Random Ficcery #3

[petronia]

The man was fumbling with his zipper when Schuldich came back to himself. One second he was a hausfrau hurrying home late after bingo night had stretched into the wee hours, one hand holding her collar closed against the chill, high heels forcing her into little pattering steps to avoid slipping in the slush – her car parked further down the street – the next he plummeted into smoke and driving techno and sweat on his tongue, hands pinned behind his back against the staple-scarred poster wall while someone supported his weight and panted heavily in his ear. There was crowd-noise pushing at his mind and wetness on the back of his jeans. Schuldich tried to draw his legs under him and failed. He realized his own breathing was rapid and closed his eyes, trying to rewind to the minute before he’d let himself free-fall so he could pick up again from body-memory. It didn’t want to come. Frau Metz was hard to shake. The zipper recaught. A hand slid up his shirt and he moaned. Body-memory spoke up for consensuality.

It would pull this shit when he wasn’t around to see it.

“Listen, love,” he managed. “could you—”

The man slurred something, nuzzling into the curve of Schuldich’s neck. He wasn’t a bad number, body wiry and hard, blond roots showing under the goth dye. He was sloshed to hell. Schuldich cursed and struggled half-heartedly. It wasn’t so much principle as self-preservation skills inculcated through repetition: his active memory was drawing a continued blank. The man pressed against him, forcing him back against the wall. His body was light-years ahead and refused to take the sensation as unpleasant. The dregs of Frau Metz’s awareness whispered that her husband would be angry. The man had gotten Schuldich’s zipper open after all and was working his hand down the front of his jeans. Schuldich bit the inside of his lip. So he was hard. There was one for the annals of surprise endings.

“All right,” he said, “all right. All right. Five minutes. I have to get my sodding memory back.” The man turned his head and kissed him.

It lasted rather less than five minutes, although not remembering most of the preliminary groping threw his count. Schuldich left his ersatz lover rumpled and snoring in a booth, and fought his way out of the warehouse party. He stood in the snow before the sheet-metal parking-lot doors, lighting a cigarette with stiff fingers and running through Institut exercises in his head. A place for everything and everything had its place. A man was king of his own mind. Nothing ever got lost, it only became temporarily inaccessible. Stop, rewind, replay.

Where the fuck was his coat?