spectacularly bad idea from the beginning. And considering the fact that Frank was supposed to be getting better, psychologically and emotionally and all that, it really didn't reflect well on him that it had been his spectacularly bad idea. He sort of wanted to bang his head against something—the kitchen table, maybe, or perhaps the wall—but he thought that would incite too many questions.
Dwayne had had a hand in it, of course. He'd been the one to bring the whole thing up in the first place, talking about how he didn't have friends, and how if teenagers don't have friends then they tend to miss out on the fundamental teenager-y parts of life, like getting together with a bunch of people specifically to do nothing at all, or hanging out at the mall, or going to crazy parties when people's parents are out and trashing the house.
Or getting drunk.
Why Dwayne was even remotely bothered about missing out on such things was a complete and total mystery to Frank. When he wasn't reading Nietzsche (or that strange, avant-garde poetry that played around with grammar in ways that made Frank's head hurt,) he was exercising until he looked like his limbs were going to fall off, or watching really bizarre documentaries on TV and sitting only about three inches away from the screen. In short, Dwayne was not a normal teenager. So why be upset about not taking part in normal teenager activities?
Whatever the reason, it was a mistake for Frank to try and help out. That much was clear, now. Frank carefully removed his hands from where they had made themselves quite at home clamped over his eyes. He squinted, surveying the room. It wasn't as much of a mess as he'd been imagining, but seeing as his mind had been busy conjuring up images of a living room that pretty much resembled an actual pigsty, that wasn't saying much.
The floor was just as messy as it usually was, really. Olive's stuff sprinkled over the various surfaces, amongst bags and coats and shoes and socks, things that had been there already. There was one item of clothing that hadn't been there already, and that was Dwayne's t-shirt, which was currently dangling over a lamp in the corner of the room. His train of thought decided at this point to very unhelpfully lead him towards the t-shirt's previous wearer, but luckily Dwayne was too wrapped up in creating some sort of bottle sculpture to notice when his eyes lingered a little too long on his pale, slender chest.
He was creating some sort of bottle sculpture. Those words alone were enough to give a fair idea of how much alcohol they'd consumed. Enough for Dwayne to use the empty vessels to create something that was worthy of the title 'sculpture' instead of 'pile'. They were alcopops, so the bottles were fairly small, but it was not much comfort to Frank when he saw just how many there were.
Alcopops! He'd gotten his nephew drunk on alcopops! Another detail that'd seemed to make sense at the time. Alcopops and beer were, no doubt, what all of Dwayne's normal-teenager peers were drinking at their wild parties, and since Dwayne had spat out in disgust the mouthful of beer that Frank had offered him, alcopops seemed like the only sensible choice. Sensible at the time. Somehow.
Hopelessly, he looked away. Empty pizza boxes littered the table, as well as a torn-open bag of some gobstoppers Dwayne had insisted on buying when they'd been at the supermarket together earlier that day. Dwayne had a bit of a sweet tooth and it seemed that wherever they went, if it sold candy, Dwayne was sure to leave with at least one bag of something designed to rot his teeth.
Dwayne's iPod was plugged in to the speakers in the cabinet, but it was off now. They had, Frank remembered with a wince, worn down the battery when they were dancing around the room to every upbeat Beatles song Dwayne owned. He rubbed a bruise on his elbow. Most energetic dancing he'd taken part in for quite a while.
"Balance!" Dwayne hissed angrily, pointing a finger at one of the bottles, which was wobbling dangerously. He held a hand to his mouth then, laughing. "I'm talking to a bottle. Frank, am I drunk?"
"I'd say so," Frank chuckled. "You've gone from eating half a bag of gobstoppers, to dancing to the Beatles with your uncle, to talking to bottles. Sounds pretty drunk to me."
