does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

[docwithablog]

[ He's standing in the doorway to the kitchen while Khan, a couple of hours into his stay, is sitting at the table, fixing -- something on the kettle again, what is it with the bloody thing, it worked fine last he used it, didn't it? Licking his lips a bit nervously, he steps into the room fully and walks over to the kitchen counter, leaning back against it, facing the other man. Hands gripping the edge of the counter. Sock-clad feet shifting a bit restlessly from side to side.

It shouldn't be this damn hard, honestly. It's just a -- suggestion, the man can tell him no and they can go fuck in the bedroom as per usual. But John isn't stupid, he knows what the implications are. You don't go from being fuck buddies to buddies, once you decide a friendly outing is in order, no, if you go out, then -- you go out as something else entirely and he has absolutely no idea how well that is going to play out. For either of them.

Nevertheless -- okay, good, here goes. A deep breath. ]

I was thinking I'd take you to the National Army Museum today.

Comments

[insuperiorstrength]

[ They step outside, past the groaning man on the pavement. John turns towards him, pupils blown, breathing fast. Though Khan's not winded in the least, the irritation has transformed into something hotter now, the violence - low-level as it may have been - going straight to his blood. They mirror each other as they stand there, John's question hanging between them. Both of them, wanting to act, to do. And both of them ready to translate this urge into sex.

5 or 11 minutes? Khan breathes out harshly through his nose, eyes narrowing very slightly. On the street, people are taking care to walk around the bleeding man whilst from inside the pub, sounds can be heard of resumed activity, phone calls being made and first-aid kits being dug out from the backroom. He can feel the echo of the fight between his hands, like a lingering layer of heat running over his fingers, his palms, up his arms and downwards. He could have easily killed them all, re-painted the pub walls in blood, in sprinkles of bone marrow and entrails. 5 or 11 minutes? What sort of a question is that?

Stepping closer, he looks down at John. Says, voice slightly rough: ]

5. Lead the way.