fair/unfair

23

surprise, bitch, i bet you thought you saw the last of me

Reid can't remember the last time he woke up with a boy in his bed.

Don't get him wrong; his bed was no sacred place. Sin frequents his pillow often, sex makes itself home in his sheets. Many, many times with many, many boys. Once a girl, when he was questioning. Once a man, when Jay was working.

Reid's bed wasn't made for innocence. For anything other than sly hands slipping between legs and and shushes muffled in shoulders and nipped at jaws. Yet, Mal's passed out next to him and Reid can hear the soft whistle of his breathing, the tickle of it brushing his collarbone. He doesn't remember making it home, but somehow that's becoming a normality with Mal.

What he does remember: the backseat of a car worth more than his life, biting whimpers into Mal's neck, mouth pressing apologies to scratches he dragged between shoulder blades, finding a liquor store and stealing a bottle off the shelf, a receipt, and kissing and kissing and kissing against the hood of the car, half a bottle gone, tongues dry and then mouths wet, and then the back seat again.

They were drunk. They had sex twice.

One of them he barely remembers. The other he could never forget.

And now that boy is in his bed and Reid's mind is a little fuzzy on the details but he thinks he's okay with it. He's okay with never leaving his bed ever again so long as Mal resided in it. Fuck Jax, fuck Grace, and fuck the goddamn rivalry.

This is enough, isn't it? Just them?

"It's enough." He says it to himself and then he mumbles it against Mal's temple, nuzzles it behind his ear, and brushes fingertips against porcelain skin and when eyelashes flutter and mouths scowl, he whispers it against his lips.

"The fuck you talking about?" Mal slurs against his mouth, but he doesn't wait for an answer, slips his hand in Reid's hair and drags him on top of him, and they make it three before the front door unlocks and Jay slips in from the late shift, before Reid's phone buzzes in the pocket of his hoodie forgotten on the floor with the rest of the night's misdeeds, before he realizes boys like him don't get perfect and they don't get enough.

Reid wakes up and feels several things at once. First, he feels something in his skull vaguely resembling very ominous and very fucking loud drums but he's sure it's just his impending doom reminding him that his life has gone to shit and, honestly, this the best it's going to get for now. The next thing he feels is a slight dip in the bed and then he feels his stomach capsize and then the sharp edge of his bed frame cutting into his abdomen and something nasty and raw chokes out of his throat. He's heaving and he feels really hot.

Something warm and calloused presses against his skin and he knocks it away, a feeble moan protesting the addition of heat. "Stop." He wipes at his mouth, cracks his eyes open, decides the sun is part of his impending doom too, and then closes them again. "I'm not hungover."

"Who are you trying to convince?" Reid can hear it, the sharp lilt of the voice, knows instantly he's smirking. He's suddenly feeling a lot more things. Some of them definitely contributing to his impending doom. "Fortunately for you, it's not the alcohol. Unfortunately for you, you're sick."

He doesn't try to open his eyes again -- it's too much -- and instead moves away from the edge of his twin now that he's done throwing up the contents of his stomach.