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They're munted.
Five cans in, the both of them. Pete's gone to bed - he's got a girl up there, but by the time she'd taken him by the shoulders and guided him upstairs, they'd all been looking pretty out of it.
"No way is he getting laid," Ed had snorted once they'd left.
Shaun's always envied Pete his sense of responsibility. That sense of when Enough is Enough.
Shaun doesn't have that.
Likewise, he's always envied Ed's ability to be pissed. He can't hold his liquor nearly as well as Ed can, but, well, Ed's bigger, isn't he? Shaun burps aloud, and then again through his nose - has to scrunch away the fizzy feeling that follows and stings his brain. Meanwhile Ed's powering through the rest of his drink - a can of craft pale ale that Pete's conquest had opened up and taken a swig of, but had ultimately left behind - tilting his head back and taking in every last drop of amber, minus whatever's escaped the corner of his lips.
"Think I can crush it on my head?" he says.
Shaun gapes at him and nods; watches as Ed lifts the empty can to his temple and squashes it just so. It leaves a faint red ring on his forehead that glistens with condensation, and Shaun laughs, heart full and feeling good.
He moves, then; fingers fumble across the coffee table in search of the remote - High Fidelty's on the telly, but suddenly it seems much too loud for drunken ears that are only becoming more and more sensitive as the night wears on. It's not like they're paying attention to it, Ed had only just wanted to see Jack Black in it, anyway, and he doesn't want Pete to have to come yelling down the stairs at them.
His palm slips in a puddle of sticky lager, sending the remote flying off the table and making Ed ball up his fist, laughing into it as his friend swears and shakes his fingers out.
"Balls!"
Ed's nose and cheeks are red; Shaun watches his dark lashes flutter even while his eyes are closed - while he's laughing at him. He finds he's suddenly irritable despite himself, frowning, "Don't help!" Wipes his wet palm and wrist on his t-shirt, and grazes his bare stomach in the process, and maybe it's just the air in the room, but he feels awfully hot.
Maybe he feels his cheeks growing a little bit hot in particular.
There's semblance of a telepathic link between them, Shaun thinks - or simply an obvious reading of his mood - because Ed stands, bends to pick up the fallen remote control and turns the volume down so that John Cusack's merely whispering to himself on screen. He stands there dumbly for a second, watching the quieted movie; returning to the couch, he fishes rolling papers and a snuff box of weed from his rear pocket.
"Smoke?"
Shaun nods once and jerks his head towards the back door through the kitchen. "Outside."
"F'aw," Ed scoffs, "it's freezing outside." He taps out nearly a gram; rolls the joint using his leg as a table, packing it evenly round and expertly tucking in the corners of the paper. "Pete's in bed, ain't he," he says, sealing the thing with a lick down its centre. "Who's to know."
Shaun isn't in the frame of mind to argue.
Not when Ed presses the fresh spliff to pillowy lips and hums a cue. Hypnotized, Shaun draws a lighter from his pocket and holds it to its tip with a flick. He watches his friend inhale and cough lightly as the flame runs through the greens, and Ed grins with the joint trapped between his tongue and his front teeth.
He's come to regret the quiet, now - the alcohol's heightened Shaun's senses to become hyper focused on his mate's steady breaths, in and out with a bit of an asthmatic purr. He's ultra aware, also, of the beating of his own heart - not to say it's particularly racing, just that it's there, and loud in his ears, and the only times he's ever aware of his heartbeat usually lead to--
"--Take your mind offa it."
Ed's offering the joint to him suddenly, folding his legs up beneath him on the couch with his trainers still on; weight shifting and throwing Shaun off balance. He cracks his nose against Ed's shoulder; falls back against the couch gracelessly with a hiss.
"You fucker," he laughs reflexively, snatching the joint with one hand and massaging the bridge of his nose with the other, "be careful!"
Ed huffs, chortling under his breath as he eases back into the cushions himself. Neither of them mention their proximity to one another - the way Ed's knee digs into Shaun's hip - this is a totally normal Friday night.
"You're lookin' squirrelly."
Shaun's head is swimming as he draws from the joint and holds it, lets the smoke whirl around inside his mouth before he tilts his head back and exhales at the ceiling.
"That so?"
