Indigo Ice

Devon pawed through the mess on his desk searching for a bottle of nail varnish that wasn't a) empty, b) spilt or c) dried out. His hand closed around a bottle and he pulled it out the mess, yelping as a discarded staple sunk into his finger. Turning it around he peered at the label,

"Indigo Ice? Who the fuck owns that?"

Shrugging he twisted the lid open, letting a shower of dried flakes fall to the floor and expertly painted three quick strokes across each nail. Blowing on them hard Devon held them up to the light and admired his work. He'd come a long way from the clumsy sixteen year old who'd smeared nail varnish everywhere in an attempt to cover the nail until his best friend had shown him the three stroke technique. Devon blinked, that's who owned the nail varnish, Oz. The small, laconic guitarist of the Dingoes and best friend and occasional lover since age 16.

Devon sat down on the bed and let his mind wonder. He remembered the first time he and Oz had smoked pot, up in Oz's room with the windows closed and Pink Floyd blaring out of the stereo while Oz had demonstrated the art of painting your nail and not your finger. They'd got so buzzed that afternoon that when Oz had leaned over and kissed him, all he'd done was kiss him back.

Indigo nails half done and still wet had curled around his shoulders and bunched up his shirt as tongues had battled and explored mouths, Somehow between the two of them, their shirts had found new homes on the floor and Oz's pale skin had been open to his touch. He could still feel the tremble running up his spine as Oz's mouth had kissed it's way down his stomach pausing only when he'd reached the waistband of his jeans. Oz had stopped then and he'd whimpered at the loss of contact. Oz had looked up and asked him if he had faith in him and all he'd done was nod and raise his hips so his jeans could be slid off.

After Oz reached over to his desk and grabbed a condom and rolled it on, his talented mouth had carried on down and he'd hissed, arching upwards as his hard member was surrounded by a warm mouth. He hadn't been able to take it much more and had come with a groan. Afterwards they just lay there smoking, Oz's hand tracing patterns on his skin. They'd fucked on and off until Oz had fallen hard for the red head.

Devon started. The sun had started to go down and he was still sitting on his bed staring at the bottle of nail varnish, standing up he walked over to the window and stared out. "Dammit. Oz. Where are you?" He knew he'd left, something to do with the red head and 'finding himself'. Devon snorted, that was women for you. Turning back to the desk he placed the bottle of nail varnish down and walked out the room. The remaining Dingoes had a gig to play.