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Log Rhythm 2:15 supplemental: Party of Two * * * Ensign Ian Young was not having a good time. He leaned against the bar and swirled the amber liquid in his glass, studying it with morose intensity. He had come to Mae Lawless' birthday party expecting to enjoy himself. He liked Lawless after all, liked Stephanie Cormack, her best friend and his co-worker from the armoury. He liked their whole group in fact: Travis Mayweather and his girlfriend Liz Cutler, Bonnie Fraser, and of course his roommate Ari Cohn. They were all there in the rec. centre with the rest of the invited guests, laughing and joking with Mae as she opened her presents now that the cheesy cheerleading flick had finally ended. The cake had been good, the alcohol plentiful; there was absolutely no reason why he shouldn't be enjoying himself. He raised the glass to his lips and took a drink, grimacing at its raw taste. The reason why he was in such a bad mood was standing across the room, flirting with his roommate. Ian scowled and took another sip of beer. Hoshi Sato was looking particularly beautiful tonight. Her hair was down, sliding in shining black waves around her shoulders. Her eyes were sparkling, her lips a tantalizing red. The tank top she wore was the same pale shade of blue as the flowers in her skirt, and was just tight enough to show off her curves to great advantage. The whole package was gorgeous and sexy, and he had done everything in his power to get her to notice him short of dragging her away from the rec. centre by her hair. They had talked, laughed, flirted enough to make him think she might be interested, and then she had just walked away, gone to dazzle some other poor sap. By the way Ari was blushing, Ian could tell he wasn't immune to her charm either. The thought only worsened his mood and he turned his back on Hoshi's tinkling laughter and Ari's shy smile to get himself another drink. Putting his empty glass under the draft tap, he drew himself another beer. It was some resequenced brew, loosely based on one of the more popular American kinds, and not one of his favourites. But beer was beer, after all. Beggars couldn't be choosers. He had been drinking steadily since Hoshi had thrown him over for every other guy in the room, hoping that the alcohol would improve his mood. It had been a long while since he had let a girl get under his skin like this, and just knowing that only made him feel worse. "Third beer's the charm," he muttered and took a large drink, then screwed up his face. He was still too sober for it to have started tasting good. An arm bumped his elbow, causing a bit of his drink to slosh over the side of the glass. He turned sharply to see it was Michael Rostov standing beside him. The crewman was one of Ari's friends, and Ian had only ever had a drink or two with him when Ari had invited him along. His memory of those occasions was that Rostov was outspoken and rough and had a quick temper. He couldn't imagine what his roommate saw in the guy. He knew they'd never be friends. "What's the matter, Young?" Michael said, nudging him again. "You look like you're at a funeral." "Quit it," Ian snapped, transferring his glass to his other hand. "You're spilling my drink." "You're drinking that shit?" Rostov said, expression disdainful. "I thought Canadians had good taste in beer." Ian sneered at him. "You see anything better?" "I got ten times better sitting in my cabin," Michael replied. "Vodka. From Russia. The good stuff. Want some?" He jostled Ian again, sending another small wave of beer onto the floor. "Your drink's almost empty, anyway," he smirked. Ian debated. He didn't like Rostov, but he really didn’t want to stand around any longer mooning over Hoshi. Michael was right about the beer, anyway. It was shit, and not nearly strong enough to help his mood. Besides, nothing said he'd have to stay long. He put his glass down on a nearby table. "Let's go." * * * "Where the hell's your roommate?" Ian asked as he and Rostov entered the empty cabin. "Virinder's on gamma shift," Michael replied as he opened up his closet. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing towards one of the beds. "Won't take a sec." Ian sat on the bed, stretching his legs out in front of him. Rostov's cabin was neater than he had expected. It was certainly neater than his and Ari's. Well, he amended to himself, at least his side of the room. He could see some digital picture frames attached to the bulkhead in front of the desk closest to the bed. They were rotating through a series of pictures of a group of dark-haired people, all laughing and smiling into the camera. Ian wasn't close enough to see whether it was Michael or not. "This your family?" Ian asked, pointing at the pictures as Michael sat down beside him on the bed, bottle and two small glasses in his hand. "Nope," Rostov replied, "that's Virinder's desk. You can tell by the books on stellar cartography. They're pictures of his family back in India." "Oh." "Here," Rostov said, handing Ian a glass and twisting off the top of the bottle. He poured Ian a healthy drink and repeated the action into his own