Dwayne grinned, then turned his attention back to the disobedient bottle. At least he'd had had fun, Frank mused. That was the important thing, really, considering it'd all been for his benefit. Frank had really put himself in a dangerous situation, doing this. Not just for the reasons he was currently desperately trying to ignore, but also for the obvious, family-related ones. Sheryl and Richard had disappeared off on some sort of romantic getaway—an attempt to rekindle their relationship, presumably, and not one that Frank expected would work—and Olive had gone to a sleepover at a friend's house. Perhaps Frank had encouraged her a little too much (she'd been quite nervous about the whole thing in the first place) but really, he hadn't had much choice. Dwayne kept nagging him about it, saying they might not get another opportunity.
It wasn't really all private planning. It was just something they'd discussed a few times, and Frank had sympathised, and it'd all gone from there really. He remembered that he hadn't gotten drunk until he was about nineteen, and that it was a horrible experience, surrounded by people he barely knew. He didn't want that for Dwayne. He wanted Dwayne's first time getting drunk to be in the company of someone he knew and trusted. He didn't have any hidden agenda or anything, not at all. In fact, these thoughts, the ones he was pushing to the back of his mind with all of his might, had only started popping up a couple of hours ago. Around the time Dwayne proclaimed that the room was far too hot, stripped off his t-shirt, and whipped Frank a couple of times on the backside with it.
He didn't know how he had been supposed to react to that, but going bright pink and sort of stammering and then knocking over the lamp probably wasn't the best way. And the thoughts had just kept growing from there. He guessed it had something to do with the fact that he'd stopped seeing Dwayne as his nephew, and started seeing him as an actual person. Not anything as specific as a friend or even an acquaintance, just a person. Family never really seemed like actual people, to Frank, because there were so many underlying feelings involved and all these things that were expected of you, things you always had to say and do. You couldn't see them in the same way you'd see a stranger in the street.
But at some point, the built-in urge to say to Dwayne things like "My, haven't you grown?" had subsided, and been replaced with an altogether completely different desire to have genuine, real, proper conversations with him. And that was what had gone wrong. It was the alcohol that had made him actually admit it to himself, though. Alcohol. A really, really bad idea.
"Hmm?" said Dwayne suddenly, looking up from the last bottle which he was presently attempting to balance on top of all the others.
"What?" Frank hadn't realised he'd spoken, but he had a sinking feeling he'd said some of his previous thoughts out loud. Alcohol had a habit of making him do things like that.
"What was a bad idea?" Dwayne clarified, slowly and carefully moving his hands away from his sculpture. He held them, hovering, around the top bottle, but after a few seconds seemed satisfied that it was sturdy.
"Nothing..." Frank sighed. He'd had a lot of fun tonight, but ever since they'd sat down at the table and started to talk, things had gone horribly wrong. Every sentence that came out of Dwayne's mouth just made Frank appreciate and love him even more. He was so wise for such a young kid, it was easy to forget his age. It was easy to forget a lot of things, once they got talking. They had so much in common and Frank just simply enjoyed the conversations so much that it was easy to imagine Dwayne wasn't his nephew, but instead some twenty-something guy he'd met in the Philosophy section of the local library or something. Someone he could flirt with without feeling like he was buying an express ticket to Hell.
"Do you mean the drinking?" Dwayne asked. He frowned as he said it. Frank looked up, but before he could answer, Dwayne continued. "Because it wasn't. A bad idea, I mean. We had fun, and that was the whole point."
He got up from the table at this point and started folding up the pizza boxes to throw away. Frank rose to help him. They had made quite a mess.
"Like you said, first experiences are important," Dwayne went on. "And if I can't get them in the normal way with all my dumbass classmates, I may as well get them with you."
Frank blinked. "Yes," he said. "Yes. Well, that does make sense. It's probably—er—safer, to get drunk with me than with a whole bunch of other teenagers. And if there's anything else—first experiences-wise, I mean—that you want my help with, just let me know. First time smoking, for example," he laughed, "first time smoking pot."
"First injection of heroin," Dwayne sniggered.
"First line of cocaine."
Dwayne turned suddenly at that, his expression suddenly serious, and Frank, wildly paranoid, wondered what he might have said to upset him.
Dwayne dropped the pizza boxes, his eyes fixed on Frank. "First kiss," he said.
