Isilya (isilya) wrote in dead_bunnies,
Isilya
isilya
dead_bunnies

Dead dead bunny

According to Word, I've had this sitting on my HD since January 5th.

Completely up for grabs.



'Tell me again why you had wire cutters in your bag.'

'Always be prepared. It's a good motto, Lance,' Justin doesn't bother to turn, intent on snipping a neat Justin-shaped hole in the Community Pool fence.

'Oh really? A better motto than, oh say, don't break the law?' Lance pauses. 'And stop smirking.'

'I'm not smirking.'

'Please. I can *feel* you smirking. You know, it's kind of disturbing that you are such an accomplished breaker-in-er.'

Justin's shoulders shake a little, and with a fluid *wriggle* that makes Lance swallow hard, he's suddenly on the other side of the fence, small I-dare-you smile curving his lips. Lance moves forward instinctively, fingers tangling in the wire.

'Come on.' Justin says, and it's *playful* Justin -- the reason Lance was lured out on a 90 degree night. Lance eyes him through the wire.

'Why the sudden interest in violating public property, Justin?'

'It's hot.'

'I know it's hot. Doesn't really explain *this*.'

'I want to swim.'

'There's a pool at the hotel.'

'Yeah.' Justin begins to move backward, a slow even glide, head tipped back, arms outstretched. He looks -- like art, like sculpture, like a key scene in an art house movie. Lance fights the urge to glance behind for the camera crew. Sudden splash, and Justin disappears. It's really bright for one am, and Lance can see the water bulge as Justin resurfaces, laughing, breathing hard.

'You can't see the night inside the hotel, Lance,' he hollers, pulling his arm back to throw something at Lance. It hits the fence with a wet thump. It's -- a shoe. Lance can't help laughing.

'You're mad. You've finally lost the plot. I can see the headlines-'

'It's hot, Lance. Full moon. You're just going to wait outside for me?' Justin makes something that sounds suspiciously like a chicken noise.

'Well yes, this fence seems like pretty good protection against flying sneakers.'

No reply, and Lance sees a dark shape moving swiftly under the water, dangerous, a shark, a seal, a torpedo. He didn't think Memphis boys were taught to swim like that. He edges through the hole- cut for Justin it seems like *doorway* to Lance, and he makes a mental note to send someone out here in the morning before anyone notices the new six-foot-something gap. He toes his shoes and socks off, shuddering a little at the feel of the greasy grass underfoot. He pushes his pant legs up and sits on the edge, dangling his feet into the cool. Justin paddles over slowly, grasps the edge and looks up with wet-eyelashed glee.
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