Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

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cracktrailer fic for _tayler


Three Trees

By Snow

David Boreanaz/Christian Kane
cracktrailer AU
For _tayler’s birthday! *kiss kiss*
Beta by menomegirl
Oh yeah. Soooo not real.


Things do not change. We change.

Dave found it disconcerting to be in his old bedroom. His mother had not moved anything, she just kept dusting and cleaning, changing the sheets twice a week, as though he still lived there. As if Dave had just gone camping out at the lake and was expected home at any moment.

His high school letter jacket and some clothes that he hadn’t taken with him hung in the closet. His trophies on the shelves, the same posters on the walls, books, papers, pens and pencils lined up neatly on the desk. Dave had to stop himself from reaching over the nightstand to set the alarm clock for school. It was like being dropped into a time warp, into the past.

In the middle of the third night spent tossing and turning, Dave got up, pulled on a pair of worn sweats, a T-shirt and his running shoes. He put his pack of cigarettes and lighter in a pocket, quietly closed the sliding glass door off the kitchen behind him and headed out, into the dark night. It was hot, the humid, sticky August air licked at his skin as he jogged. His mind flooded with memories and feelings, emotional responses he couldn’t turn off and couldn’t ignore. When he wasn’t here, he couldn’t sleep without dreaming of this place and now that he was home, he couldn’t sleep at all.

He moved at a slow pace, letting the tension roll from his neck and shoulders, down his arms, out of his fingers. The sounds of crickets chirping, the buzz of June bugs and moths danced in the streetlights and the soft slap of his shoes in the rocks and on the asphalt followed him. Semis out on the highway, speeding past without a glance, their big engines roared in the dark and Dave shook his head, trying to lose the wish that he was gone again.

… doing eighty or ninety, the wind loud in his ears from the open windows of the Mustang, something hard and pounding on the CD player, the lights of this place fading in the distance. Faded into nothing at all.

Dave found himself running through the trailer park, he stayed in the middle of the dirt road that curved up and through the mobile homes. He passed by the nicer, newer places at the front, the ones with little white fences, tiny green lawns and Home Depot sheds. Aluminum bottoms that covered the wheels you knew were there, no matter how stable and permanent it might look from the outside.

He let his feet lead him up, past some empty lots, further back where everything was not as showy. Where cars sat rusted in driveways and on front lawns. Where trash piled up against dead trees and there might be a yard ornament or two, but they would be faded and broken. A flamingo with one leg or a windmill missing too many fans to actually turn in the breeze.

Slow burns started in his legs and his lower back and sweat dripped off his face, from his short hair. Here, inside lights were still on, windows and front doors open to let in the night air with the lost hope that it might be cooler than the day and Dave could hear the twang of country music from one, acid rock from another. The silver glow from a television in all of them. He could faintly smell pot and cigarettes and hash and the ammonia of crack and meth in the air with every breath he took and he felt the eyes of the almost feral dogs that lived under each trailer follow him. They watched to see if he would stop, if he strayed from the middle of the dirt road and they would, in their simple animal brains, be given permission to sound an alarm in the dark.

Dave kept going.

Through the back of the trailer park and the road turned into two tire trails. Weed and grass grown up knee high at the edges, a little shorter in the middle. Past the rusted, broken metal of a barbwire fence and up the rise of a hill that Dave had never figured out who owned. The fence had never been repaired; it had been cut apart and rusted into dangerous spiral curls before he was born, probably. He couldn’t remember who had told him about this hidden road. Like knowing where to buy beer when he was underage, like knowing the best places to have undisturbed sex, it was just something that when you were fourteen or fifteen and had lived here all your life … you knew.

The soles of his running shoes were silent, puffing up small clouds in the soft, red dirt and he slowed from a jog to a walk. Stopping once to spit out road dust that had filled up his throat and to light a cigarette. He wiped his face on the bottom of his T-shirt and by the time he got near the top of the hill, he could hear the voices in the distance. The sky above him was the darkest of blues, so close to black, but littered with stars and the full moon made seeing everything easy.

David topped the rise and walked around the three trees that stood here. A couple of bushes and a long field of swaying grass in front of him. At the bottom, a drive-in, a movie played on the screen, the sound he heard was the soundtrack that floated up from the speakers that hung on windows of cars and vans and trucks. From speakers that weren’t being used, clipped to metal poles. Three swings and a tall, silver slide just under the screen that even now he could still remember the burn on the backs of his thighs after it had sat all day in the blazing heat. The soft, yellow glow of the concession stand and Dave sat down in the grass. Automatically kicking a clean place for his ass with his shoe to make sure that there wasn’t any broken glass or an empty beer can or a used condom. Habits as old as time.

He flicked the ashes from his cigarette off to the side and let the rush of memories steal through his mind. As clear as if they were playing on the big white screen in front of him. He could almost taste the beer, almost hear the laughter. Almost feel those hands on another August night, just as hot as this one …

"Shut up, you ass-wipes. You’re gonna get us busted.”

Jimmy’s voice was quietly harsh and hard, but it effectively killed the high-pitched gigglescream that had erupted from Kelly and Nicky. Dave shook his head and used his senior class ring to pop off the top of another beer. He took the burning joint from Jimmy’s fingers and sucked in a lungful, then handed it off to Vinnie. Dave held in the smoke until his eyes watered and he stared down the hill at Burt Reynolds driving a sweet, black Trans Am. His tires burned rubber every single time he moved the car and Dave laughed to himself.

