cool & froodiest

Dylan Strome Exchange

gigantic — Mon, 01 Aug 2016 17:01:23 GMT

Hello, author! Thanks for writing a story for me. :)

If you have an idea that you love, I absolutely encourage you to write that. But if it helps to have something to use as a guideline, these notes may be of use.

Dylan Strome/Ryan Strome/John Tavares: Ever since that piece this summer that casually mentioned John Tavares coming over to make breakfast at Ryan's plus Dylan and Matt frequently showing up too, of course, my interest in this combo has been renewed! You could come at this a bunch of ways — Dylan and Ryan have been hooking up and John finds out somehow. Ryan and John are together or have a romantic history but Ryan and Dylan have always been weird about each other and Dylan is a third wheel turned more. Dylan and John start hooking up/dating and Ryan has to sort through some unexpected feelings about that. You could go the drunken summer threesome vibe where the brothers are not expecting to kiss but they do, and John realizes he is... not going to stop this actually. All of it works for me!

Jakob Chychrun/Dylan Strome: Sex! And friendship! I mean, they came up with their own ridiculous hashtag. Jake called Dylan "Stromedaddy," why! I like to amuse myself thinking about them taking turns being each other's sugar daddies because they connect over both being boys who like being pampered. You don't have to write exactly that, but the spirit for them, to me, is super playful and supportive. They're confidantes who fuck? They fantasize out loud about the types of relationships they want to be in ~one day. They commiserate over boy trouble, then fuck and get brunch, etc etc.

Michael McLeod/Dylan Strome: I find them very... comforting? As a pairing? I’ve described them in the past as foundational if not quite epic, which I stand by, and lately I’ve been craving fic in the vein of them coming back to each other between relationships or something. Them being guaranteed solace for each other.

hockey exchange letter

gigantic — Sun, 28 Feb 2016 20:05:21 GMT

Hello, exchange author! Thanks for writing for me. I put my general likes and what not in the actual sign-up, but here are some notes on the specific pairings requested.

I'm not wedded to any of these ideas, really. Write whatever you want, but here's some rambling in case this helps something spark for you --

Kempe/Virtanen: They faced each other in the Calder Cup final and then continued that bit of rivalry in Sweden vs Canada! Their NHL teams are in the same division! I’d love to read about that antagonism, but in a sexy way. 😏

Bennett/Dumoulin: I'm obsessed with Dumo being a seemingly sweet boy who just loves to play hockey and cook, and like, maybe he could add banging Beau all over their house to that, idk.

Brown/Kopitar/Quick: They're the foundation of this era of the Kings, and I want to know about that relationship. The years of relying on each other and helping shift the locker room culture. This gifset is everything tbh -- http://bit.ly/1Rfk1wz

Crosby/Subban: PK saying that he and Sid "fraternize" when they're in the same plaaaaace. Casual dinner dates, etc!

Gaudreau/Monahan: I want them to be in loooooooove. Feelings vomit pilfered from another time I rambled about them to someone, because I'm so down for so many different scenarios with these two: Johnny Gaudreau the secret virgin discovering things with Monny. OR Johnny perceived as quiet and restrained but actually he likes being in control and Monny's kind of subby. OR something romantic about them getting to know each other, realizing they're meant to basically lead Calgary to the promised land when it comes to forwards on the Flames, leaning on each other, etc. Anything! God! They're so interesting to me right now! Did you see that Flames video that totally shows Monny's afraid of heights? Do you know about how Johnny's still taking summer college courses to finish his degree and Kevin Hayes on NYR is pretty much still in love with him from when they went to BC together but now Johnny posts pics of Monny on his Instagram frequently and like only one of Kevin Hayes. Sorry, Kevin, Johnny's found a boy! You missed out. And Monny makes jokes about giving Johnny his closet, haha, wow. Johnny in Monny's bedroom all the time -- think about it.

Gaudreau/Hall: The chemistry between them at the ASG was great, and I love Hallsy saying he's admired Johnny since he came into the league. Something about the ASG would be dope.

McDavid/Eichel/Strome: I'm into basically anything here because their complicated dynamic is fascinating to me. Connor and Dylan are so close! But then Dylan and Jack seemed to bond so fast! But Jack and Connor are so weird about each other! Tell me all about it. I’m down for threesomes for I’m also down for a poly situation with Jack/Dylan and Dylan/Connor or whatever seems interesting, really.

Johnson/Kucherov/Palat: Triplets porn, tbh!!!!

Thanks again. 😄

on the la kings and building a culture on emotion

gigantic — Wed, 07 May 2014 04:16:38 GMT

Yo, I know the Kings are a grind-it-out hockey team and their goalie is a hothead, but let's take some time to back it up several paces and talk about the Kings being a franchise currently built on love and forgiveness.

Love? Forgiveness? Is this a rehash of that Jeff Carter and Mike Richards tale?

No, homie.

Not to blow your mind, but that was just a piece in a much longer, actually very deliberate culture shift for the Kings franchise. And I would argue that it's a huge part of why they win more than lose these days -- as much as being a team that got super into puck possession.

I've been thinking about this because I said on Twitter that Dustin Brown is absolutely the right captain for the Kings. I know that that's a little bold to some folks on account of hating him or, if you're a Kings fan, you might think it's lame that he's the captain while Anze Kopitar puts points together like the league's too easy. That's your prerogative and Bobby Brown once recorded a song about how prerogatives are important and people should let people live, so go ahead. But Dustin Brown is also the dude who bought in 1000% as soon as Dean Lombardi strolled in and said, "Hey, you want to win a Stanley Cup one day?"

Brown said, "Where's the needle, Dean? I'll thread it. I'll sew that banner."

I wasn't present for the conversation, but I'm pretty sure that's how it went. Prepare to be shocked as hell when it's one day revealed that Brown sewed that 2011-12 Stanley Cup Champions banner by hand.

Don't just take my word for it, though. Let's go back in time.

THE SCENE: April 2006. Dean Lombardi has to choose between GM opportunities in Los Angeles and Boston. He chooses LA.

In one of his first interviews about the approach he plans to take with the Kings, Lombardi said to the press --

"First off, I'm a builder, and I see the foundation put in place by Dave Taylor," he said. "People sometimes come in and make things look as bad as possible, to paint themselves as heroes. But that's not the case here."

Lombardi talked about the importance of team chemistry and the necessity for the players to "hang out together," stay positive and have fun.

It's his first day on the job, and he doesn't want to talk about winning, he wants to talk about having more fun. Hanging out together! Are you building a hockey team or an after-school program? It's unclear.

But, oh, he presses on. Lombardi's first order of business was to hire coach Marc Crawford, who'd won the Cup before and had some regular season success with the Canucks. The Kings needed regular season success first and foremost, so it made okay sense.

The next month, he drafts Jonathan Bernier, attacking what was long seen as the Kings' most obvious problem -- goaltending. So, not only will there be fun, but now the Kings are going to develop this highly-ranked goalie to also stop pucks and help win more games. Imagine! All! The Fun!

The franchise also brings on Ron Hextall and goaltending coach Bill Ranford. Then, Anze Kopitar comes to training camp. Ya boy Kopitar had been drafted under the old GM but stayed in Sweden for another year. No more of that. To North America! He makes the roster out of training camp and scores 2 goals in his first game. The first is assisted by Dustin Brown, with a very simple but ultimately exactly right chip to Kopitar.

Babe.

Brown had a lot of buzz for the Kings back then, because he was an effective physical presence but he could also score goals. A power forward with a lot of potential. Then Mr. Slovenian Soft Hands comes in and dances around Pronger. They would eventually be put on a line together regularly and have instant success, to the point where articles wrote things about them being "destined to play together" and "inseparable" ~~(and oh, god, tell me about the bonding theories)~~. So they've got these two young forwards showing promise. There's also a promising young goaltender in the system, and in early October Lombardi traded for Jack Johnson. He wouldn't play for the Kings until the following season, though.

Young talent has started to become a thing for a franchise that was, at the time, largely made up of older dudes. And these young guys are soft-spoken dudes who just want to play, but they also happen to still be on a team with people like Sean Avery, who notoriously taunted Dustin Brown for having a lisp and being in a relationship with a woman who wasn't cute enough in his useless opinion.