Frank barely had time to react. He barely had time to move away, anyway, even if he'd wanted to. Dwayne's body was pressed right up against his within the second, and their lips were touching but not moving, Dwayne's warm and smooth and slightly sticky from all the sugary, alcoholic drinks. And Frank's thoughts simply went what the fuck am I supposed to do? over and over until it really became quite clear that he had no other choice. Dwayne's first kiss had to be a good one.
He'd thought he wasn't so drunk anymore, but the second his lips parted he abandoned that thought immediately. Nobody sober would do anything so utterly foolish. He realised suddenly that his arms were around Dwayne and he wondered vaguely when he had put them there, but then Dwayne was opening his mouth too and there was no time to be thinking about the positioning of anything that wasn't his tongue.
Dwayne made a sort of sighing noise when their tongues touched; a relaxed, relieved noise that made Frank feel rather relaxed and relieved at the sound of it. It was clear now that he wasn't taking advantage of Dwayne's drunken state in any way. Dwayne was happy; he wanted this. It wasn't difficult anymore, it wasn't tense. Dwayne was clutching him tightly still, and kissing him fiercely, but the nerves seemed to have evaporated. And then suddenly Frank felt a small, round, hard object against his tongue.
He spat it into his hand and blinked at it.
"Yes! You got it to turn purple!" Dwayne cried triumphantly, picking up the wet gobstopper with his thumb and forefinger and examining it closely. "It'd been red for ages, I was starting to think there were no more layers."
Frank just stared at him. Dwayne looked up and laughed. "Sorry," he said, tossing the gobstopper on top of the crumpled pizza boxes on the floor, "where were we?"
And when their lips met again, Frank decided that maybe he should have more spectacularly bad ideas in the future. There were many more firsts to go, after all.
Title: A Spectacularly Bad Idea
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Frank/Dwayne
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Uncle/nephew incest, alcohol-induced kissing?
Summary: Dwayne has never been drunk, and Frank feels sorry for him. The two of them decide to make Dwayne's 'first time being drunk' a good one.
A/N: From a conversation I had with
fakebody a while ago—admittedly, while drunk—about how Dwayne's probably never even had alcohol. Somehow it led to this. I wanted to include more funny-drunk!Dwayne, but it was hard to fit in. :(It was a spectacularly bad idea. That's what it was. It'd been a spectacularly bad idea from the beginning. And considering the fact that Frank was supposed to be getting better, psychologically and emotionally and all that, it really didn't reflect well on him that it had been his spectacularly bad idea. He sort of wanted to bang his head against something—the kitchen table, maybe, or perhaps the wall—but he thought that would incite too many questions.
Dwayne had had a hand in it, of course. He'd been the one to bring the whole thing up in the first place, talking about how he didn't have friends, and how if teenagers don't have friends then they tend to miss out on the fundamental teenager-y parts of life, like getting together with a bunch of people specifically to do nothing at all, or hanging out at the mall, or going to crazy parties when people's parents are out and trashing the house.
Or getting drunk.
Why Dwayne was even remotely bothered about missing out on such things was a complete and total mystery to Frank. When he wasn't reading Nietzsche (or that strange, avant-garde poetry that played around with grammar in ways that made Frank's head hurt,) he was exercising until he looked like his limbs were going to fall off, or watching really bizarre documentaries on TV and sitting only about three inches away from the screen. In short, Dwayne was not a normal teenager. So why be upset about not taking part in normal teenager activities?
Whatever the reason, it was a mistake for Frank to try and help out. That much was clear, now. Frank carefully removed his hands from where they had made themselves quite at home clamped over his eyes. He squinted, surveying the room. It wasn't as much of a mess as he'd been imagining, but seeing as his mind had been busy conjuring up images of a living room that pretty much resembled an actual pigsty, that wasn't saying much.
