#getting over the idea that they reached s01e01 and hadn't fucked before that was probably the hardest part of the concept

[notasapleasure]

wip wednesday

it's no longer wednesday, but i did post this yesterday then doubted myself and deleted it. but now it is fished from the bin at the urging of @distressednoise! thank you buddy!

Having been reminded by this deliciousness that it was wednesday i decided to share some of the ongoing attempt to forge some in-character build-up out of the concept of 'brasso punches cassian and they have sex about it'. the concept is a hot potato flung gleefully in my direction by @r0b0tb0y and it's fun writing them both being kind of tetchy with each other but. you know this isn't going to be short whenever it gets finished...

also i made them a sad indie music playlist sorry i don't make the rules, the national and elbow just keep writing songs about them.

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"Ok. I'm really feeling the love here, Cassian. If you just wanted to drink in silence you could have helped yourself from Cavo's store and gone out to the wreck."

He had had a couple of drinks before Cassian had caught up to him, and it was clear he expected Cassian either to match him with talk or match him at drinking the nog. His cheeks were flush with a less than sober colour and his friendly gaze had a tendency to settle a little too heavily on Cassian's mouth between sips of nog. The authoritativeness in his voice was undermined by a hint of wistful longing when he complained about the nature of Cassian's company.

It didn't immediately puncture Cassian's bad mood, to know he was being admired like that - after all, he flirted constantly with Brasso and never got much of a response other than the odd lingering look or dismissive chuckle. It wasn't like Brasso was going to do anything about whatever his precise feelings were, even after a few drinks - they'd tested that possibility to death. He'd stare and blush and hope Cassian didn't notice, and Cassian would pretend not to have noticed, because - well, he'd have said it was because it would be too easy. Let Brasso be the one to make the first move, he was perfectly capable of it - he could be a risk-taker in his own quiet way, despite the image he liked to project. Besides, if Cassian was the seducer it would always be his fault when their friendship inevitably shattered under the pressure of whatever came next. That was how it always went, no point believing it would be different with Brasso, Cassian reasoned bitterly.

He glared as Brasso shuffled to the edge of the bed and reached after Cassian's drink. "Piss off," Cassian cringed deep into the chair, curled his lip and knocked back the remnants in his cup too quickly.

Actually, maybe that was the best way to drink it. He snorted and blinked and his nose fizzed with that awful aftertaste, but then it dissipated and there was just a glow from the alcohol lighting his chest and cheeks.

Brasso snatched the cup from him, tutted, and refilled both tumblers before handing Cassian's back. He looked up as he leaned across with the drink, guileless green eyes beneath long, pretty lashes. A silent plea for Cassian to confide in him, maybe.

Cassian sucked the taste of nog from the inside of his cheeks and met Brasso's eyes with unflinching scrutiny, direct and hot, blazing with a frustration he wouldn't articulate. A challenge that met Brasso's invitation head-on.

It went unanswered, though. Brasso looked down, prim and coy as a stone-layer in ceremonial uniform, and Cassian felt the heat of the alcohol twist and change its form inside him, suggesting ways of distracting himself that didn't involve cheating at holocards, lying about where he'd been, or confessing to any fraternal guilt.

The acrid taste of fury and loathing that proceeded any self-destructive action welled up in the back of his mouth, and Cassian took a more reckless gulp from his refilled cup. He wouldn't let it be his fault, but he'd make up for his earlier failure by provoking some kind of honest action from Brasso tonight. If Brasso wanted to know about Cassian's fuck-ups the least he could do was pre-empt another one by doing something about it himself.

Cassian's eyes roved over his drinking companion, toe to head, and he wallowed in grimly smug anticipation of where the night could go if Brasso would just act on one of those loaded little gestures of his.

