With no Bromo-Seltzer handy, I don't even shake.

[fakeplasticsnow]

Title: Conquering Poland
Fandom: The History Boys
Prompt: paliphrase "manipulation" (table here)
Rating: R for sex scenes and language
Words: 1,936
Pairing: Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin
Summary: They're not in the subjunctive anymore, even if it took them ten years to get there.
Featured song: "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered"
Timeline: 10 years after the ending (movieverse)
Genre: slash, songfic
A/N: I actually wrote this story a year ago (at 17), but I had nowhere to put it, plus the sheer talent of the THB fanfic writers intimidated the crap out of me. (They're amazing, y'all.) This is certainly not the most original idea ever, but Dakin + Irwin = OTP hawtness and I was aching to write something. Anyway, here goes. :D

// I'm wild again, beguiled again; a simpering, whimpering child again... //

They were all different, somehow. People had this awful habit of growing older. Most of them were married, with children, and sported the appropriate potbelly. They were older. A few were wiser, many were just the same. That's what ten years does to you. Everyone found it remarkable that he, on the other hand, didn't seem to age at all. He credits that to loneliness, and the television industry.

He had spent the past hour exchanging pleasantries and manly pats on the back, and now he was standing in one corner of the room, nursing his chardonnay. He could feel someone's gaze, Dakin's gaze, from across the room, and it was all he could do not to look back. He stares down at his shoes, feeling his heart beat faster.

A set of footsteps, and then: "I finally have you all to myself, sir."

"Stop calling me 'Sir,'" Irwin replies, continuing to stare at his shoes. "I find it mildly creepy."

"I think it'd be much creepier if I started calling you 'Tom.' I'm really not used to that. So, how've you been, sir?" Ten years had passed, and the tension was still palpable.

He finally regards Dakin with a rueful grin. He'd changed, too; he was more worldly, sophisticated, and yet the devilish gleam in his eyes remained ever the same. Of everyone at the reunion, only he and Dakin showed up alone -- hell, even Posner had brought along a charming companion. "Stuart Dakin," he says, turning the subject around on him. "Tax lawyer, and lothario. More famous for the latter than the former."

"Tom Irwin, semi-famous television personality. The thinking woman's sex symbol. Admittedly, I'm not as familiar with your sex life as you are with mine. You're very secretive."

"I quite like that about myself."

"And you never take off your glasses."

He smiled. "That, too. I've lived a largely asexual lifestyle, if you must know. Hence, the nonexistence is often mistaken for mystery."

"I'm hoping to change that tonight," Dakin whispers. "Both things."

Irwin remembered overhearing Scripps' growl of "You flirt!" to Dakin after a similar exchange with him, many years ago. "You never learn, do you?"

"Neither do you," he retorts. "So, how about that drink?"

"That's not a euphemism, is it?"

Dakin grins wickedly. "Come with me and find out."

"Let me check my diary."

// Lost my heart, but what of it? He is cold, I agree. He can laugh, but I love it -- although the laugh's on me. //

It most likely was a euphemism. Often, Irwin just chooses to fall for it, as he had done with Dakin's many advances.

Dakin is looking at him in that kind of way again; the same way he used to in that old classroom, with the sly smirk and narrowed eyes. It always made Irwin grin a little and then glance down, nervously, aware of Dakin's machinations and pretending to be unfazed, but secretly liking it. Much like he's doing now. This pleased Dakin. He liked making Irwin a little uneasy.

He studies Irwin's features, and they're mostly the same. The hair, remarkably, remains unchanged; he figures that Irwin is far too busy to bother with such frivolities. However, there is a change in his large azure eyes. They seem more tired than they used to be. His smile, along with all other facial expressions, is far too practiced now, possibly a career-related side effect.

"I've thought about you," Dakin tells him as the waitress sets down their second round of drinks.

"Have you, now?"

"I wonder what might have happened if we met for drinks that Sunday afternoon."

"I can't believe you even remember," Irwin stammers, although he's thought about that as well. He distracts himself by lighting a cigarette.

Dakin leans in closer. "Sometimes, when I'm...shagging a girl," he says in that blasé way so characteristic of him (Dakin wasn't one for euphemisms, really), "I imagine it's you underneath me, writhing, screaming, all messed up..."

"Dakin, please!"

"Yeah, just like that," he laughs. Irwin doesn't. "What? I've always been curious."

"Really?" Irwin scoffs. "It wasn't just some sexual power play? I know you like to manipulate people."

"'Power play?' Come on, sir, I always knew you'd be too smart to fall for something like that. And if I really was flirting with you for extra credit, for favors, I wouldn't have offered to let you blow me after I passed."

"B-but, I was your teacher, and you...you're...not of that inclination..." Irwin sits back and chews on his lower lip, at a loss for words.

"I'm not anything, Irwin. There are just instances when people just find other people attractive. There's something about you, you know? You being so uptight, and so careful...I never said that wasn't sexy," Dakin whispers, smirking. He reaches forward to run his hand through Irwin's straw-blond hair. Irwin backs away before he can.

"I don't know that I like where this conversation is heading."

"Have you ever thought about me?"

Irwin grins at him through those impenetrable glasses. "Absolutely not."

// After one whole quart of brandy, like a daisy, I'm awake. With no Bromo-Seltzer handy, I don't even shake. //

"This...isn't my house," Irwin notes as he steps out of Dakin's sedan. Despite this, he follows him to the door.