The floor was just as messy as it usually was, really. Olive's stuff sprinkled over the various surfaces, amongst bags and coats and shoes and socks, things that had been there already. There was one item of clothing that hadn't been there already, and that was Dwayne's t-shirt, which was currently dangling over a lamp in the corner of the room. His train of thought decided at this point to very unhelpfully lead him towards the t-shirt's previous wearer, but luckily Dwayne was too wrapped up in creating some sort of bottle sculpture to notice when his eyes lingered a little too long on his pale, slender chest.
He was creating some sort of bottle sculpture. Those words alone were enough to give a fair idea of how much alcohol they'd consumed. Enough for Dwayne to use the empty vessels to create something that was worthy of the title 'sculpture' instead of 'pile'. They were alcopops, so the bottles were fairly small, but it was not much comfort to Frank when he saw just how many there were.
Alcopops! He'd gotten his nephew drunk on alcopops! Another detail that'd seemed to make sense at the time. Alcopops and beer were, no doubt, what all of Dwayne's normal-teenager peers were drinking at their wild parties, and since Dwayne had spat out in disgust the mouthful of beer that Frank had offered him, alcopops seemed like the only sensible choice. Sensible at the time. Somehow.
Hopelessly, he looked away. Empty pizza boxes littered the table, as well as a torn-open bag of some gobstoppers Dwayne had insisted on buying when they'd been at the supermarket together earlier that day. Dwayne had a bit of a sweet tooth and it seemed that wherever they went, if it sold candy, Dwayne was sure to leave with at least one bag of something designed to rot his teeth.
Dwayne's iPod was plugged in to the speakers in the cabinet, but it was off now. They had, Frank remembered with a wince, worn down the battery when they were dancing around the room to every upbeat Beatles song Dwayne owned. He rubbed a bruise on his elbow. Most energetic dancing he'd taken part in for quite a while.
"Balance!" Dwayne hissed angrily, pointing a finger at one of the bottles, which was wobbling dangerously. He held a hand to his mouth then, laughing. "I'm talking to a bottle. Frank, am I drunk?"
"I'd say so," Frank chuckled. "You've gone from eating half a bag of gobstoppers, to dancing to the Beatles with your uncle, to talking to bottles. Sounds pretty drunk to me."
Dwayne grinned, then turned his attention back to the disobedient bottle. At least he'd had had fun, Frank mused. That was the important thing, really, considering it'd all been for his benefit. Frank had really put himself in a dangerous situation, doing this. Not just for the reasons he was currently desperately trying to ignore, but also for the obvious, family-related ones. Sheryl and Richard had disappeared off on some sort of romantic getaway—an attempt to rekindle their relationship, presumably, and not one that Frank expected would work—and Olive had gone to a sleepover at a friend's house. Perhaps Frank had encouraged her a little too much (she'd been quite nervous about the whole thing in the first place) but really, he hadn't had much choice. Dwayne kept nagging him about it, saying they might not get another opportunity.
It wasn't really all private planning. It was just something they'd discussed a few times, and Frank had sympathised, and it'd all gone from there really. He remembered that he hadn't gotten drunk until he was about nineteen, and that it was a horrible experience, surrounded by people he barely knew. He didn't want that for Dwayne. He wanted Dwayne's first time getting drunk to be in the company of someone he knew and trusted. He didn't have any hidden agenda or anything, not at all. In fact, these thoughts, the ones he was pushing to the back of his mind with all of his might, had only started popping up a couple of hours ago. Around the time Dwayne proclaimed that the room was far too hot, stripped off his t-shirt, and whipped Frank a couple of times on the backside with it.
He didn't know how he had been supposed to react to that, but going bright pink and sort of stammering and then knocking over the lamp probably wasn't the best way. And the thoughts had just kept growing from there. He guessed it had something to do with the fact that he'd stopped seeing Dwayne as his nephew, and started seeing him as an actual person. Not anything as specific as a friend or even an acquaintance, just a person. Family never really seemed like actual people, to Frank, because there were so many underlying feelings involved and all these things that were expected of you, things you always had to say and do. You couldn't see them in the same way you'd see a stranger in the street.
But at some point, the built-in urge to say to Dwayne things like "My, haven't you grown?" had subsided, and been replaced with an altogether completely different desire to have genuine, real, proper conversations with him. And that was what had gone wrong. It was the alcohol that had made him actually admit it to himself, though. Alcohol. A really, really bad idea.