These days Brown downplays the idea that it bothered him much. He did back then too, but the quotes weren't as fine-tuned, and so you get the sense that Avery was definitely an asshole to Brown but Brown chose to put his head down rather than ever retaliate or dwell on it much.

From ESPN:

"That's just Aves," Brown said. "When Aves was here, he was hard on me, but at least in the stuff that deals with me, people have made it out to be a lot worse than it was. He'd hassle me, but at the same time, he'd joke with me, too. I think some other people looked at it in a different manner than I did. He didn't really bug me.

"I played with him for three years. Sometimes he made it not fun, but at the same time, the more I got to know him on the personal level, the more I could know what he was all about and you kind of just deal with it. Obviously, lately he's been in the media and he's made out to be a lot worse than it was with me. In L.A., he did some things that were annoying, but it wasn't really hard to deal with. He thrives on reaction and I'm one of those guys who kind of didn't give him any reaction. He didn't like it, but he liked it at the same time."

He wasn't the only person who Avery gradually irritated. Avery was already on the hot seat for shenanigans prior to Lombardi's hiring, and then halfway through the 2006-07 season, Lombardi traded Avery to the New York Rangers. BYE, BULLY.

The nicest thing Lombardi could to think to say about Avery was that he'd made some improvements.

"Sometimes players just take a little time to mature. Sean's still young, hopefully he'll continue to do so. He's going to a big stage now. If he continues [to mature], he'll do just fine. From the summer, when I first got there, there wasn't much of a market for Sean Avery. He's made progress."

They got young prospects in the trade for Avery. The Kings still don't make the playoffs, but the rebuild has begun. The 2007-08 season isn't anything spectacular either, but the Kings do improve their regular season record and Dustin Brown and Anze Kopitar impress management by besting everyone else on the team in scoring.

Another notable thing here is that a series of coinciding injuries through the system sees Jonathan Quick go from starting in the ECHL to debuting in the AHL and then the NHL within the same month. December 6, 2007: The first time Brown, Kopitar, and Quick all play in the same game -- an 8-2 win over the Buffalo Sabres.

About 1:10 into the highlights you can check out the first appearance of a now-familiar Jon Quick glove save to rob an opponent at Staples Center:

In his post-game interview, Quick says, "I was just trying to have fun and enjoy it." Fun!

At the end of the 2007-08, the Kings fire Marc Crawford.

From the LA Times:

The Kings quietly cut Crawford loose Tuesday, two years and one month after saying they liked his "juice," General Manager Dean Lombardi's description of the energy Crawford displayed during his job interview.

That juice soured quickly, even for the Kings.

[...]

The Kings had more hope than skill and Crawford couldn't function under those circumstances, couldn't be patient with kids who were learning and making mistakes and needed a teacher more than they needed a screamer who demanded more than they were capable of delivering.

Why does Marc Crawford get fired? Because dude is too fucking mean. Lombardi's looking for a tough, defensive-minded coach who can mold young players, not holler at them. Crawford shows that's not his vibe. Peace.

This is highlighted when the new season starts up and Terry Murray's head coach. Reporters make him sound like a hippie in comparison.

Former LA Kings Insider Rich Hammond writes:

Want to know why this Kings team is different? There's a ping-pong table in the dressing room. The hand-eye coordination of ping-pong might help on the ice, but more important is the fact that the table is there in the first place. I have a hard time imagining that Marc Crawford ever would have allowed a ping-pong table in the room.

The mood in the dressing room seems decidedly more relaxed. Now, people can go around and around and debate the positives and negatives of having a "looser" dressing room, but the players seem much happier and at ease. Several have mentioned it without much prompting, as you've read in some of the interviews here. Watching practice, I've yet to see him yell at a player, never mind some of the cover-the-kids'-ears moments that used to take place with Crawford.

Here's the thing -- Crawford couldn't handle too many young players, and the Kings have decided to go all in on developing young talent at this point. Terry Murray's hiring coincides with the Kings naming Dustin Brown captain. At 23, Brown becomes the youngest player in franchise history to be captain. Kopitar and Matt Greene, who get the As, are also in their early 20s.

The entire leadership are a still a bunch of Bambis who have never been in leadership positions in the NHL. They don't have experience but they absorbed the philosophy Lombardi wants to be part of the Kings going forward and believe in it.

Brown, on taking the captaincy:

"The main thing here in L.A. is changing the culture of our team and making it a winning team," said Brown. "Once that happens, you'll see all the other stuff happening, especially in L.A. Playing in L.A. is great, but there's a lot of work to be done before we reap those benefits."

Murray on Brown:

That's a big change in his persona, from what I understand, from when he first came into this league. His contribution in the locker room is really good. He's got great awareness, has his finger on the pulse of the team as to how things are going off the ice, and on the ice, he's one of those guys who comes to play hard every day, every practice. That's what I love about him."

Robitaille on Brown:

"He came on board, and he was such a quiet kid, just playing the game and so forth. Now, he's taken on that leadership role. Last summer, he was out in the community everywhere and really has taken it upon himself to become this leader and take this team to another level. He's been part of this organization for a while and we haven't won much, and we wanted some changes, and he's been great."

There are some similarities to the way that Kopitar was talked about as he took on his new role.

"He's a clear-cut No. 1 center iceman in the league right now," says Coach Terry Murray, who succeeded Marc Crawford over the summer. "As we just get through this process of pushing younger guys to the next level, we're going to see a fantastic hockey player come out of this whole thing."

Kopitar has been lauded for his mixture of size, skill and speed, but Murray has been equally impressed by his vision on the ice, his leadership and maturity. Murray has a hard time believing Kopitar recently turned 21.

"He cares about people," Murray says. "You can tell that just by the way he handles himself, the questions he asks."

Brown has his finger on the pulse on the team's needs off-ice. Kopitar cares about people! They also work really hard. What's that? Dean Lombardi planting the seeds for a culture of winning by way of establishing a culture of caring.

The Kings had also drafted Drew Doughty over the summer, and he made the roster right away. Jonathan Quick didn't start the season with the Kings, but he gets called up after Jason Labarbera's traded in December and clings to the starter position in a way no one really expects since Bernier is around. (Part of that is that Lombardi felt Bernier was pouty about not getting called right away while Quick showed a relentless work ethic at all levels.) The Kings team finally starts to seem like they have a young core developing. The Kings still don't make the postseason, but Lombardi assures fans that the team is on the right track. Why? They've been working on establishing the right culture.

In a 2009 open letter to Kings fans:

There are numerous other benchmarks that measure the game within the game that signify the hope and direction that this group of young players provides. However, the most significant touchstone that inspires my beliefs comes from those signs that are not visible to even the trained eye. I am convinced that all great sports franchises must develop a soul. The soul of a franchise is its identity. It springs from the well inside each athlete learning to bury his ego and direct his energy toward caring about his teammates and the achievement of their common goal. While the salary-cap era has changed the inner dynamics of the team and the building process, I am convinced that this intangible remains the hallmark of great franchises. Once this culture is established, it has the ability to transcend generations and provide a template for what it means "to be a King." This sentiment is a powerful ally that instills in every player who wears the Kings Crown a unique brand of excellence that continually cultivates meaningful greatness.

At times during this past season, I have witnessed what I believe is the emergence of these ideals. During the high points, I never saw a player seek attribution or credit in order to pad his ego. Additionally, when we experienced failure and disappointment the temptation to assign blame never reared its divisive head. In short, I could sense this group of players care--which is a critical step. For only when an athlete truly cares about his team can he learn to push himself to the bounds of his ability and thereby become a true teammate. When 23 men excel as teammates, an identity will emerge and the "Los Angeles Kings" will immediately emit emotions of pride and excellence.

Emphasis mine.

Terry Murray starts Quick right out of training camp the next season, and he racks up 39 wins in 72 games played. Kopitar tops his previous best season by getting 34 goals and 81 points. Drew Doughty is a Norris trophy finalist. Brown, Johnson, Quick, and Michal Handzus all play for their countries in the Olympics. The Kings make it the Stanley Cup Playoffs for the first time since 2001-02.

They lose to the Vancouver Canucks in six games, but everybody sees it as a necessary step in the process. The older players who were acquired commend younger players, and Brown shows that the club believes there's something to learn from losing.