"I'm not blind, man. You were eyeing up Pete's date, right, and now you've got eyes on me." He smiles broadly, a cocky grin that reaches the corners of his tired eyes and seems to make his cheeks even redder. "C'mere."
Shaun passes Ed the joint when he reaches out for it; leans back, closes his eyes and rests his head on Ed's shoulder. He grimaces - hates the feeling of intoxication, that moving-back-and-forth, swaying kind of feeling in his gut - but he keeps himself grounded with his cheek pressed to Ed and knows it'll pass, if he doesn't just up and get used to it first.
He tilts his chin upwards, nuzzles his nose drunkenly into the warmth of his friend's neck, and even though Ed bristles at the ghosting of his mate's goatee against his skin, the kiss Shaun leaves there is pleasant, and nothing surprising to either party: friends with benefits ever since secondary school, when they could scarcely get girls to make out with them. Beneficial back when they needed an outlet for their burgeoning sexuality; beneficial certainly now for Shaun, who longs for intimacy and stability.
Since secondary, Ed's managed to get laid a lot more often, but then, Ed is considerably less picky.
He hums out again in a sort of distant, soft way; Ed's stubble is rough against his dry lips, and Shaun bites the tingle away from them as Ed's right hand shifts from his own lap to Shaun's thigh, fingers hot and heavy and simply just resting there until he takes another puff of weed and Shaun's kissing his neck again to provoke him into touching him more lewdly.
"Can't just watch some TV?" Ed says. It's a bit of a pout, his voice strained. "We can put on the blue channel for you."
"What?"
"Or play Twisted Metal?"
A whining crackle erupts from Shaun's throat at that - a snort through his nose - and Shaun grapples at Ed's shirt sleeve like a child clutching the hem of his mum's skirt.
"You're serious?"
"Sometimes I feel a little bit, I don't know," Ed says softly, hand slipping further up Shaun's thigh, stopping at the fly of his khaki trousers. "...Used?"
Shaun's eyes glass over instantly, catch Ed's attention and he pales, teeth flashing prominently through an embarrassed curl of his lips. "Don't get me wrong," he says, "I like making you moan…'bout time a girl does it for you though, innit?"
He leans into Shaun clumsily, knocking the other against the back of the couch; eyes his friend's needy, pinkened lips.
"My uncle asked me to visit him in Greece this summer," he says suddenly, quietly, irises lazily rising to meet Shaun's.
"Are you gonna go?"
Ed shrugs, face scrunching up, indicating to Shaun that he has decided, in a sort of noncommittal way. "Yah, might do. Haven't been to Greece since I was a kid." They knock foreheads, fighting to keep their breaths shallow and silent. "You'll come with me, though? Won't be much fun without you, Shauny."
They kiss.
There's no denying the heat rising to Shaun's face, now - Ed's too - a wave of arousal that splashes over their facial features and sinks to their groins; a fire that eats away at them like the spliff between Ed's fingers, going at it as though they were teenagers again, open-mouthed and sloppy drunk. Ed suckles at the corner of Shaun's mouth, coaxing Shaun's tongue out and against his - warm, wet slides of their tongues intertwined and kneading, and Shaun's desperate to return the affection he gets, pressing fervourous kisses along Ed's jawline to keep him here as he tries to pull away for one last puff.
Ed inhales at an awkward angle, but does so deeply, eyes on the dying red tip of the roach as he holds in the smoke and drops the remains of the joint into the mouth of an empty beer can.
Thick hands - big hands, warm hands - move to cradle Shaun's chin, drawing him inescapably close. His lips part and press to Shaun's just as he begins to exhale, and Shaun startles, enveloped in the scent of skunk weed and ale and stale underarm sweat. Ed's tongue is running over Shaun's teeth, then, and finally he gets it; inhales the shotgunned cloud and holds it until he can feel his lungs burning and he has to pull away from Ed's grasp.
"I think I…am right fucked," Ed laughs, and Shaun laughs too, for mere seconds before he kisses a cough into his best mate's mouth.
They topple over together on the cushions - Shaun's death grip on Ed's shirt sleeve forces him down to where he's hovering over the other, panting, another smug grin playing at spit-slick lips. They bump nose against nose, teeth clacking against teeth.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Shaun--"
And Shaun's face softens. "Don't be," he smiles, tongue darting out between his lips to wet them.
Staring up into those half-lidded, glazed chocolate irises.
