rareslash | Fic: Right Now With George Slouched Low, Low (Pitt / Clooney)

Title: Right Now With George Slouched Low, Low
Author: Kevin
Pairing: Brad Pitt / George Clooney
Rating: PG-13 I guess
Disclaimer: I own and know nothing. This particular piece of work is fabricated.
A/N: I started this piece of shit in January, before the inevitable break-up was all over the tabloids, so just accept any Brangelina love that might exist in the fic. I'm really not satisfied with it, but I'm tired of it being on my computer, so here.

"What the hell is a 'bromance'?" Brad asks immediately as he opens the door for George, eyebrows raised but smiling wide as he steps aside, lets George walk in past him, watches him shrug off his dark grey jacket and hang it on the coat rack.

George chuckles the way he does, low and rumble-y and a twitchy cock of his head, "I don't know but it sounds somewhat incestuous, doesn't it, bro?"

Brad gives a short loud laugh around "fucking fag," and George just shrugs and smiles all charming-like, leading the way to the big mahogany-filled den in the basement, bee-line for the small liquor bar in the corner, pouring a small glass of scotch straight to match Brad's already half-downed drink.

Been a long time since they'd both been in L.A. at the same time, busy filming and promoting and being a father. Angie had seen the Today Show interview while he was in the shower, always the last one up, quoted George for him with a giggle on her beautiful lips as he made himself oatmeal, full intentions to share the bowl with their youngest daughter. She had leaned in close to his ear after sharing the story, maybe not wanting the kids to hear, more likely teasing him, 'I still think he has a crush on youuu,' she sing-songed.

She wasn't supposed to know, not really, George had trusted him with that, or well, Brad had convinced him to trust him after he caught George with a crew guy on the second day of shooting Ocean's 11 and the press never heard about it. He told Angie, though, it sort of slipped out one night, buzzed on alcohol and sex together, talking comically failed high school romances and yet-to-be-taken dream vacations. Not like she cared, could hardly be considered taboo to her.

She's still in France with the kids, he's only in L.A. for half-a-handful of days to check in with the production company, and have a drink with George.

One dim lamp lit in the room, talking quietly about recently received scripts and new houses, laughing loudly over text messages from Damon and a kid walking into the bedroom at the wrong time. A lull in the conversation after a dead-end joke, George still chuckling a little bit, and Brad gets up to refill their glasses. Slowly pours the pale brown liquid into their glasses, clink of the scotch bottle as it bumps against a Jack Daniels when he sets it back with the bunch. Walks back over to the couch, hands George his drink, takes a swallow of his own, sits down with that familiar smooth moan of black leather.

And maybe his third glass has his brain working not-quite-right, or maybe he's been curious since the media started treating them like they were a real couple. George's longest affair, 'bromance,' all that stuff spinning around in his head and he'd really like to see what it's all about. Right now with George slouched low, low and his legs spread wide and his knees brushing against the deep polished wood coffee table, and his chin almost at his chest almost touching those dark grey curls that peek above his shirt with the top button undone, a happy sigh coming from his nose after taking a drink.

Brad places his drink on the table, leans in toward George, inches from his face, whispers his name and George gives one of those husky 'hm's and raises his head. Looks a little bit startled to see Brad so close at first, but before Brad closes his own eyes, he sees realization flash across George's.

And he puts his lips to George's, and George is quick to react, opening slightly and Brad tastes the warm bitterness of the scotch on the inside of George's bottom lip. George's tongue wet and soft as it meets his, glides across the inside of the corner of his mouth. The stubble of George's mustache rough against that curious line of skin on his upper lip that marks the difference between white and pink, chafing but oddly arousing, a sharp tingle down his spine and a familiar drop in his stomach and a quickening in his chest.

Brad breaks for a moment, needing a quick deep breath to steady the tremor in his hand as he slowly reaches for George's waist, wondering what his hipbone feels like. But, moving back in, and George puts his hands on Brad's chest and pushes firmly.

"No, don't. Stop," he takes his own deep breath and isn't really looking Brad in the eye. "This isn't right, we can't do this."

Brad stares at him, heart jack-rabbit thumping in his chest, head spinning. "No?"

"No," George looks directly at him now, "You know how I feel about you. It's unfair. You've got Angelina and the kids now."

Brad looks down, nods his head and says "Yeah," but he doesn't know why. He didn't really know how George felt, he never thought about it, just thought Angie was cute when she said those things and pretended to be jealous. And Angie is on the other side of the world, innocent French sunlight brightly shining all over her and the kids' faces, wouldn't know a goddamn thing.

"It's not right," George says.

"But ..." and Brad doesn't even know what he wants to say, but George's hand reaches out to gently pat Brad's and he really can't help the way his mind wonders how the rough tan skin might feel against the semi-hard dick in his pants. Better than Angie's long and soft, smooth and slick fingers?

"No, Brad."

And Brad moves away, shifts slightly away from George, and reaches, picks his small glass off the table, slowly reclines back against the couch, taking a long drawn-out swallow to fill the awkward silence.

"So, um," George clears his throat once and swallows hard, "who are you meeting with tomorrow?" Begins a stunted conversation about work, and stunted in every way with replies as minimal as possible, less than a few forced sigh-laughs, not looking at each other's faces, trying too damn hard not to focus on the heat of George's shoulder four inches away and the way his head is doing slow clumsy circles around alcohol and warmth deep in his belly and rejection.

The scotch in their hands is gone pretty quick, Brad offers to refill but George softly groans as he sits up and leans forward, "No, I should get going."

"Sure?" Brad hopes for tell-tale signs of being drunk, but his dark brown eyes are clear and he's not swaying as he stands and starts taking small steps toward the stairs. "You can stay in the guest room if you want."

He shakes his head, "Thanks but I'm fine" and they both know why they're sober despite three glasses of liquor.

Brad follows him up the stairs, can't help the way his eyes focus on George's ass, the way its roundness shows through his loose-fitting jeans as he takes each step. At the front door, George pulls his jacket on, doesn't offer the usual departing two-claps-on-the-back hug, but does cruelly tell Brad to give a hug to Angie and the kids for him and to call him sometime soon.

He slowly closes the heavy door, leans his shoulder between the jam and the wall as he slips the locks into place, listening to George's fast little car rev up and fade into the distance. Lets his head fall back against the wall, winces at the cracking sound and the way pain suddenly spreads through his skull into his eyes. Pushes himself from the wall and walks back downstairs, pours himself another lonely glass of scotch, taking a small sip and remembering the way it had tasted when transferred from George's lips to his tongue, and there's the return of that somewhat embarrassing and wholly intriguing twitch of his dick at the thought of kissing another man.

He throws his head back and downs the rest of the drink in one swallow, lets the muscles in his legs relax and he falls onto the couch, slamming the glass on the coffee table with one hand and picking his Blackberry up with the other. Opening his contacts and finding George's email, doesn't want to text him and get an instant reply, Brad quickly and surprisingly mistake-free types "im sorry" and hits 'send.'

And despite being half-cognizant of the fact that he's far too old to sleep on the couch, the other half of him can still smell the deep smooth and spicy scent of George in the material of the couch and in the air of the room, so he lets his phone slide to the floor as he brings his knees as close as they'll get to his chest, his breaths turning deep and calm.