"I know."

Dakin makes no bones about his intentions once they're inside; he immediately backs Irwin up against the wall. Somehow, Irwin always found himself in this position whenever he was with Dakin. It was interesting, though -- he'd never met anyone who'd intimidated, challenged, and intrigued him as much as Dakin had.

His breath quickens as he stares down at Dakin. He's not quite sure he wants this.

"Ten years, and I still make you nervous?" Dakin laughs. "I think I like that." He reaches up for the glasses, but Irwin grabs both his hands, stopping him.

"I told you, taking off my glasses is the last thing I do."

"Okay," he whispers. His hands are still caught in Irwin's. He leans in, hesitating for a moment to stare into Irwin's eyes before finally closing the distance between them. Irwin doesn't move, doesn't kiss him back but rather, lets himself be kissed. Dakin is warm, and tastes like cigarettes and tequila. He can hear the voice of a young Stuart Dakin in his head, saying, "And we're not in the subjunctive anymore, either." This was happening. This was really happening.

He worries that this is all just child's play for Dakin, when it's much more momentous for Irwin himself. He hadn't been touched this way in a while, and in this moment he was feeling more inexperienced than Dakin. It jars him when the man unfastens his belt and tosses it aside, but he tries not to let it faze him.

Minutes later, a trail of socks and shoes and pants is left, leading to the bedroom. Inside, Dakin throws Irwin down on the bed and pins him on either side with his arms. Grinding his hips against him causes Irwin to gasp into his lips. Dakin is surprisingly gentle in unbuttoning Irwin's shirt, kissing every square inch of his chest all the way down. He can feel Irwin's arousal against his stomach. He hooks his roughened fingers on the garter of Irwin's boxers, not tearing his lust-darkened gaze from Irwin as he slowly pulls them down. He slithers back up on top of him, straddling him as he whips off his own sweater.

And now, the moment Dakin had fantasized about for years. Dakin bends down until his face is millimeters away from Irwin's.

"Can I?"

Irwin nods slowly and quietly. Dakin carefully, reverently removes the glasses and sets them on the dresser.

"What can you see?"

"You're hazy around the edges. It's a little scary," Irwin admits. "I don't do this with just anyone."

"I know." Dakin opens the drawer and pulls out a bottle.

"What is that?"

"Lube," he replies nonchalantly.

"You fuckwad. You planned this?"

Dakin doesn't answer; only laughs.

// When he talks, he is seeking words to get off his chest. Horizontally speaking, he's at his very best. //

It wasn't exactly like Dakin had imagined. If anything, it was even more...surreal. He'd never seen Irwin like this, and he found himself liking this side of him. The mere sight almost made him come: glasses off, legs wrapped around Dakin's waist, mouth half-open in ecstasy, his normally well-groomed hair all unruly. He was messy, very messy, and this was a good thing. Irwin was quieter than the girls he had been with, saying nothing except the occasional moan and "ohgodyesplease."

The way it felt was something different entirely. He was tight, so Dakin was gentle in entry, careful not to push too far until they'd found a comfortable rhythm, then he got deeper and deeper with every thrust. He could feel Irwin's nails digging into his back; could feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. When Irwin finally comes, his scream is muffled by Dakin's lips on his.

// Men are not a new sensation; I've done pretty well, I think. But this half-pint imitation put me on the blink. //

Stuart Dakin, charmer though he was, was never very good at mornings after. He was not one for cuddling, and he usually stumbled on his phony excuses for leaving early (it was therefore ironic that it was he who told Irwin, "You ought to learn to do it properly"). But this was a very different kind of morning after. After one of the most intense nights of his life, though, that was to be expected.

He woke up to the sound of rustling coming from the other side of the bed. At seeing Irwin fully dressed, attempting to smooth down his hair in front of a mirror, all Dakin can manage to say is, "I'm usually the first one dressed in the morning."

"I have to go," Irwin replies coldly, not bothering to make eye contact.

This prompts Dakin to sit bolt upright in his bed, covered only by a comforter. "Go?"

"You got what you wanted, Dakin. We had our 'drinks,'" he scoffs, complete with air quotes. "Your tireless persuasion of me has come to an end."

"I'm...never seeing you again?"

"Obviously not, but I'm on BBC, Tuesdays at 8."

This time, it's Dakin who's all confused and scared. "So, that's it? It's all over?"

"Yes. That's history, Stuart," he explains, the only time he's ever called him by his first name. "It's one fucking thing after another. And as wonderful as last night was, it served as nothing more than an experience to put your little fantasy to rest. You'll go back to your bed-hopping ways, and I'll move on with my life." He steps forward, and kisses Dakin one last time. "Goodbye."

And with the sound of the door closing, Dakin is, once again, alone. He does not despair, however, because Dakin is a man who knows what he wants, and even though what he wants just walked out the front door, Dakin had cleverly swiped his diary the night before.

He knew that innocent flirtation would not work anymore, but hell, if he had to pull a Posner and desperately wail a Rodgers and Hart song on his knees in front of Irwin, he damn well would. If all it took was a little persuasion to get Irwin to sleep with him, surely it wouldn't take much more to get him to stay.

Poland will cave in, eventually.

FIN.

Comments

[fakeplasticsnow.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! Haha, Poland secretly loves it. ;)