"No," Ed says lowly, his knee making its way between his friend's legs until he's pressed taut to Shaun's groin. "I'm sorry, Shaun."
When it hits, Shaun tries to recoil - flails about uselessly, trapped under Ed's weight and, ohh, it feels brilliant when his hips jut up against Ed's leg - but ultimately he simply breaks down into a fit of giggles, covering his nose against his shoulder, and Ed joins him in laughing, chest heaving in restraint as he tries to keep his volume down. The laughter only dies once Ed's pushed himself up off the couch - "Two seconds" - and Shaun finds nothing funny about the lack of body heat, or the dizzying buzz in his brain, or the erection threatening to grow more uncomfortable, already twitching against his pants and fly.
He doesn't even notice that Ed has disappeared - not completely - until he calls from the kitchen, "Want another lager?" and Shaun can hear the buzz of their open fridge that's on its last leg.
"Better not," Shaun swallows deeply, screwing his eyes shut tight and willing away that infernal swaying feeling. "Room's got a bit of a tilt."
Ed returns to the lounge with a can of domestic lager, cracking it open carelessly enough that it foams and sprays about, drizzling down the side of the can and pooling where he holds it. He settles back into the spot he'd left, only now Shaun's swung his legs onto the cushions too, and Ed has to kind of straddle the other man to resume his previous position.
"Eyy, Shauny," he drawls, eyes drooping and pink from the hour and drugs combined. He holds the can out over Shaun's chest and presses the cold base of it to his right nipple; makes Shaun hiss out in a fit of laughter and angry swears.
"Shi-- Ed!"
But he's all smiles; can't help it when he's in such good company. It's why - Shaun thinks - they work like this, just fucking around, living without thinking too hard.
Ed has another quick sip and presses it playfully against Shaun's left side, then, as Shaun bats the can away and it slips in Ed's hand; he has to bow his head to follow the motion open-mouthed, catching the drink with his lips before it can spill.
"Watch it," he chides - teasing - lifting Shaun's shirt with the can. "Don't want Pete to see you've spilled beer all over his mum's rug."
The muscles in Shaun's stomach quiver; he doesn't want to think about Pete right now - or his mum's rug - tugging Ed down to him so that their lips meet yet again. Ed's mouth is cool and has an all-too familiar, bitter taste to it that he can't get enough of these days, pressing his tongue into him, and he kind of hopes their mouths bruise with this, as evidence of how stupid and perfect together they are.
"Think he's getting any?"
The only obstacle between them now is the lager, Ed sucking back another little bit. He looks absolutely knackered, eyeing Shaun incredulously from above, smirking when Shaun whines, "Think I can get any?"
And then Shaun is reaching up, stealing the half-empty can and waving it over his head. He rocks his hips forward, pressing himself against his mate's leg like he's in heat; tries to lower the can to his own lips just to chug it and get it out of the way - which he does by way of spilling half of it across his face and neck.
"Cocking-- bollocks," he sputters, choking up backwash.
Ed is roaring now, slapping the back of the couch; leaning in to lick a stripe across Shaun's collarbone and slurping at the alcohol settled there.
"Hate to let it go to waste. All part of your plan, I bet."
Shaun gasps, humping against him again from below, and finally - finally - Ed's free hand is at Shaun's fly front, unfastening, snaking down the waistband of his trousers. The attention sends shivers down Shaun's spine, and he whines in the back of his throat.
"Your pants are wet," Ed huffs against his friend's soaken skin. "You spill anything down there, love?"
The response is a spattered groan and ragged, heavy breathing as Ed's fingers rub atop the precome-slick spot of his pants in lazy, concentric circles. Shaun's stiff as anything, adrenaline rushing through him and blood leaving his head for South, and every touch is golden.
They rock against one another, stroking exposed skin, nipping at prickly jaws and chins and cheeks, until there's a creaking of the floorboards upstairs and the two freeze - holding their respective breaths to find that someone up there is simply having a wee. Ed's touches from that point on are more pointedly lustful: rougher, more intimate as he slips his hand into Shaun's pants, past the cut of his hipbones and damp hair and holds his palm firmly to Shaun's shaft.
"Jh- Jesus Christ--"
Shaun melts as Ed floods his senses.
His brain begins to shut down.
"Alright?"