"That's just part of the process," Brown said. "Sometimes you have to go through tough times like this before you can get to the next level."

Now that every guy on the LA roster has experienced the playoff atmosphere, they're determined to improve as a unit.

The club has been very patient with its prospects since Lombardi's arrival during the spring of 2006, and Murray says that no one's itching to press players into action.

Murray also likes the tone in the dressing room.

"We're seeing a great step forward by these young guys who have been drafted into the organization," he said. "The elevation of the pace has been dramatic by these young guys. I love the feeling of our team in the locker room, and the way they work together and stick together."

Let's gloss over the 2010-11 season, because it's more of the same in terms of the Kings process. One thing to note is that this is when the Kings acquire Dustin Penner. Though they had already acquired Justin Williams, Penner's addition to the Kings followed by Mike Richards in the summer, and then of course Jeff Carter in 2012 is what makes people really notice and then start reporting on another element to Lombardi's philosophy. Yes, he's really into molding young talent, especially talent that he thinks goes overlooked, and then encouraging them to band together, but he also has a penchant for finding guys who've worn out their welcome, whether in production or narrative or both, and then give them an opportunity to reinvent themselves.

Here's why Lombardi was convinced he'd made the right choice in the Richards trade, in addition to needing to fill a hole at second-line center:

"The kid was emotional about being traded, but it's my experience that if you've got a guy that's excited about being traded, generally that's not the guy you want. You want the guy that wears the jersey on his sleeve, his heart on his sleeve. I know this had to be hard on him. Very few players today will ever commit to a contract like he did, for that term, showing his loyalty. If we can get that here in L.A., that's exactly what we need. You've heard me talk about culture. This guy fits in that (Kyle) Clifford mode, that culture-changer.

Lombardi wants the guy that cares. Matt Greene had similarly talked about being upset and feeling really hurt when Edmonton traded him. Greene was vocal about changing the way he looked at his own summer trade, focusing on the fact that the Kings wanted him rather than the idea that Oilers didn't. Management and coaches gave Greene the A that fall. When Greene has been out of the Kings lineup with injury, Richards (who of course is a former captain) often gets the A for the Kings. Lombardi wants the guys that get upset.

When Carter was traded, he gave folks another glimpse into his feelings about nurturing young athletes (or the general lack thereof):

"How many of us are in a position to throw stones? We just never were celebrities enough, to where people wanted to take pictures of us. I do think that, given our culture with TMZ and things, I think stuff can get a little exaggerated. That said, I do think that athletes and professionals all go through a phase like we did in college. You've got to grow up and learn from it. They're no different from anybody else at a young age. Just because they're great athletes doesn't mean that, all of a sudden, they're not human beings. I think we have to recognize that, particularly in today's day and age, when we give them so much so early, that there's a growth process here that doesn't start as soon as you give a kid $50 million. It actually hurts that process. You're just hoping that these are good people that were brought up the right way and that, just like all of us, when we were at that stage of our lives, we weren't exactly all choir boys. So I think some of it as exaggerated. Knowing these kids as people, deep down I think they are your classic Canadian boys who will dream of winning the Stanley Cup. That will never leave them. Get some stuff out of your system and get back on track. You're banking on what's deeply inside of them, and they can get sidetracked like any young person. That's my speech on human nature, but I firmly believe it."

He did it again about a month later, as the Kings were fighting to hold on to a playoff spot and live up to preseason expectations that they'd be a big contender for the 2011-12 season.

"Tom Landry said, 'you have to convince an athlete to do what he doesn't want to do so he can become what he really wants to become.' He was right. We keep throwing all these temptations out there at our athletes: money, flattery, the media, all this stuff. But, like Landry said, deep down, the athlete wants to be a winner. It's just getting harder and harder to get to his soul," said Lombardi.

In order for an athlete to give an organization both his heart and soul, Lombardi believes you must foster an environment where the athletes take ownership in the team. Lombardi knows that a player is more likely to put everything on the line for his teammate than he is for his boss. That's why Lombardi brought the Kings core -- players like Anze Kopitar, Dustin Brown, Jonathan Quick and Drew Doughty -- together as youngsters and allowed them to mature together.

Lombardi believes that once a team begins winning, the culture of success perpetuates itself. Especially when a team learns how to win together and takes accountability for its own success.

"Once your players feel they own the team, you've got it," said Lombardi, who has no trouble citing examples of teams that have instilled a winning culture from the inside out.

Team "Get to His Soul"!

Since Lombardi's arrival in 2006, there've been various mentions about how he tends to tell people he wants players so onboard with the franchise that they'd get the Kings logo tattooed on their butts. The "play for the guy next to you" philosophy is a big one in sports, and it runs deep in the Kings locker room these days. Every player acquired talks about how a number of Kings players reach out as soon as they hear the news. This includes Richards. This includes Carter, who's excelled with the Kings since he showed up. This includes, most recently, Marian Gaborik, who had a number of critics for being injury prone but has been a huge addition for the Kings so far and seemed to fit in well really quickly.

"I think it's a byproduct of our team atmosphere actually, in the sense that it's similar to when we traded for Carts," captain Dustin Brown said. "[Gaborik] fit right in very quickly and that's a result of the type of room we have and the type of players we have, where a guy can come in and feel pretty comfortable right away. A lot of times, if he feels comfortable off the ice, the on-ice stuff takes care of itself."

This echoes something that Mike Richards said specifically about Carter in 2013, when asked about why Carter had been playing so well.

"He's a guy, not only as a player, who likes to feel comfortable in his surroundings," said Richards, who played with Carter in Philadelphia. "When you're not like that, it's just not the same. Now he's feeling comfortable, after coming to a new team, getting to know everybody, getting to know the surroundings."

If you care about a guy and make him feel comfortable, he'll perform. That's what coming to LA is about.

Justin Williams is pretty much constantly talking about how much the Kings locker room believes in one another. He infamously closed the locker room door before Game 6 of the 2012 Stanley Cup Final to share some words with only his teammates.

Penner: There was a lot more tension from the fans and even from inside the locker room.

Williams: I was pacing around before the game, wondering if I was gonna say something.

Kopitar: Justin Williams closed the door and kinda gathered everybody around.

Williams: I just told everyone how much they meant to me, that I didn't want anyone to have any regrets about the game, and I wanted to remember each one of them as champions.

Lewis: I think his speech really made us have that good start.

And it would be wrong to think that the Kings' current coach, Darryl Sutter, doesn't fit into that model. Terry Murrary was brought on to shape a young core and really spread the hard-working but supportive and fun philosophy that Lombardi said would help turn the Kings into contenders. In the middle of 2011-12, Lombardi had to make a choice about the Kings' game and whether or not they'd plateaued under Murray. He decided to replace him with Sutter.

Some people, and by some people, I especially mean Noted Kings Doubter Scott Burnside thought hiring Sutter was "a lateral move at best."

Here's what Darryl Sutter said when he was first hired:

"I think X and O this team is as good as there is in the game. One thing that hasn't changed in this game ... it's men playing a boys' game and there is some emotion involved and I think that's what I have to get out of them."

It was still about emotion for Sutter (and Lombardi), sure, but leveraging it in a different way. Sutter is a tougher coach than Murray, but not in a Crawford way. He's not a guy who players talk about yelling all the time, but he will bait players to get the reaction he wants. Sometimes he does this by letting his players make fun of him, sometimes that's by sitting them, and sometimes it's by slipping in little digs to push their buttons at the right moment. It was a big part of how he motivated the Calgary Flames while he coached them, and he does the same with Kings players.

The aw-shucks demeanor aside, players say he's got a sarcastic streak. Nothing mean, nothing personal.

"He'll just say: 'Is this game too hard for you tonight?'" said Williams. "Just to get you angry. He knows what makes hockey players angry.

"He holds the players to a standard that he thinks we should be at all the time. He knows the right time to be relaxed. He knows the right time when the team is feeling good about themselves and he brings us down a little bit. He just makes sure and pushes the buttons to make sure we're ready."

[...]

But there's more to it than that. Kings GM Dean Lombardi -- no relation to the Leaf player -- remembers a point about 20 games into Sutter's tenure when things didn't really look much better. The Kings still had trouble scoring.