“Dude. You can’t do that. Fucker wouldn’t have any tread left.”

Chris nudged his thigh, stretched out beside him on the grass. Dave looked down and those blue eyes reflected the stars as they stared up at him.

“You’d still suck him though, wouldn’t you, Dave?”

“Fuck you, Kane.” Dave growled, smoke circling each word. He tilted the beer back and drank more than half of it at once.

Chris reached up and took the bottle from his fingers. That beautiful, sinful grin on his face and his white teeth flashed in the dark.

“Promises, promises.”

Dave smiled. The movie played on in front of him and he lit another cigarette from the cherry of the one he’d almost finished. The memory as real as if he was still there, right now. His cock tented the front of his worn sweats at the thought, the pictures that played out in his mind.

Chris had drank the last of his beer and arched his back in the grass, his spine bending, his hips lifting. He stretched like a cat and Dave’s dick went from bent and comfortably half-hard to threatening to rip the denim of his 501’s.

He glanced over to Jimmy and Vince and all he saw was hair and hands. Vinnie sitting between Jimmy’s thighs, twisted around for a kiss that seemed to be devouring, that was pure sex. Kelly and Nick had disappeared behind the bushes grown up around the three trees as if everyone didn’t already know they were fucking, as if everyone hadn’t known it forever.

Dave looked back down into those blue eyes. His fingers pushed back the hair that hung around Chris’ face, strands that never behaved. Chris smiled up at him and all Dave wanted to do was wipe that grin off of his face. All he wanted to do was hear the low, gravel and smoke voice call his name. All he wanted to feel were those arms wrapped around his shoulders, those fingers digging into his back and that tight ass gripping his cock in dreamlike, perfect clenches.

“Fuck me, Dave.”

The whisper skittered up through Dave’s consciousness. It cut through his brain and the cigarette dropped from his fingers to roll away in the dirt. The cherry burnt through the bottom a blade of grass before it went out.

Dave’s fingers slid under the elastic waistband of his sweats to circle the base of his cock as he fell back in the overgrown weeds and grass. Just like his hand had moved over Chris’ shirt to the buttons of his jeans. Popping each one as slow as he could and reaching under the soft, worn cotton of Chris’ underwear to find the hard, familiar heat of his cock.

The cicadas screamed in the trees. The almost unintelligible voices of the movie drifted up from below them and the air didn’t move at all. Quiet groans and whispers from Jimmy and Vince next to them and Chris’ mouth tasted like beer and Marlboros. His tongue wet and warm, his lips soft, molding to Dave’s as he kissed him. As Dave sucked on Chris’ bottom lip and tightened his fingers around Chris’ dick until his hips lifted off the grass. Until he moaned Dave’s name and his hands came up, grass-stained and sweaty, digging into the soft spots just under Dave’s shoulder blades. And he was so tight under the slick, quick, lubed thrusts of Dave’s fingers and then his cock. The burn sent them both off of the ground. Pain and pleasure and need and want all wrapped up into one. Into this …

“Fuck … please… in me … now … here …”

There was always the smell of oil around Chris. Oil and dirt and hard work, black stains under his fingernails, sweat on his shirts. He dropped out of school in the eighth grade and worked six days a week at the local oil jockey shop, which was owned by Dave’s father.

"Need lubed?” became a code between them that could mean anything between a night spent in Dave’s bed when his parents were out of town for the weekend, to a stand-up fuck in the alley behind Big Bob’s Guaranteed Used Cars. To a tryst under the three trees on the hill above the drive-in. Hard cocks and beer and pot and come that tasted like hay and newly mown grass and summer nights. Legs spread just wide enough to accommodate slim hips, lips wet from his tongue, back arching up and up and up ... and that voice ... sin and smoke and snakes of desire spiraling down Dave’s spine and coiling in his balls …

"Dave … fuck … Dave … yes … right there … right … yes … God …”

"… Chris …” Dave whispered.

His eyes opened in the dark to see the moon directly above him. Blank and white and empty, hot come on his chest. A memory of fucking until the sky lightened into dawn in the tall, soft grass that surrounded him. The times that they tried to make each other scream with lips and teeth and if it made the girls twist and writhe like whores, then what would sticking his tongue down here, inside of Chris force him to do? And if two fingers felt good, would four feel better? Would his fist, slick and cramped make Chris come even if Dave didn’t suck his cock?

The ever-present flavors of beer and smoke and desire in kisses that left his lips bruised and swollen. Kisses that left hickeys on his neck and down his chest. Purple and blue marks that Dave would touch as he looked in the full-length mirror on the back of his bedroom door, as his fingers traced the path that Chris’ mouth had made on his body. Indelible. Amazing. Unforgettable.

Chris. Jimmy. Vinnie. Nick. Kelly. Days out at the lake, getting sunburns on the deck of a borrowed *stolen* boat and nights spent together fighting, laughing, fucking had become nothing but floating driftwood in the water of a muddy river, a current that never stopped pulling and pulling and going and going …

Dave sat up, he stripped his T-shirt over his head and wiped the come off of his chest. He smoked another cigarette and stood slowly. Stretched the tightened muscles of his thighs and calves out as he walked down the hill. The movie below was over and the cars gone, the light from the concession stand turned off and he was alone.

He picked up speed again as he reached the bottom of the hill and he started that slow, mile-eating jog again. His shirt bunched in the waistband of his sweats as he moved through the streets of his hometown and back to his childhood room and his bed.


*tight hugs for all*

Tags: cracktrailer, dave/chris, fic, rps

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