glass. "Cheers," he said, and emptied his glass in one swallow. "Cheers," Ian repeated and poured the drink into his mouth. The liquid was sharp and nearly tasteless, burning a path all the way down to Ian's stomach and strong enough to make him wince. "Damn!" he gasped, "that's good!" "Way better than that crap you were drinking," Michael agreed, pouring them both another drink. "Cheers," he said again, this time knocking their glasses together. "Cheers," Ian said, and they shot back the vodka at the same time. The burning sensation had become pleasant, almost invigorating. He held out his glass again. Rostov filled their glasses for a third time. "Bottoms up." "Bottoms up," Ian raised his glass and then drank it down. He started to feel the familiar tingling sensation in his forehead that meant he was beginning to get drunk. This was his third drink in about five minutes, and he had already had two beers at the party. A small voice whispered that he should slow down before he got really wasted, but he shrugged it off. He wasn't on duty until Gamma shift the next night anyway, and this was the best he'd felt all evening. He held out his glass. "So," Michael said as he poured them both another drink, "what was up with you at the party?" Ian paused with the glass halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?" "I mean," Rostov said, making a face as he swallowed the vodka, "that you looked like you weren’t having a good time." Ian shot back his drink. "I wasn't." "I know," Rostov replied. "What's up?" "Nothing." "Sure." Ian narrowed his eyes. "I said it was nothing." Michael shrugged, poured himself another glass. "Suit yourself." He downed his drink, then set the glass and the bottle on the floor by his foot and pulled off his sweatshirt, tossing it casually onto the chair by his desk. Michael was wearing a sleeveless undershirt in the brilliant blue of Starfleet regulation. He was big and muscular and hairier than Ian had imagined, the crisp, dark curls peaking out over the top of his shirt. His chest was broad, his shoulders strong and amazingly defined, and Ian found himself wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through those curls, to feel those muscles beneath his palms. Michael chuckled. "See anything you like?" Ian felt the heat of a blush rush to his face. He had been caught staring, and at Rostov, for Christ sakes! A man he didn't even like. He reached down and grabbed the bottle, pouring himself another drink to hide his discomfort. "Don't worry about it," Rostov said, moving himself back on the bed until he was leaning against the wall, "I have that effect on people." Ian snorted. "Whatever." He took a sip of the vodka, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt at the same time. Even though he no longer felt embarrassed, he was still hot and flushed, and the tingling in his forehead was much stronger. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up passed out on Rostov's floor. Rostov would never let him live it down. Michael looked at him, the expression in his dark eyes unreadable. "I know you like men," he said. Ian nearly choked on his mouthful of liquid, began to cough violently. "What?" he gasped when the spasms had subsided. "Who told you?" "Ari," Michael smiled. "He said you swing both ways." "So?" Ian said challengingly. "So, nothing." Michael shrugged. "Now you know I know." Ian looked at the other man. Rostov was leaning back against the bulkhead, eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks slightly pink from the effects of the alcohol. He could feel his own buzz progressing to out-and-out drunkenness. Hell, he must be drunk to be sitting on a bed with a large, half-naked crewman who was interested in his sexual preferences. A crewman he didn't even like. No matter that he looked really attractive in an undershirt and jeans. Now would be a really good time to leave, he thought. He found himself leaning up against the bulkhead instead, his shoulder nearly touching Rostov's. He took another sip of his drink. "Why were you so upset at the party?" Rostov asked again. "None of your damn business," Ian said. "I don't think Hoshi's interested in Ari," Michael continued. "I think she'd go for someone taller." "Who the fuck asked you?" Michael turned to look at him. "But you do like her, don’t you?" "What the fuck is this?" Ian snarled. "Twenty questions? Why the fuck are you so interested in my social life?" I'm leaving, right now, he thought, and shot back the rest of his drink to prove his sincerity. His started moving towards the side of the bed. "Hung up on Hoshi," Rostov muttered to himself. "Too bad." Ian turned to him again. "What's it to you?" Michael leaned forward, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "You're a good-looking guy, Young. Red hair, blue eyes. Tall. Built. I've seen you in the gym. I know." His smile broadened, became seductive. "I was hoping we could get it on." Ian blinked. "Huh?" "You know," Michael replied nonchalantly, "have sex. But since you're so hung up on Hoshi…" Ian debated the possibilities. Return to his cabin wasted and rejected, lying awake as the room spun around him, waiting for