"He blamed himself," Dean Lombardi said of Sutter. "He said he should have seen this sooner. He showed me what he was going to do on the board, the changes he was going to make systematically.

"It was just really, a guy with his experience, he's beating himself up: 'This is my fault. It should have never got this far. We've got to make this adjustment.' I found it amazing he was blaming himself."

[...]

And as a motivator, there's no one like Sutter, says Kings captain Dustin Brown.

"He made sure we're attached to the games, getting into it from an emotional standpoint," said Brown. "It's hard to play game 55 of the regular season if you're not emotionally attached to it.

"He's an honest guy. If you're playing like crap, he's going to tell you. If you're playing good, he'll pat you on the back.

"Anyone can respect that. That's why players play for him."

From Dustin Penner, just before the 2012 SCF:

"He brings a passion, an intensity that I haven't seen before from a coach," said Dustin Penner. "I'm sure a lot of them have it intrinsically, but he wears his emotions and his heart on his sleeve. You can tell that he really cares about his players. He doesn't ask anything of his players that he doesn't ask of himself."

Yep, there it is again. He really cares. The players definitely know it. The mumbling and other shenanigans Sutter does during pressers -- everyone knows it's largely intentional, to take away attention from the players. Reporters know it, fans know it, and the players know it.

"We watched his game 5 post game presser. It was one of the better ones. He protects us very well. He's actually quite funny." Stoll
— Jason Gregor (@JasonGregor) May 1, 2014

Crank up the "High School Musical" soundtracks, because they're all in this together!

Look, I could go on forever about the quotes these people give about each other, about this franchise pretty much constantly. I, in fact, already have. AT CRAZY LENGTH. So I will leave you with a couple final things.

First: while the Kings were defending their championship title in 2013, Lombardi was asked if anything had changed for him now that the Kings had won a Stanley Cup. That was the ultimate goal, right? So, what now? What changes? Does anything?

From the get-go, Lombardi preached that players had to be "character guys," in addition to being skilled, or having other desired attributes. This was another point in Lombardi's plan that raised the hackles of detractors who believed it did not matter if a player was a cancer in the dressing room as long he was a skilled player.

But again, Lombardi has proven the naysayers to be wrong, as character and culture proved to be major factors in the Kings' success last season.

"I think our values and the culture we established really became paramount," said Lombardi. "That's never going to change. It's about team, it's about each other. That part I do know has to stay in place."

This remains true. The Kings continue to be a team that refuses to turn on each other during slumps. They still constantly talk about playing for the guy next to them. They still do things like have secret Halloween costume parties and Christmas pajama parties for the whole team, totally separate from anything organized by the franchise.

When the Kings recently went down 3-0 in the round one series vs the San Jose Sharks, everyone had the same kind of quotes. Early on, there was Sutter, saying that the Kings wouldn't go quietly to the public but saying something a little bolder to Lombardi.

Lombardi was asked what he thought when the Kings trailed 3-0 in the series against his old franchise, the Sharks. Sutter also was his coach in San Jose when Lombardi was GM there.

"We all know Darryl well enough to know that he's not going to tell you anything just to pump you up," Lombardi said. "It's about what he believes. I remember him with that steely stare.

"He said, 'I can guarantee you one thing: We're not going quietly.' He looked at me and said, 'We can still win this thing.'"

After they pulled off the comeback, Dustin Brown said this:

"I think it shows what type of team we have in here. Whether its fans or media or whoever, sometimes it doesn't always look very bright but -- unfortunately found ways to dig ourselves into a hole -- but we always find a way to climb on each others' backs and climb out. At the end of the day, that's what it's all about with this team."

The Kings went from a team used to losing, almost unfazed by it, to a team that doesn't ever think they won't find a way to turn it around. The reason they always think that is because, when shit gets hard, they remind themselves that they care about each other and believe in the other guys in the room.

Oh, yeah, and it may not be on the butt, but Jonathan Quick got that Kings tattoo.

My little wannabe serial killer

gigantic — Sun, 06 Oct 2013 18:47:23 GMT

Because yesterday impertinence and I got into a conversation on Twitter about Mike Richards' cray tendencies, and it went to a place. So, FOR POSTERITY --

gigantic: "Mike Richards gets feisty" is the story of his life . [tumblr link]

imp: love carter being like "oh shit" and also richards being totally insane AS ALWAYS

gigantic: Carter prob thought Richie was behind him too, then realizes late, like, of course this fucking psycho is in someone's face.

imp: ......now i'm at a pet sociopath place T H A N K S

gigantic: :D YOU'RE WELCOME :D Jeff loves Mike but Mike only likes Jeff because he's a sociopath.

imp: "let me just kill this guy -" "NO"

imp: "IT'S CREEPY HOW YOU TALK ABOUT KILLING PEOPLE YOU DON'T LIKE MIKE IS THERE SOMETHING YOU NEED TO TELL ME"

gigantic: That's why Jeff disappeared for days post-trade, because it was the closest he came to telling Richie to do what he wanted.

imp: sometimes jeff will pin richie's hands and just breathe into his shoulder, because what richie wants to do is in his eyes

gigantic: YEAH. It's why they lived together in Philly at first. Richie told Jeff how he feels, and Jeff had to help him w/ boundaries.

gigantic: "We spent almost everyday together" Mike said, but because Jeff needed to remind him about how most people handle things.

imp: Richie will get in bar fights sometimes, in more anonymous places, and Jeff always has to pull him back before he goes too far

gigantic: pic.twitter.com/YZ6FRNdAIj Hunting weapons for good behavior. #NAUGHTYORNICE

imp: and a knife Richie doesn't tell anyone about, because it's only for using, very occasionally, on Jeff

gigantic: And one time Jeff asked him how he would do it, if he ever got to, and he told Richie he could demonstrate on him.

imp: Richie got a LOOK & said "Maybe later," & sometimes he'll tell him bits of it, just parts, trailing the knife over Jeff's skin

gigantic: "But you don't want it to hurt." "Just -- don't do too much."

imp: Y E S just thin, shallow cuts all over Jeff

gigantic: When Mike is in LA but Jeff is in Columbus, Jeff always asks how he is and a lot of times he means has Richie killed somebody.

gigantic: Esp when he gets the concussion in Dec. But Richie's like, "I'm too fucking dizzy to do anything." He thinks about it though.

imp: He thinks about it constantly, and when he sees Richie again for the first time, Jeff is honestly a little scared of him.

imp: More than usual, without the same level of trust. He's terrified. But Richie just fucks him and doesn't say anything off at all

gigantic: Having Jeff back renews the urge to kill everyone who took him away on top of months of thinking of doing things to guys he's been playing against while in LA. And he thinks maybe if Jeff hadn't come back he would've slipped, and he hates that he kinda wishes he had because he knows how upset that would make Jeff. But Jeff is here now, so. Jeff'll keep him okay.

imp: Jeff makes the urge a little less pleasant, and if he threatened Lombardi's kids to get him to LA, no one has to know.

gigantic: Which is more satisfying for Mike? Winning the Cup or killing somebody? - question Jeff has but also never wants the answer to

imp: Jeff certainly hasn't told anybody on how he gets off on it, a lot, being the person standing between Mike and the world

gigantic: Mike kinda knows, though, from how he fucks him instead of killing people but tells Jeff how he'd do it if Jeff said it was okay.

imp: Sometimes Mike looks down at Jeff, red lines on his chest and his eyes closed, face screwed up like he's in pain, and he's glad he holds back, because he gets this. And it's satisfying, knowing Jeff likes this. With him.

gigantic: Mike isn't stupid. He knows it's lucky Jeff sticks around. Whether Jeff's just his own type of crazy or whatever, Mike's glad.

imp: Mike stays up late sometimes, watching Jeff, thinking about all the people he'd kill for him, about how much Jeff trusts him. And how much Jeff doesn't trust him.

gigantic: How much Jeff still doesn't trust him is why Mike never actually says he'd kill everyone for Jeff if he had to.

imp: Jeff shouldn't trust him, really, because if someone was hurting Jeff, no amount of asking would keep Richie from killing them.

gigantic: And why he regrets saying yes when Jeff asked if Mike ever imagined killing him when they were 19. Look, it was different then.

imp: Now Mike still thinks about it, but - in a different way.