"Hmm?" said Dwayne suddenly, looking up from the last bottle which he was presently attempting to balance on top of all the others.
"What?" Frank hadn't realised he'd spoken, but he had a sinking feeling he'd said some of his previous thoughts out loud. Alcohol had a habit of making him do things like that.
"What was a bad idea?" Dwayne clarified, slowly and carefully moving his hands away from his sculpture. He held them, hovering, around the top bottle, but after a few seconds seemed satisfied that it was sturdy.
"Nothing..." Frank sighed. He'd had a lot of fun tonight, but ever since they'd sat down at the table and started to talk, things had gone horribly wrong. Every sentence that came out of Dwayne's mouth just made Frank appreciate and love him even more. He was so wise for such a young kid, it was easy to forget his age. It was easy to forget a lot of things, once they got talking. They had so much in common and Frank just simply enjoyed the conversations so much that it was easy to imagine Dwayne wasn't his nephew, but instead some twenty-something guy he'd met in the Philosophy section of the local library or something. Someone he could flirt with without feeling like he was buying an express ticket to Hell.
"Do you mean the drinking?" Dwayne asked. He frowned as he said it. Frank looked up, but before he could answer, Dwayne continued. "Because it wasn't. A bad idea, I mean. We had fun, and that was the whole point."
He got up from the table at this point and started folding up the pizza boxes to throw away. Frank rose to help him. They had made quite a mess.
"Like you said, first experiences are important," Dwayne went on. "And if I can't get them in the normal way with all my dumbass classmates, I may as well get them with you."
Frank blinked. "Yes," he said. "Yes. Well, that does make sense. It's probably—er—safer, to get drunk with me than with a whole bunch of other teenagers. And if there's anything else—first experiences-wise, I mean—that you want my help with, just let me know. First time smoking, for example," he laughed, "first time smoking pot."
"First injection of heroin," Dwayne sniggered.
"First line of cocaine."
Dwayne turned suddenly at that, his expression suddenly serious, and Frank, wildly paranoid, wondered what he might have said to upset him.
Dwayne dropped the pizza boxes, his eyes fixed on Frank. "First kiss," he said.
Frank barely had time to react. He barely had time to move away, anyway, even if he'd wanted to. Dwayne's body was pressed right up against his within the second, and their lips were touching but not moving, Dwayne's warm and smooth and slightly sticky from all the sugary, alcoholic drinks. And Frank's thoughts simply went what the fuck am I supposed to do? over and over until it really became quite clear that he had no other choice. Dwayne's first kiss had to be a good one.
He'd thought he wasn't so drunk anymore, but the second his lips parted he abandoned that thought immediately. Nobody sober would do anything so utterly foolish. He realised suddenly that his arms were around Dwayne and he wondered vaguely when he had put them there, but then Dwayne was opening his mouth too and there was no time to be thinking about the positioning of anything that wasn't his tongue.
Dwayne made a sort of sighing noise when their tongues touched; a relaxed, relieved noise that made Frank feel rather relaxed and relieved at the sound of it. It was clear now that he wasn't taking advantage of Dwayne's drunken state in any way. Dwayne was happy; he wanted this. It wasn't difficult anymore, it wasn't tense. Dwayne was clutching him tightly still, and kissing him fiercely, but the nerves seemed to have evaporated. And then suddenly Frank felt a small, round, hard object against his tongue.
He spat it into his hand and blinked at it.
"Yes! You got it to turn purple!" Dwayne cried triumphantly, picking up the wet gobstopper with his thumb and forefinger and examining it closely. "It'd been red for ages, I was starting to think there were no more layers."
Frank just stared at him. Dwayne looked up and laughed. "Sorry," he said, tossing the gobstopper on top of the crumpled pizza boxes on the floor, "where were we?"
And when their lips met again, Frank decided that maybe he should have more spectacularly bad ideas in the future. There were many more firsts to go, after all.