Ari to return from wherever, hoping it wasn’t Hoshi's quarters, or have no-strings sex with a guy built like a tank. It was a no-brainer. "Okay," Ian said after a moment, "I'm in." He paused. "But you can't tell Ari. Ever." "I don't kiss and tell, Young." Michael smirked as he moved onto his knees and began undoing the buttons on Ian's shirt. "What Ari doesn't know won't hurt him." "Good," Ian said as he pulled the undershirt up and over Michael's head and tossed it into a heap on the floor. He ran his hands over Michael's chest, enjoying the feel of the bristly hair and taught muscles. He moved his hands lower, fumbling with the buttons on the front of the other man's pants, finally getting them undone. Deftly, he slipped his fingers inside; just able to touch Rostov's erect cock from that awkward angle. He felt his own arousal straining against the front of his jeans. "Let me," Michael said, moving Ian's hands away. He kicked his shoes off, unbuttoned his pants and took them off too, socks soon following. Ian quickly stripped his own clothes down to his boxers. He had forgone the Starfleet issue in favour of a less vibrant black pair he had been hoping Hoshi would like. Forget her! his mind hissed at him: he had more urgent things to think about. Like the way Rostov's hands were moving expertly over his penis, squeezing and rubbing in a way that was making him crazy. The man clearly knew what he was doing. "Take 'em off," Michael growled against his ear. Obediently Ian peeled off his boxers and dropped them onto the floor. He saw that Rostov had done the same. The man's cock was as large as the rest of him, red and hard, the tip slick with pre-cum. A slow smile spread over Ian's lips. This was going to be fun. * * * "Get up." The voice echoed inside Ian's head, sending stars of shooting pain directly into his eyeballs. He moaned, cracked open one eye, shut it again immediately. "Fuc' off, Ros'v," he muttered, "tryin' to sleep." He felt Michael's big hand grab his shoulder and shake him roughly. "Get up," he repeated. "You have just enough time for a shower before my roommate comes back." Ian squeezed his eyes shut against the new onslaught of pain the sudden movement caused. "Jesus, Rostov," he groaned, "take it easy, will ya?" Slowly, he sat up, feeling his stomach lurch violently. He rested his head in his hands. "What the hell did you give me last night?" he said, voice muffled. "Paint thinner?" Michael tapped his shoulder. "I brought you something for your hangover," he said. "Take it, you'll feel better." Ian held up one hand without lifting his head. He felt Rostov place a small pill in the centre of his palm. He brought it to his mouth, chewing methodically. It tasted incredibly bitter, which was a welcome change from the brutal pastiness of the inside of his mouth. "You should have some water with that." Ian waved his hand in a negative gesture, careful not to jostle his head with the movement. "No water." He sat like that for a few moments, waiting for the medication to take effect, wishing Ari were there to give him a hypospray. He frowned. Ari was probably still with Hoshi. The bastard. A towel was dropped around his neck. "Come on," Michael said, lifting him none too gently to his feet. "Virinder's gonna be back soon. I don't want you to be here, and I don’t think you want to, either. Shower's this way." Stumbling, eyes still closed, Ian allowed Rostov to lead him into the shower and put him inside. The water was warm and amazingly soothing. Ian's stomach began to quiet, the pain in his head to recede to tolerable levels. Whatever Michael had given him sure worked fast. He opened his eyes, took some soap from the dispenser and began to lather himself, cleaning away the evidence of last night. He had to admit though, last night had been fun. Rostov was certainly an energetic and imaginative lay, with impressive staying power. They had been totally focused on the sex: fucking hard and fast, barely speaking except to suggest a change of position or to switch places. He knew he'd be sore today, and he was, but it was worth it. And sleeping with someone else in the bed beside him had been nice. Really nice. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it. Ian paused in his soaping. They had slept together. Actual fall-asleep-after-great-sex-slept. Curled up, his back against Michael's chest, Michael's arm thrown over his waist. Like they had done this a million times. Like they were lovers. His eyes widened in horror. Him and Rostov lovers? He didn't even like the guy! Quickly, he finished his shower and towelled off. Rostov had put his clothes into the bathroom already, a small courtesy that now had more ominous meaning. Ian threw on his clothes, straightened his hair with his fingers and gargled with some toothpaste to get the bad taste out of his mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror, took a deep breath in preparation for the confrontation to come. He stepped out. Rostov was lying on his bed, clad only in his underwear. His legs were crossed at the ankles and was reading a PADD. "'Bout time you came out of there. I thought I was going to have to come in and get