gigantic: Before, Mike didn't know if he wanted to fuck Jeff or murder him. Now, no one can hurt Jeff, but if any one did, it'd be him.

imp: Mike thinks about killing him if he needs it, if he asks for it, using the knife Jeff gave him without meeting his eyes.

imp: And if he sometimes wonders what he'll be like if Jeff dies first, well. Jeff doesn't need to know about that.

gigantic: RIP so many men who look like Jeff if Jeff dies first.

imp: IT'S THEIR FAULT, NONE OF THEM ARE GOOD ENOUGH TO STOP HIM

gigantic: Mike thinks about it a lot. Who else'll know to lie on him when it's real bad? Crowd him so much he can only focus on breathing?

imp: Who else will look at him with this happy, intense HOPE, like Richie can restrain himself, like he doesn't really need Jeff?

gigantic: Most of the time Jeff makes him feel like he could be like everybody else!

gigantic: He can love Jeff and be ordinary, maybe one day, and then someone hits Jeff in the mouth with a puck in Detroit.

imp: It's just something that happens in a game, really, and that doesn't stop Richie from wanting to kill him. Thinking about it.

gigantic: Jeff didn't even lose any teeth he hadn't lost before. But it still made Jeff bleed, and Richie can't. stop. thinking about it.

imp: He's pissed and wants to hurt someone, make them REALLY hurt, and he's also pissed someone caused that and it wasn't him.

gigantic: Jeff says "Didn't know teeth were part of your thing" letting Richie examine his face but it's not that. It's that it's Jeff. Richie doesn't know how he still doesn't always get that.

imp: He thinks maybe if he phrased it differently, but he's said it every way he knows how. Jeff just doesn't get it sometimes. Richie thinks about killing people in really specific ways, but not Jeff. Jeff all bloodied up is different, more private. And Jeff all bloodied up should be HIS, god damn it.

gigantic: Yeah! He's so angry. And it happened TO Jeff, but Jeff isn't even mad anymore, which is part of the whole issue. Jeff is so OKAY with most things, eventually, and nobody should ruin him. Only Richie should get to, and he won't even, okay.

gigantic: (Jeff definitely thinks this is sweet.)

imp: Richie won't ever kill him, really. Probably. He just wants the possibility, because it means Jeff's his, always, to keep.

imp: And Jeff jerks it to Richie being dangerous.

Start and Start (Mike Richards/Jeff Carter, R)

gigantic — Sun, 05 May 2013 18:42:57 GMT

Just posting some stuff here, since LJ is technically still the only place I have all of my fic stored or linked:

Start and Start
by Charli J.
Mike Richards/Jeff Carter. 3500 words. R.
Jeff has always brought out a little more impulse in Mike.

( Read on AO3 )

Plus, something I posted a week or so ago but forgot to put here:

We Could Hardly Contain
by Charli J.
Jeff Carter/Mike Richards/Jonathan Quick. 3500 words. Explicit.
After the Dallas game, Quick, Richie, and Carts have to work through the adrenaline.

( Read on AO3 )

Patterned Like (Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews, PG)

gigantic — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 04:27:06 GMT

In case you missed it on AO3 this morning and, like, might care? Idk, idk --

Patterned Like
Kane/Toews. PG. 2000 words.
Patrick's not so rudely awakened.

Note: I know everybody and the Chicago Tribune is writing their hotel stories right now, but whatever. insunshine asked for a thing.

( Read on AO3 )

Return the Favor (Jeff Skinner/Tyler Seguin, NC17)

gigantic — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 19:34:15 GMT

Oh, look, some porn I wrote:

Return the Favor
by Charli J
Hockey RPF. Jeff Skinner/Tyler Seguin.
Explicit. 4000 words. For insunshine.
The most outrageous part of Jeff's sex life is Tyler.

( Read on AO3 )

Should be tied (Bieber/Usher not-fic, R)

gigantic — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 03:24:00 GMT

Against my better judgment, I let some people on Tumblr convince me to publicly share how I'm a terrible Usher/Justin Bieber shipper, because I mean. I mean, GOD, LOOK AT THIS --

Anyway, I went on to paitac in email about it in 2011. I thought it was just a few emails, but it turns out I lost my mind for like a week, and THIS IS NOT A FIC, but it's also 14,000 words, which means I have to break up the posts, so I gave it a title? But it's not a fic. It's super not! I would've put, like, way more work into it.

Should be tied
Justin Bieber/Usher. 14,000 words. R.
Justin comes to stay with Usher when they both have a few days off.
WARNING: BIEBER IS 16 BECAUSE I WROTE ALL OF THIS WHEN HE WAS 16.

Justin is more than a little awed by Usher in the beginning. It's easy to assume his attraction has to do with the fact that he still hasn't gotten over how someone like Usher genuinely thinks he can sing -- that he's talented. It's absolutely that kind of excited attraction people just get around celebrities, right? It has to be. That must happen with other people all the time. That's just how it is when people get around famous artists they admire.

But then it's been two or three years, and he still feels pretty awed by Usher for different reasons. He knows first hand that Usher is well-meaning, attentive, and dedicated to helping the people around him -- like Justin! -- succeed. They've seen a lot of success come out of their friendship, and Usher never talks down to him or treats him like he's "just a teenager," has always treated Justin like an equal, and Justin feels comfortable confiding in Usher, and if he's attracted to Usher now, it's because of how he's a great musician and a great person. Justin's attracted to people he wants to model himself after.

From what Justin knows, Usher loves his kids, and he really loved his wife, and he even told Justin a little about how heartbreaking that whole situation was, how it feels like you have everything together, and then one day you start thinking of that whole period as a time when you'd actually lost your head.

Justin -- Justin's never even been in love, not yet, but he thinks he gets it. He gets how important friendship is, even if he's a lot younger, and maybe Usher wants to be around people who can relate directly or something, but he never seems to act like that, like Justin's not on the level. A lot of Usher's crew are people Justin considers part of his own circle these days, and Justin has been to Usher's house plenty, and their families know each other. They've worked together countless times. It's no big deal if Justin spends a lot of time with Usher, or if he heads to his place in Atlanta to take a load off after tour instead of just going straight home.

They don't live that far from one another, really, in Atlanta, but it's still different, feels freer somehow, even more adult than he already does half the time, working so much. It's relaxing, easy -- killing time, bouncing around ideas, unwinding. Usher's still pretty busy, actually. He's planning performances, in and out of the house, but he's around enough that Justin doesn't feel like he's imposing by staying over or taking up space for no reason. Even with so much time spent busy and surrounded by people, Usher can still manage to come home at night with enough will to hang out for a while.

The kids are with Tameka, so it's really just them some nights, and it's all easy, fun. Justin feels good, feels independent, and he lets that easiness carry him through each day. He doesn't worry about going home too soon. He eats, laughs, plays basketball, and spends time with Usher in his place, lets himself kiss Usher in the garage while they're talking about how Usher wants to buy motorbikes or something. He doesn't even know the first thing about riding or going off-roading or any of that, not really, but it seems like the kind of vacation he's into these days. Could be fun. So it's not even an obvious lead in, doesn't have to happen, but Justin feels confident, relaxed and welcomed, like he can do whatever, and then his mouth is touching Usher's and his heart thuds as a chill spikes through his stomach.

"Hey, J. Hey. Justin -- hold on," Usher says, voice laced with surprise.

When he speaks to Justin usually, it's always with a brightness, the words pressed through a smile. He sounds cautious now, and Justin's eyelids flutter, unsure of where this is going now, or if he wants to see.

"Sorry --"

"Don't apologize." Usher's firmer about that. "You don't have to."

Justin feels overwhelmed again, like the beginning, like always, but he's never been this kind of nervous about it. He touches Usher, thinks better of it a second too late and can't figure out how to pull back without looking scolded. Usher doesn't flinch.

Justin thinks he probably should have thought this out more. He hadn't expected to go for anything, though. He says, "I don't know what else to say."

"It's… fine. It's just -- if it's just an accident."

"Well, I, uh," Justin says, because it kind of had been -- not enough. It wasn't unintentional enough, he knows, because he's too aware of the pads of his fingers on Usher's skin. He's still anxious standing in front of him, breathing deliberate, trying to stay normal. "Probably."