Ed's fingers are calloused and chapped - they catch on the dewey flesh of Shaun's erection, dragging up and down its length with purpose. His thumb glides through the wetness beading at the tip and he swirls the mess of it over the head of Shaun's cock - "Aah!" - it's like electricity is shooting through every nerve in Shaun's body.
Ed chokes out a dark laugh, grabbing at his own swelling erection through his shorts and resettling atop Shaun's left leg, rutting against it once, twice--
He still has Shaun in hand, but now he's also leaning in further, trapping Shaun to the couch beneath his body weight and nibbling at his mate's neck; teeth dragging over sensitive, strained skin, dripping with sweat and lager. He sucks a red mark just below Shaun's chin, and another one to the right of that, chuffed knowing that Shaun will want to hide them for work, and that he's never very good at it.
The up and down on Shaun's cock gets faster - tighter on the upstroke, caressing on the down. And Shaun's already desperate for release, keening, bucking his hips into his friend's grasp without rhythm; throwing his forearm up over his mouth to stifle his whines and gasps and moans. Ed goes in for a nosh on his arm, too, but is scolded away.
"Ed!"
The friction between them is marvelous; Ed's unyielding grasp on his throbbing cock and the insistent press of Ed's own against his upper thigh - it's too much. He cries out, drooling against his arm, "Ohh, Jesus--!"
"Come on, Shaun," Ed coos against Shaun's cheek, "You wanna come for me, yeah? My arm's getting tired," he smirks, pressing a kiss against his words.
Sweat falls from the tips of his hair, the tips of his nose. Shaun's glistening in it.
Closing his eyes makes him feel nauseous, so Shaun keeps them open, staring at Ed's fist pumping him expertly from inside his trousers; watching - feeling - his thumb pressed to the tip, swirling over it again and again and again until he thinks he's going mad--
"Sh-Shaun," Ed swallows, "come for Eddy."
Suddenly, his breaths come like Morse code. There's a tight coil of heat in his abdomen, and Shaun's spent, spasming, arching his chest skyward. Bucking involuntarily into the fist that's angling to wring him dry, he's coming into his pants, and against the expanse of his stomach and - God - all over Ed's hand.
"Fffuck," Shaun sighs, panting short, relieved whimpers into the air. "Ohh, fucking-- Fucking hell."
He idly wonders how Ed had been able to get so fucked, and so competently bring him to orgasm just the same. He admires that. "I love you, man."
"Gayyy."
Shaun lays on the couch in a stupor, lazily scratching against the crotch of Ed's shorts. His expression is a bit curious; a red-faced, silent offer, but Ed bats his hand away.
"Don't need it."
They're silent for a short while, but not completely still - Ed's up and about, tucking his erection into the waistband of his shorts, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, digging around in the couch cushions. Shaun sprawls out, cramped limbs splayed over the back of the couch and its arm; dabs a used napkin over the pearlescent globs on his abdomen. He jolts when Ed sits too close to him - holds tight to the couch to prevent falling over like before.
Ed eyes him with a weary smile; pulls out a packet of fags from a spot in the couch and taps it against his leg to shake one free. "Fag?"
"...Hm?"
"Do you. Fancy. A fag?" Ed shakes the packet at him.
"Oh. Nah. I should quit."
Still, Shaun does his duty and lights the cigarette for his friend, eyes on the tip of the thing as it glows red, and Ed's blowing smoke in his face.
He sighs; stretches to retrieve the remote control from the coffee table, only this time he's successful. He volumes up the telly and leans back, bowing his head to rest against Ed's shoulder once more, both effectively having a cuddle and escaping unruly plumes of smoke.
By the time John Cusack's got his girl back, Ed's feeling the returns of his indulgences: it's hard to keep his eyes open, let alone focus on anything.
Shaun's asleep.
He can hear the faint snore in each peaceful, even breath. Bit of a mess, though: dark spot drying on his trousers; fly unzipped and askew; didn't really get all the jizzum off his gut. Shaun's got a gig tomorrow afternoon, so maybe he just ought to let his mate sleep, he figures.
With a yawn, Ed flicks the stub of his fag off the telly and it ricochets back onto the table, mere centimeteres from the ashtray. Shame.
He's about ready to drift off, anyway. The mess can wait.
He never was very hot on tidying up.