Brasso was sitting up straight on the edge of the mattress again, his cup in one hand resting casually on a broad thigh, his knees spread wide and his gaze wandering over the ceiling in a show of exasperation. Even exhausted at the end of the week, skin smudged with oil and stubble too long to be considered neat, Brasso still wasn't dishevilled. His overalls fit him perfectly and the shoulder straps never slipped an inch. His collar was undone far enough to ventilate, but never so far you could see the hairs at the top of his chest. His sleeves stayed where he put them when they were rolled up, even folds against brown, muscle-ridged forearms.

Cassian was yet to figure out his next move with regard to finding his sister, but a different flash of insight had come to him: that he would kill to see Brasso come undone a little. To lose control of himself just a bit. Cassian sipped from his nog and this time savoured the nasty burning sensation on his chapped lips. He wondered what Brasso looked like when he was really furious, or really lost in the throes of fucking. He wondered how red those cheeks could go, how much strength those hands had when throwing a punch or tightening on a throat. He'd wondered these things before, in passing, but never with such deliberation. Never when drinking and laughing, playing cards and bickering - they were always talking, always keeping moving. Never when he'd found himself so restless with dissatisfaction; cornered and forced to stop and take stock; checked by inarticulate, stymied want.

Cassian shuffled in his chair and smirked coldly at the idea of this new distraction. If he could provoke Brasso to some loss of control then - well, whatever happened afterwards could hardly be his fault alone. And he'd be doing Brasso a favour, really - Brasso had been making eyes at him for years and doing nothing about it. It was time for Cassian to help his friend out, the way Brasso had always been so generous with his own assistance.

"It does taste like bantha piss though, Brasso, you've got to see that," Cassian nudged more playfully, gesturing with his cup.

Brasso gave him a withering look in return. "Connoisseur of bantha piss, are we, Cass?"

Cassian shrugged. "I mean, clearly you're the expert."

That kind of jibe wouldn't be enough to scrape Brasso's armour, it just skimmed along the base level of their conversation. As expected, Brasso merely rolled his eyes and took a drink from his cup.

Noticing that Cassian was staring at him, wide-eyed and expectant, Brasso huffed a sigh. "It's an old recipe, Cassian. Not like that watered down coolant they pass off as nog on Morlana One."

The sly glance he gave Cassian would have been subtler had he been sober. As it was, Cassian pretended not to have seen it and nodded, smirking into his cup. "Morlana One? Wouldn't know."

They could play this game all night, Cassian imagined - Brasso trying to coax the truth out of him as Cassian willfully evaded answering.

But Brasso didn't have the patience for that tonight. He gave a huff and pinned Cassian with a glare. "Come on, Cass. Joyride? I don't think so. You've been on Morlana One."

He was so confident he'd guessed correctly - and what's more, he had. It annoyed Cassian more than the game of denial entertained him. His expression twitched darkly and he took another sip of nog. The aftertaste was so pervasive now, it was barely noticeable as an aftertaste, and it was much easier just to carry on drinking. "What the fuck do you know about it?" He tried to cover his tracks with scorn.

"I know that there's a clue in the name: if you've been for a joyride you're usually in a better mood than this."

Cassian's smart reply was on his lips before he could deny anything: "Except that time the life support broke down -"

"Except that time the life support broke down the other side of Morlana, yes, I remember..." Brasso spoke over him and waved a dismissive hand. "I remember every version of that story, you wouldn't shut up about it." The weight of his stare seemed to force Cassian deeper into the upholstery and the thick folds of his coat. "Obviously not the same, is it?"

Cassian's crumpled, angry mouth was hidden by his collar as he tucked his chin into his jacket. He was meant to be teasing Brasso into revealing his own secrets, not being cornered into talking about what he was trying to avoid - fucking Brasso, always turning the tables on him. Always doing it with that steady, patient voice, those quick-moving eyes that scanned Cassian's expression and read all that was meant to be off-limits.  Cassian didn't like to be looked at with pity - but pity was never the motivating factor in Brasso's interrogations. Cassian wished to the stars Brasso would just punch him instead of looking at him like he was doing.

"What happened on Morlana One, then?"