Usher's brow furrows, either not understanding or unsure of what move to make. He hasn't tensed up yet. Still. It's a confusing kind of calm, and Justin has to push up on his feet to get closer to him -- slowly, slowly.

He somehow didn't think about it during the first attempt to close in, but he feels every single inch of empty space now. They're too far away, this move is too obvious, and then the gap is completely gone, lips brushing again. Justin flexes his fingers, curls them against skin and the sleeve of Usher's shirt.

Usher parts his lips to do -- maybe to say something, but Justin stumbles a little. Usher catches him at his side, steadying him, and without words, it's just reciprocating a kiss -- once, and then again, and then again, the small sounds of it amplified in a quiet space.

Justin's used to rolling with it. That's what he's done for the last few years, so he sticks to what he knows now, except this is also totally surprising for once, because well. Well.

But it doesn't even go farther than kissing at first. Justin's testing this whole new territory, but Usher stops things. He's responsible, and this is -- what is this?

"It's an accident," Usher repeats. It doesn't have to be a problem.

So he stops it, but he doesn't even pretend to scold Justin. That's not how they work. That's not the kind of influence Usher's ever wanted to have on Justin, and luckily it's not starting now. They're friends.

;;

Justin continues to spend time at Usher's place, unwinding, and they hang out in Usher's home studio. They listen to some of the material Usher's been working on and start to work out a new track of their own that may or may not ever become anything. It's normal. It's as ordinary as creating music can ever really get, the two of them taking turns in the booth.

Justin laughs in the middle of a few takes, because Usher keeps dancing every time he starts the cut over for Justin, saying things in between like, "Aww, you gotta groove on it. You gotta jam it out to make it feel right."

He demonstrates while Justin sings, unheard through the glass while the music's on but mouthing along with every word.

He holds out his hand for a low five when Justin steps out, and then there's that tense moment when somebody misses a cue, when Justin doesn't immediately sit down, where Usher then doesn't immediately go into the booth for his next pass, and Justin reaches out again, unsure of what he's intending, but his fingers skim Usher's forearm and catch his side.

Justin's fingers feel a suggestion of muscle through Usher's t-shirt, for a second, and then Usher's hands come up. He sets them on Justin's shoulders, holding him off. When Justin moves again, Usher flips them around, not really pushing Justin, but still setting them apart, until there's no where to go. Justin's back is against the wall.

Usher looks at him, expression inscrutable, and Justin touches Usher's wrist but doesn't try to move the hands on his shoulders. Instead, he rolls them, and there's a slight give, enough to make him try a little more, hunching close, tipping forward to get nearer, to tilt his chin up, and get -- somewhere, get there, touch their mouths together, part his lips, and not even breathe for a moment, because what if -- what if Usher doesn't -- but he does, finally, finally. He kisses back. He changes the angle of his head, and Justin almost feels awkward about making even a small sound then, a soft, surprised reaction, because it feels like there's been nothing but silence for so long somehow, and he disrupts it briefly, but Usher doesn't pull away, thank goodness, which might also be a strange sentiment here, to feel relief at that, but Justin does.

He touches Usher's sides again, barely, fingernails poised along Usher ribs through fabric and slipping lower. The back of Justin's hand slides over Usher's stomach, feeling the muscles jump there, a little, maybe, and Usher does freeze then, but he doesn't move back as Justin's knuckles bump across his belt.

He still doesn't have any specific aims, just thinks about what he's seen in movies, what he's imagined someone might do with him. Their lips come apart as Usher touches his forehead to Justin's, inhaling. Justin braces his fingers on the front of Usher's belt, tugging, and everything is quiet -- steady. Justin's not sure what to do but continue, so he does, undoing the buckle without looking, eyes closed.

He breathes kind of shallowly with his mouth so close to Usher's.

He presses a thumb over the button of Usher's jeans when the belt's loose, undoing that too and folding his fingers over the waistband of Usher's underwear, feeling the ridge of Usher's hip bones against the back of his fingers.

He flexes them once, and then Usher touches Justin's face, pausing, and it's not exactly a kiss when their mouths brush again, but Usher's still not retreating, not getting upset, at least not the way Justin expects. His pulse is a heavy thud in him, and he's so near to -- there's just skin now, as Justin pushes his hands down more, flips them to flatten the pads of his fingers against Usher's hips. Justin lowers his head to see what that looks like. Usher presses his face to the top of Justin's head as he looks, sees his hands in Usher's pants up to his wrists.

It's when Justin starts to push the fabric down that Usher finally breathes, "J, J, J..." hollowly, the only suggestion of a warning.

But Justin wouldn't know how to come back from this as it is, so he waits a moment, until there's quiet again, and then keeps going, pushing down. He slips one hand to the side and sees the underwear dip low, sees Usher's dick as he gets a hand over it. Usher's own touch changes, becomes more deliberate, tilting Justin's face up enough to kiss his temple.

It's not -- that isn't what Justin wants though, not when Usher's half-hard in Justin's hand, so he moves to get their mouths aligned again, and Usher drops to close the half-second of space between them, kissing Justin again, and that's the thing that throws the whole scenario into stark relief for Justin, that it's just them here, and he's kissing Usher -- kissing, and Justin's so hard, because the grip isn't ideal, but he's jerking Usher off in his studio.

He's imagined a lot of things, mostly about his career and how things could continue to change for him, even now, and how Usher would be around to support him through all of it, because he believes in Justin. So he's become used to imagining Usher there, for so much, and he once had this lame dream, where he and Usher were out, nondescript version of places they've really been, and Usher kept Justin with him, and things were different.

In the dream, Usher never broke off to pull some beautiful woman along by the hand. He just stayed at Justin's side, even when they were sitting finally, watching something -- on TV? a movie? a show? -- it hadn't been clear enough, but Usher's hand on his hip was. The way it made Justin shiver a little, when his fingers skidded underneath the hem of his shirt, catching skin, unthinking -- that was vivid.

Justin remembers that well. He remembers how it felt every time Usher would lean in to whisper something to him, laughing, so near a few times that Justin felt the shape of his smile against his cheek before Usher pulled back all the way. And it was the rush of being out, being around people he admired, who thought Justin had something worthwhile.

Or maybe it was about something different, closer to what he feels standing in the middle of this studio now, because now he's got that same feeling in him that he got in the dream, that he's gotten actually being out with Usher, warm and twisting in his stomach. It's heavier now, coiling tighter in Justin, and he keeps stroking, feeling himself gravitate closer as Usher's mouth grazes along his jaw, shaped differently than how he'd dreamed it might feel there, breath fanning out.

Usher still has his hands on Justin's face mostly, thumb pushing back and forth across the skin below Justin's left ear. When he finally moves one arm, it's to wrap his fingers around Justin's on his dick, squeezing tighter, showing him. Justin groans at the shock of it, seeing Usher's fingers around his and taking in the weighty absence of Usher's hands elsewhere, because he's touched Justin's fingers, shoulders, and face, and nothing more, and Justin wants him to so much right then -- anywhere, anywhere else.

But Usher doesn't. He keeps his hands to steady places, moving to Justin's arm when he lets Justin's fingers continue on their own. He only touches somewhere new when he comes, finally, bested by a few short moans as he gets there. He kisses Justin one more time, slipping his fingers over the ridge of Justin's collar bone, dipping under the edge of his t-shirt and out and down again, and Usher steps back, pulls his underwear and pants up as he finds a chair and sits. He rubs his hands over his face, dropping his head back and exhaling, and Justin doesn't know what to think about that, what it means that Usher's there while Justin's got come on his fingers, hard in his jeans and frozen to the spot.

Usher zips his pants up, buttons them. He doesn't redo the belt, and when he looks at Justin, he looks worn at the edges, severe but not angry.

Justin wipes his hand on his own thigh, swallowing hard.

"Are you, uh --" Usher asks but then stops, dropping his head down, and then exhales. The silence that swells then is enough to make Justin start to feel nervous, but Usher just sound normal when he speaks again, voice slightly rough. "We should eat something, right? Let me go see what we have in here."

His eyes go to Justin's hand when he flutter it a little, fingers clenching against his jeans, and Justin can see Usher's eyes slide the couple inches over, directly at Justin's fly, and it's probably obvious. It's probably so obvious that he's still hard, feeling like the knot in his stomach just gets bigger and bigger. "I'll, um -- let me find something."