you." He didn't look up as he spoke. Ian took another breath. "Rostov," he said, paused. "Michael." The dark-haired man looked up, "Yeah?" For some reason, Ian found himself blushing. "Uh. Well, I, uh. You." This was not going well. He tried again. "I just wanted-" "I'm not in love with you, Young." Michael interrupted, turning back to his PADD. "Now get the fuck out of here before my roommate comes in and I have to explain why you used his soap." "Okay then," Ian said, feeling infinitely relieved. He turned towards the door. "Thanks for the drinks," he said as he keyed the door open. "See ya." "See ya," Michael echoed as Ian turned down the corridor. The door slid shut behind him. * * * In what must have been complete sympathy for the party-goers from the night before, Chef had made pancakes for breakfast, with sides of eggs, sausages, and bacon. Ian smiled happily, the aroma immediately taking him back to his days as an undergrad when the only cure for a hangover was a big, greasy breakfast at the local diner, eaten much too early in the morning. He loaded up his plate, covering it all with a thin layer of maple syrup, or what passed as syrup over a year and a half away from Earth. Grabbing a big glass of juice, he turned towards the seating area. His smile disappeared. Ari was sitting at one of the tables, impeccably turned out in his uniform, waving him over. Ian took a deep breath. He was going to have to face his roommate sooner or later, it might as well be now. If Hoshi had chosen Ari, so be it. He'd deal. To be fair, he'd never told Ari that he had a thing for Hoshi, so it wasn't like his roommate was poaching on his territory, anyway. He really didn't have any reason to be angry. Jealous maybe, but not angry. Resigned, he walked over and placed his tray down, taking the seat opposite his friend. Ari's dark eyes immediately took in Ian's clothing. "Good night?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. Trust Ari to cut right to the chase. "Yup," Ian replied, tucking into his pancakes, hoping a full mouth would dissuade more conversation on the matter. He chewed quietly for a while, watching his roommate between forkfuls. He could tell Cohn was dying to know whom he had gone home with, but was too discreet to ask. Ian smiled to himself. Like he'd ever tell Ari where he'd been. He swallowed and took a sip of orange juice, eyeing Cohn over the rim of his glass. "You?" "Not bad," Ari grinned. "Mae really seemed to like the present I gave her, and it was nice to see everyone so relaxed. Too bad the beer was so terrible." "Yeah," Ian agreed. Cohn's response wasn't what he had expected. He couldn't stand it any longer. "I saw you were getting friendly with Ensign Sato," he asked, trying to sound completely disinterested. "She's great, isn't she?" Ari smiled. "Beautiful and smart and-" Ian cut him off. "Our place or hers?" Cohn looked at him sharply. "What?" "So, did you go back to our place, or hers?" Ian said, emphasising each word as if Ari were a small child. He held his cutlery in a death-grip. Ari rolled his eyes. "You know I don't do that kind of thing, Ian," he said, exasperated. He waved his hand dismissively. "Besides, I don’t think she's interested in me." "Oh, too bad," Ian said, smiling broadly. He turned back to his food. "She did ask for you, though," Cohn continued. Ian's fork clattered onto his plate. "Huh?" "Yeah," Ari replied, "right near the end of the party, after you left. She asked me where you had gone." Ian's lips curled up. "Yeah?" He picked up his fork again and turned back to his food. "She wanted to know where I'd gone?" "Yeah." Something in the other man's tone made Ian look up from his plate. Ari was looking at him intently, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "I told her you had left with Rostov." Ian swallowed hard and set down his cutlery. "Glad to see you two are getting along better," Ari said innocently. "Uh huh," Ian said slowly, knowing he must look as shocked as he felt. Ari knew. Ian didn't know how he knew, but he knew. Cohn stood up suddenly. "Well, it's nearly time for my shift in sick bay. Come by later if you need something for your hangover." He turned away from the table, then turned back. "Oh, I nearly forgot. I'm inviting Michael to our 'guys' night' with Mayweather this Friday. That okay?" "Sure," Ian replied. "Great!" Ari smiled broadly. "See you tomorrow morning." He walked towards the mess hall doors and left. Ian ran his hands through his hair. Ari knew. He knew! He took a deep breath, attempting to apply logic to his racing thoughts. So Ari knows I went home with Rostov. That isn't so terrible, is it? At least he was sure Ari wouldn't tell anybody. After all, he reassured himself, Cohn didn't gossip and he was an expert at keeping secrets. Rostov wasn't such a bad guy, anyway. He guessed it would be okay to hang out with him a bit more often. Even if Ari did know. He grinned. And last night's sex had been great. His grin widened. And Hoshi had asked about him. He tucked back into his pancakes with renewed vigour, still smiling. That was the best party he had been to in a while. Continued in Log 2:16.5 - A Gentlemen's Bet |