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[personal profile] elohvee
les boys.
Veronica Mars. Duncan/Logan. R. Angst. Spoilers for 2x01, "Normal is the Watchword". [livejournal.com profile] la_folle_allure and I got the random and inexplicable urge to write Duncan/Logan fic at the same time and had a chat on setting, feel, timing, etc., then embarked on our separate ficcing endeavors. This was my result. ♥ The title is from the Dire Straits, not the series of really bad hockey films.


The room's a fucking mess. It's a hotel, yeah, there are maids. But not if the Do Not Disturb hanger doesn't leave the door handle for half a week there aren't, not if the room's still paid for. Which it is. Of course it is.

The room's a mess. Balled up napkins and empty bottles and cans and clothes on the floor. The coffee table's covered in rings, because what teenaged guy with his balls still intact uses a coaster, right? Right.

Logan's been in this room four days with the blinds pulled down crooked and some grainy porno on the TV. There's been a bottle almost permanently attached to his hand, because why the hell not? So for four days, he's been unfocused and lazy and generally pissed off at the world, lying around and he showered once or twice, mostly as a change of scenery while he jerks off. The phone's rung eight times, three calls from Veronica and five from his lawyer. He hasn't picked up once.

Day five, two forty-six in the morning, and there's a knock at the door.

The thing about Duncan is that no matter how screwed up he is, he can always make it about somebody else. Usually about Logan. Because right now he's got this look on his face, almost condescending, and his eyes dart over Logan's shoulder and into the room, taking it in. The mess on the floor and the rings on the table and the room service tray with a rotting, half-empty bowl of strawberries tipped onto its side.

Duncan sighs and opens his mouth like he's going to say something presidential and impressive. Like he's going to give the pep talk of the decade from the doorway. He doesn't. He pushes his way into the room, slams the door shut, and shoves his tongue in Logan's mouth instead.

::

Day six and their only real words have been things like shit and yeah, faster, harder and everyone knows that nothing you say while fucking counts for anything anyway.

They don't kiss, and Logan reasons that kissing would just make it too damn gay. Instead, cold hands and wet skin. There's not enough lube and too fast, too awkward. They never got it down right, smooth, easy. The sex is all loose limbs and jerky tumbles over the mattress. They leave bites and bruises and the sheets ripped and stained.

They fill the afterglow with tequila shots and silence.

Day seven and Logan's chest is pressed close to Duncan's back, his breath gusting hot over the nape of his neck and Logan's hand moving too slow and too rough over his best friend's dick.

They still haven't talked.

They shake, swear, and come, and when they're done, Logan drags out and away too damn slowly, just to hear Duncan groan. He wipes his hand on the bedspread and rolls over.

Few minutes later, when they've both caught their breath and lapsed into their own, separate silences, Duncan slides off the mattress and his feet touch down on the carpet with a soft thump. A sound like cat paws on linoleum. He stands, stretches, and there's pop when he cracks his back. He shoots a glance at the alarm clock by the bed, then walks to the bathroom door, disappearing behind it. Logan hears the sound of the running shower seconds later.

He thinks idly about getting up, maybe calling room service for food. In the end, lethargy and apathy prove to be stronger forces. He lies there and stares at the ceiling, trying to empty his head of real thought. It's easier than it should be.

He doesn't notice when the shower stops, when the door creaks open. Doesn't turn his head until a damp towel lands across his chest.

"You've got a court date," Duncan says, scanning the room for his clothes. "Take a shower and get dressed."

::

He's got a car and a driver waiting outside. The press'll probably bitch about that, too, but Logan doesn't really give a fuck.

Duncan and Veronica are both waiting, standing awkwardly side-by-side, not talking and not meeting each other's eyes. They give him matching, uneasy Cheshire smiles when he reaches the car: smiles without faces, without eyes.

"Are you okay?" Veronica asks. He interrupts the inevitable You look tired with his lips and tongue.

When he pulls away, smiling comfort and murmuring, don't worry I'm fine it's fine, Duncan is halfway across the Grand's parking lot, with his back to them and his hands balled into fists in his pockets.
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