Usher gets up, leaving.

Justin turns his head to track his movements, watches him step out. He doesn't follow. He hangs back, stuck inside the silence. The padding on the wall doesn't make sliding to the floor easy, but he lets himself drop down, breathing quick. He curves his hands over his knees, exhaling deliberately, and Usher doesn't come back, so he undoes his own pants and reaches to fix his situation.

;;

“What’re you thinking about?”

Justin taps his index finger against the table, centering his thoughts with that sound. Trying to. He says, “About downstairs…”

He could lie, but there’s no point. Usher doesn't look like he expected anything else anyway. He asks, “Are you embarrassed?”

“I don’t know,” Justin says. “Should I — I don’t know.”

“You can be straight with me,” Usher says. “That’s all the time. That doesn’t change.”

“Are you embarrassed?” Justin asks. “Or mad? I can. If I should be getting stuff together to —”

Usher says, “No, no. It doesn’t matter if I’m good.”

But that doesn’t really sound right to Justin. It matters to him, he thinks. He needs to know, because he’s trying to figure out what having dinner now means, after that, and he doesn’t really have any ideas. He says, “But if I’m honest with you, then… Trade.”

Usher looks up, like he’s considering something. He runs a hand over his head, bowing it, and when he looks up again, he rests his elbows on the table, folding his hands. Justin can see his eyes over his fingers, most of Usher’s expression hidden. He says, exhaling, “I should be telling you it was a mistake. That we can’t. I can’t —”

“You’re not going to?” Justin says.

After a pause, Usher says, “I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

Justin bites at his food a little roughly, leg restless in his chair. He says, “Say whatever, then.”

The corner of Usher’s mouth lifts once, a laugh that gets tempered right away. He’s still weighing things carefully, Justin can sense that much. He feels like he’ll never be able to sit still.

“I am embarrassed,” Usher says with his mouth stretching. Justin can’t quite figure out if it's supposed to a smile or wince. “I’m not mad. Definitely not mad.”

"Okay," Justin says. He nods. "I was worried."

But it's sort of reassuring to know that Usher is, possibly, just as out of sorts as he is here. Maybe this whole thing is weird, but he's not the only one unable to categorize how to respond to it.

It might not be solved, but Usher does throw his arm around Justin later, the way he's done a thousand times. Though being in close proximity feels different now, doesn't it? If Justin notices, then Usher has to as well.

Justin's aware of how easy it is to tilt his head up now, and so he does, pressing his mouth against Usher's, both their smiles freezing on whatever made them laugh last.

"You know what you're doing here?" Usher says, like they're just talking about music or picking photos or something. It sounds almost the same, Usher telling Justin to always choose for himself and then to stick to it, because that's the what makes people realize you have opinions about what works for you and are serious about them.

And he's not -- he's not sure, sure of anything here, okay, but he says, "You don't have to remind me. You know..."

He starts to rethink speaking up at all when the pause in his words drags out a beat too long. Then Usher's nose touches his, and Justin inhales, like air expanding in his chest is what he needs to bring them right against one another, like they weren't already there, and this many times has to say something, right? If they've ended up in this position -- Usher's mouth on his, kissing in different rooms, it has to mean something. Right?

Justin feels like it means something. He feels like he's established something about what he wants here and completely remixed how exciting it is whenever he gets to spend time around Usher. A lot of what they're doing is all new and shaky and tense, but then it's also suddenly awesome too. He's kissed Usher multiple times -- Usher, who Justin loves for how great he is, and who's never hesitated in his friendship. Justin feels the muscles around his mouth give him away, grinning into the kiss again.

Usher's breath hitches a little, like something about Justin's caught him off guard. Justin tries to use it to his advantage. He tries to push closer, tries to shift as if he's ready to hoist himself over to get into Usher's lap, but he's not quite quick enough. Usher's reflexives are better for these circumstances. He lies Justin back on the couch. Justin sinks into the couch cushions, legs falling apart. Usher kisses him again while he hovers over Justin's body, and Justin feels the gap between their chest and hips like a physical blockade. He wants to even closer. He just wants to feel something other than the space, and he reaches up to pull at Usher's shirt, tugging to encourage Usher to meet him halfway.

Usher takes Justin's hand, traps it between their bodies and moves from Justin's mouth to kissing his cheek, moving down to graze Justin's neck and then biting his earlobe lightly. Justin inhales sharply, says, "Come on."

"What?" Usher says. "I don't know unless you know."

"Come down," Justin says, breathier than he likes.

When Usher does slide back some, letting his body stretch out against Justin's, almost too close, too -- Justin's caught off guard even though he asked for it, can't help but push his hips up at the same time he wraps his arms around Usher, because it's all right there, like he could do this now, if he wanted, and --

"Wait," he says, even though Usher's barely moving. But Usher obliges.

"Let me know," he says in this unfairly calm whisper, but Justin can tell his breathing's shallower, so there's that, at least.

He clings to Usher, hugging him, and even that's somehow a lot, because Usher's body is still there, and he can probably tell that Justin's turned on, and it's hot, so Justin's not sure why he can't stop the shivers that snake through him at random.

After a while, Usher starts to pull up, but Justin grabs on tighter and says, "No, hold on."

He hopes it doesn't sound like he's scared or not ready or anything, He thinks maybe he's botched it, but then Usher doesn't go anywhere. Instead, Usher hugs Justin until his heartbeat slows again, and he feels heavy and tired, lying there.

Eventually, Usher says, "Sleepy?"

When he moves now, Justin lets him, and Usher takes Justin's hand and pulls him along. He leads Justin to the guest bedroom he's been staying in, hugs him again. He says, "Go 'head and crash."

"Alright."

They don't sleep in the same bed, but Justin doesn't even know if he could right now anyway, if Usher lying with him on the couch is enough to make him start shaking, anxious and wanting and now knowing what to do all at the same time.

So Justin goes to bed by himself, but it doesn't stop him from thinking a lot about it either. He finally gets sleep but wakes up too early, stifled by blankets. He can't say he expected to be thinking about anything else -- anyone other than the obvious -- when he woke, but he's definitely not, mind already halfway down the hall before Justin's even gotten out of bed to use the bathroom, gargle, and then follow his instincts.

Usher's door is open. He doesn't come awake until Justin kneels on the edge of his mattress. Under Justin's scrutiny, he drags his face against his pillow, groans tiredly, and wipes a hand over his eyes. He watches Justin, and Justin feels uncomfortably new, then, without the sun up all the way, poised carefully like some kid who's just had a nightmare.

Usher doesn't say anything like that, though. He doesn't even ask if him if anything's wrong. He says, "What time is it?"

Justin has no idea. He doesn't have a clue. He just gets up to push the blankets back and crawls under them, and it's still as warm here as in his own room, but sitting on the edge feels silly after a couple minutes. He slides closer to Usher and extends his arms to nearly recreate their positioning from last night, the hug.

Lifting his head, Usher says, "Hey," with a little confusion but not startled enough that Justin freezes.

Instead Justin thinks again and again that he needs to keep going, keep going, and he kisses Usher's cheek first. Usher's thigh slips against Justin's legs, warm and bare below the hem of his underwear.

A more direct heat spikes in Justin's stomach, and he moves to press a close-lipped kiss to Usher's mouth. He gets the upper hand, getting Usher to twist back so that Justin's the one looming this time. He kisses Usher again, and then moves down to his jaw. Justin kisses his chin, his neck, and his fingers graze the skin of Usher's stomach, shirt raised from movement against the sheets.

"Hey, hey," Usher breathes again, regaining the control. He rolls Justin to his back and inhales, holds Justin there for a moment, with both his hands against Justin's face, fingers in his hair. Justin can't get his arms around Usher like this, so he does the best he can beneath the covers, reaching for the waist of Usher's boxer briefs.

It's hard to actually get into Usher's underwear when they're lying together. Justin rolls his hips as a consolation. Usher makes a soft, vulnerable sound, and Justin tries to do it again, tries to build it up, but Usher bears down to still him again.

"What are you aiming for?" he asks, and Justin wants to keep doing that, is what he's currently focused on. He just wants to touch in some way.

