Slashababy 2004 Stories

  FANFICTION: This story depicts real-life public figures engaged in completely fictional, false and untrue activities. It never happened, it never will happen. This story is a work of fantasy and satire which in no way professes to express the truth about the life, thoughts, feelings, desires, opinions, beliefs, activities or sexual orientation of any person mentioned herein.

No Secrets

for iamari
by yueni

Pairing: Lawrence Makoare/David Wenham, Marton Csokas, Viggo Mortensen, Harry Sinclair, Karl Urban
Summary: Open or closed?
A/N: Beta by turning_leaf. Written for iamari who asked for non-gen.

They lie in the darkness, limbs entwined, sweat sealing their bodies against each other. The room is thick with the heavy smell of sex. It is stuffy, and makes their breathing even more laboured, but they make no move to crack open the windows.

Lawrence's hair, long and damp, sticks to their skin, irritating and scratchy. It's coarse and thick and black, rough in contrast to the absurdly slippery satin sheets. David hadn't exactly pictured Lawrence as the satin sheet type. He had assumed plain cotton sheets, or even flannel, with the colder winter weather upon them. The silk had thrown him a little, and Lawrence had laughed a deep belly laugh.

Restrained humour. David liked that. It was warm and it prickled the skin in just the right way, washed over the person nicely and left his arm pleasantly dimpled with goosebumps. Even now, as he lies breathless on the bed, half-on and half-off the bigger man, he runs his palm up and down the bed, savouring the smooth feel of the rumpled bed clothes.

"One thing I've got to say for you, mate. You've got high class taste."


Lawrence had never been one to speak much unless spoken to. He had a tendency to give monosyllabic answers that positively drove people mad. At some point, Karl had handed him a dictionary and a stern admonishment to use said item to beef up his vocabulary. Lawrence had smirked, and said, true to form, "Okay."

And then he'd walked off.

David had yet to be perturbed about this tendency. For one thing, he spoke even less than Lawrence. Their entire conversation during breakfast this morning consisted of less than ten words, brusquely spoken.




"Sugar," David's fingers lifted in a peace sign, indicating the number of teaspoons of sugar he wanted in his morning espresso.

Once they'd settled at the table, Lawrence had tossed the newspaper at David, keeping the comics section for himself. Serious world news could always wait until after Garfield had bested Odie for the nth time.

"Hey!" Irritated that the paper had spilt his coffee, David had glared.

If Lawrence had been French, David would have called it a gallic shrug. "Soz, mate."

It was the first two word reply in two hours. The next multi-word sentence wouldn't come for another three hours, after the news, morning coffee and sex for the second time that day.


David likes modern creature comforts. He likes slouching down on the leather sofa and surfing the telly for sports. He loves sports, he often tells Lawrence, just the spectator kind, the ones that only need watching, not doing. Except maybe snooker.

Lawrence had once dragged him out for a game of rugby with "the boys." All David's protests about torrential rainstorms and muddy turf had fallen on deaf ears. Viggo had been in town for reshoots, and Lawrence had "subtly encouraged" their beleaguered king into participating to even out their numbers. It was an ugly game that did not resemble rugby so much as mud wrestling.

Somewhere in the middle of the field, Lawrence had Karl in a head lock, and Karl was grappling for purchase in the sodden ground. Nearby, Viggo had Harry pinned somewhat precariously in a futile attempt to wrest the ball from him. David had been hovering around the edges of both tussling matches, not quite certain that he wanted to get involved, but Marton had other ideas, and a well-placed shove had him in the middle of the melee.

The bruises and scratches that resulted from the impromptu mud wrestling had given David an excuse to demand a massage from Lawrence.


Lawrence has a hidden talent. He gives a great bloody massage, one that seeps in through the muscles and leaves you boneless and floating on a cloud of bliss. David has been riding on this cloud for a nice long while, and he's not liable to be coming back down to earth any time soon. "Magical hands," he groans, eyes closed as Lawrence smoothes out a knot in his back.

Lawrence merely smiles, his hands rubbing, soothing, smoothing along David's back and sides, encouraging his mindless drifting and soundless moans. He knows few people who are this responsive or this vocal about receiving a massage, and it's always a pleasure to give David one. He is a magnificent man, well-muscled, but not overly so, one who knows the difference between a quick fuck between friends and an honest relationship.

David and he, they have an open relationship. It's open in almost every way conceivable. No secrets, David had said when he'd moved in with Lawrence, and Lawrence had agreed. He had added another clause: No jealousy. So when David tells Lawrence that he's going out for the night with Karl, and he doesn't return until noon the next day, Lawrence pretends not to care, when somehow, sometime, he's learnt to be possessive over a man who likes to be shared.


It is a curious thing to wait for a man, but Lawrence wonders if he'll end up waiting for David for ever. He is a patient man, but he wonders if he can be patient enough to wait long enough for David to come around. If he ever will.

For now, he thinks he can wait. God knows David's worth enough to him to wait. They understand each other; know each other well enough to be honest about their relationship. Despite his predilections for other men, other lovers, David always returns to Lawrence. Always. And it isn't as if Lawrence doesn't know about them. David has always been transparent with him about his lifestyle.

Lawrence had said yes then, and he's not about to renege on his agreement. Not just now. Not when he's not sure enough of David to tell him the truth. Not when he's broken his first rule: never let feelings get involved.

No secrets, they'd said when they started out; but for right now, Lawrence has one that he wants to keep to himself.


Slashababy 2004 Stories