circle7 | Continuation from fagsona thread

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Continuation from fagsona thread

The other patrons seemed to be just as drunk to notice or care, which Desmond noted with a small feeling of relief. It's not like it was uncommon, anyway, and he had no one to prove himself to as it was. (Except maybe the waitress, who constantly teased him that he he needed a girlfriend.)

"So, eleven," he reminded Shaun. "And don't forget your tab before we go, pal."

Though Desmond had half a mind to make the asshole who ruined his wingman plan pay for Shaun's tab, it'd probably get him fired. He could pay for the girls' drinks, though...

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"Grateful one, aren't ya?" he mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Hold on, it's in the back."

Once they exited the bar, Desmond veered to the back, coming back after a minute with his bike. It wasn't glamorous, but it was certainly sleek, a shiny black and red. There was a good amount of scratches adorning it, from use of its previous and current owner.

"Well, here she is," Desmond said, swinging his leg over the seat. "All aboard."

Shaun gave the bike a good look over, stood, and sighed deeply. This was going to take quite a lot of courage, he thought to himself, settling his helmet up on his head. The bike, he observed, was about a third of his body's width, and at the time he had the balance of an elephant on tight rope. Steeling himself, Shaun approached the bike.

"A little small," He commented, awkwardly saddling himself on the space behind Desmond. "Isn't it?"

Desmond scooted forward as much as he could, but it still left the other man almost flush against him. He wasn't used to giving people lifts, but there's a first time for everything, huh?

"It should be a short ride," he promised. "Just direct me as I go. And lift your feet."

The motorcycle roared to life under them, Desmond giving the handle a turn. It revved up, and Desmond hoisted his feet up, taking off. He loved this sensation - the feeling of being free, the wind on his face, the raw speed of driving.

It was better without a sarcastic Brit sitting behind him, though.

“Oh, oh god,” Shaun blurted out, arms coiling around Desmond’s as if they were magnetized. He had Desmond in a vice grip. In fact, if he were to cling any tighter, he may have very well cut off his Driver’s air supply. Being drunk off of his arse certainly did nothing to quell the feeling that he could fall off at any moment and become sidewalk spaghetti.

Desmond laughed, and though he was tempted to look at the hilarious expression that must be on Shaun's face, he didn't turn. He wasn't even going that fast - but he imagined a drunk was probably a little too delirious to interpret that information. He gave one of Shaun's arms a rough pat.

"I'm going easy on you, you know," he yelled back to him.

"Easy!?" Shaun quipped. "It's insane! In fact, I'd venture to say ALL people who ride motorbikes are insane. I should have never agreed to this."

"Shaun, we're only going forty," he said, still grinning. If it weren't for Shaun's loud enthusiasm, he probably wouldn't be able to hear him through the helmet. "We're not even on the highway yet. Now where do I go next?"

"Take a left blocks from here," Shaun said. "Then go down four blocks, it should be right there."

"Got it," he said back, revving up the motor of his bike despite Shaun's complaints. He told him five minutes, after all.

Despite the speed, Desmond was a good driver - he stopped where the law demanded, and took the turns carefully. After about four minutes, they were one block away. For the finale of their ride, Desmond whizzed around the corner, pulling a fast 180 at Shaun's destination, screeching to a halt. He couldn't help teasing him.

Shaun prying his arms from around Desmond’s waist could be likened to trying to straighten two frozen poles of iron. Gradually, he slid off the bike, stumbling forward before coming to his feet. He grasped at the air as if reaching for something to support his balance. “You,” Shaun sputtered out. “You are trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice," Desmond laughed. He leaned back on the seat, his feet on the ground holding up the bike. The hotel they were at was indeed old. (He wondered for a moment if Shaun enjoyed that about it, considering his knack for history.) It was bordering on creepy, but the front looked groomed enough to be comfortable. The place as a whole was almost unnoticeable; it blended right in with the neighboring buildings. He probably wouldn't think about the building twice had he passed by on any other day.

"You better get some rest."

“I,”
Shaun cut himself short, and in a feat of what seemed to be total whimsy, turned and launched himself into the cover of the nearest bush. There, he proceeded to puke his guts out. Desmond likely didn’t intend to dizzy anything more than Shaun’s head, but it seemed that last little stunt had shaken up the drinks inside of him as well.

“Ugh,” Shaun wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

Desmond winced.

"Oops," he mumbled. Well, vomiting was probably inevitable with the amount Shaun drank, but he still felt a little guilty. "You, uh... gonna be okay?"

"I'm fine," Shaun said. "Better."

"Uh... Thanks," he continued. "For the ride, I mean. Not for that last bit."

"No problem. Um. Here."

Desmond fished in his pocket for some napkins - just a couple he had gathered up from the bar. He held them out to Shaun, before worry crossed his face.

"...You didn't get puke on my helmet, did you?"

"Oh right," Shaun said, snapping the napkins out of Desmond's hands. "I'm over here losing my guts and you're worried about your helmet. Of course your helmet is fine, it's on my head."

"Hey, it could've gotten on it," he scoffed. "Besides, I've known it longer than you. Of course I'll worry about it."

Desmond leaned to the side, toeing the kickstand down and getting off his bike.

"Need help beyond here?" Desmond offered, at the very least.

"Here, take it," Shaun said, offering up the helmet once he had cleaned himself off.

"And I believe I can manage from here on out."

With a nod, Desmond warily took the helmet back, examining it before he put it on. (He even gave it a cautious sniff.)

"Good," he said, adjusting the helmet to be snug. "Well, uh. It was nice meeting you, Shaun."

"Yes, I wouldn't normally say the same for someone as simple as yourself," Shaun replied in dismissal. "But I suppose you were helpful. Thanks."

Simple? What was that supposed to mean?

With a frown, Desmond reassembled himself on his bike, turning the key and getting a clunky noise in return. He stared down at it, turned the key again, and got the same fruitless whir of the machinery before it silenced again. He leaned over, looking at the small dash of his motorcycle. The gas needle pointed mockingly at E. Great. I forgot to fill up.

"Shit," he groaned. "I can't believe this."

Shaun, who was mid-way to the apartments doorstep before he heard an awful grinding noise airing off of Desmond's bike, turned to look.

"Is there a problem?"

"Um," Desmond began to call out, "No. I'll just drag it to the nearest gas station."

"You're out of gas?" Shaun said in disbelief. "Good God, you really are simple."

"You're simple," he said back, indignant despite not paying attention to the argument at hand as he steered his bike around. It was easy now, but a mile down the round, this would probably get tiring.

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did koba make you tag me

yes

I knew it

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