He tries to tell Usher that. Flexing his fingers, says, "I'm gonna --"

The words seem pointless when he could just move. Justin works his hand out of Usher's grip for a moment, but Usher catches him again, makes sure to pin Justin's other hand down as well, and Justin moans once, something stifled and frustrated.

Usher lets his mouth drag along the underside of Justin's chin, and then his neck, and Justin registers that Usher's slipping back because the way the movement ghosts over Justin's dick makes him bite down on his bottom lip, exhaling in a rush of breath. He gasps, takes his next breath in too sharply when Usher kisses Justin's ribs through his t-shirt and inches farther along, heading down until he kisses Justin where his shirt has folded over, planting one at a halfway point between fabric and skin, and then it's all skin, right against his belly. Something bright concentrates there, and then again an inch away from that when Usher does it another time, in a new place.

Justin can't see Usher clearly. Even when he lifts his head some, the blankets are bunched up in a way that doesn't leave everything completely in the open. But Justin clenches and relaxes his fingers in Usher's grip, holding on and letting go, and he says, "Are -- is this --" as Usher releases one of Justin's hand to tug the waistband of Justin's underwear back.

He holds his breath and waits, but Usher stops before he's really gotten very far, just low enough for Justin to see the curve of his own hip bone beneath skin. Usher kisses that too. He kisses it once and stays, letting his teeth skim there, and then Justin feels the wet heat of his tongue as Usher moves inward slightly.

The way Usher's got a grip on one of Justin's hand and a finger hooked in his underwear stuns him, so close to his cock, so unbelievably close. Justin's thighs tense as Usher keeps his focus on the same place, right in the fold between thigh and pelvis. He curls his free hand in his own t-shirt, breathing and bending one knee, fidgeting in small ways to keep himself distracted enough to keep from groaning, but it's futile like this, because when Usher pauses a moment, turning his head, Justin feels his breath over the skin of his cock, sending a sensation through him that's cool and warm at once.

Usher's eyes catch Justin's for a moment, and once he drops his head again, he's shifted his attention inward even more but never where Justin's started to crave. Justin doesn't want to move too fast, doesn't want to make too much noise, doesn't want to do anything in case of -- just in case, but he can't not bring a hand down to press against himself, to have something before he's worked up to some impossible point.

And Usher -- it's torture when Usher crawls back up along Justin's body then. He's so lit that he can't be ashamed of the way he whines, wrapping his fingers around himself then, if this is the best he's going to get. It doesn't even take much after that, just a little concentration, with Justin's hand caught between their bodies.

Usher touches his wrist, not guiding, just there, and he kisses Justin's collarbone, and it's enough, finally. When Justin turns his head, immediately searching as he comes, Usher lets Justin find him for a moment, running a hand over Justin's hair and parting his lips for him, until Justin can comprehend anything again.

He tangles his fingers in Usher's, like he's searching for something to anchor himself to, and then only lets go to move one hand up to Usher's neck while the other goes to his back. Justin has his eyes closed, smothered in the feel of it. As Usher shifts, Justin angles in. He buries his face against Usher's neck and holds on tighter, awed and paralyzed by the thought of what happens when Usher moves away.

Usher says, voice low, "You got it. You got this; it's okay."

The way he says it makes Justin wonder what he looks like, if that's the kind of thing Usher knows to say to him right then.

"Yeah?" Justin says.

"Mhm."

Justin tightens his grip even more for a second, and then finally loosens. Usher doesn't roll away immediately or anything either, still lying between Justin's legs. The implications of their positioning hits Justin belatedly, making him trail his hand back down as he says, "Do you want me to help you?"

"No. No, I'm good," Usher says. He runs his knuckles along Justin's side. "We're good."

Justin doesn't think either of them can be certain about what they are now, actually, but he'll take that answer while all his nerves still feel fired up and raw.

;;

They won't get to stay in the bubble forever. Justin kind of wishes he could keep dragging out the time -- these fairly vague days of rest and relaxation, and whatever the word might be for the rest of it. He thinks it would be worth it just to have the time to figure out what that other word might be, but Justin knows better than to get his hopes up too high on that. Usher is a parent, and they both have too many people around them to sustain something like this, in this way. It's not like they can start going out on dates and hold hands, and Justin can plan to be the stepparent for Usher's kids.

Justin's 16. He has to go home at some point.

For now, though, he dozes off again, and he feels completely rested when he wakes up and the sun's out. He feels loose-limbed but alert, and Usher's not too far behind him in opening his eyes.

Justin looks at him for a minute, and Usher doesn't stop him. He laughs suddenly, shifting his hips a little under the covers and saying, "My boxers are pretty bad right now, man."

"Oh, god," Usher says and buries his face in a pillow.

Justin laughs louder. Taking a breath, he says, "Yeah, I should get out of these," and peeks underneath the blankets. "I'm, um --"

"You want to use my bathroom?" Usher says.

"Yeah," Justin says, feeling strange about sitting up to go. He jerked off against Usher a few hours ago, but somehow walking around his bed and to the bathroom feels weird. But Justin sucks it up and does it, trying his hardest to move as if everything is ordinary, even though it really isn't.

In the master shower, he looks down at his body, taking in what he sees, skimming fingers over his tattoo and then the places where Usher had his mouth. He thinks about that feeling, what it was like, arousing and foreign, and he can see how his skin has reddened, how he might have a couple hickies, it looks like, and Justin feels himself smile some, because that's crazy. That's insane, but it had felt amazing, too, had been him and Usher, and coming was good -- really good.

He might have a little more swagger getting out of the shower. It's nerve-wracking but confidence boosting in the aftermath, because Usher had his head between Justin's legs, hadn't pushed him away or placated him, had participated and been there with him, so maybe he's onto something, he thinks.

Usher isn't in the bedroom when he comes out of the shower, wearing one of Usher's bathrobes. Justin walks through the house to find him, and Usher's dressed leisurely, standing in the living room with a remote in his hand.

When he sees Justin, he says, "Better?"

"Yeah," Justin says, and he walks toward Usher, brings his arms up like he's done hundreds of times to get a hug, but this time he goes for a kiss too. He wonders if it could be that simple, if he can pull that off now, something easy, and he's a little awed when Usher obliges.

His arms wrap around Justin instinctively, lifting, and Justin reaches behind himself when his legs bump against the back of a couch. He sits on the arm, balancing, and Usher steps back and looks at Justin with his a hand on his hip.

"We should be outside today," Usher says, and Justin shifts his legs under the casual survey Usher seems to be taking of him.

"Or we could stay here," Justin says, even as he covers his leg, fixing where the robe has fallen apart slightly.

Usher half-smiles at him, chuckling low. He says, "You're too much for your own good."

"I learned from the best," Justin says, grinning, laughing along. "You gotta know what to say to the ladies."

Usher shakes his head, saying, "I'm not some young thing you brought on stage, dude."

"I know," Justin says. He starts to wiggle one foot, restless. "Wait." He lifts his chin before he speaks. "Am I?"

Usher presses his lips together, still considering Justin with the same focused but friendly ease. He places his hands on Justin's legs, leaning forward, and he rests his cheek against Justin's hair and exhales.

Justin's not sure if he can really sense Usher's pulse this close or if he's imagining it, but trying to figure it out makes him think about how many times he's felt it for sure in the last day. He thinks about the garage, the studio, the bedroom, and he thinks hard about not saying what comes to mind, because it would be too much right now, for this, and Usher still hasn't answered the question, which could also mean something, right? But Justin still touches Usher's arm and says, "Man, I love you."

Usher kisses Justin's head softly, mouth against his hair. He's not speaking, and he's not speaking, and then he says, "I love you, too," like always, murmuring it against the side of Justin's face. He kisses there too, and then pulls back, patting Justin's leg. "For real, let's get out for a while. Get some fresh air."

And Justin's wondering if he's made things better or worse, and what the criteria for either would even be for this.

;;

Justin isn't completely clueless. It takes him ten minutes to really get it for certain, but he knows that Usher getting them out of the house is his attempt at getting some kind of breather for them. It's not a bad idea, but Usher's also still the guy the who didn't quite but totally almost could have given Justin a blowjob earlier. That's tough to shake from his brain, no matter where he's standing -- insid or outside.

Justin makes an honest effort to go along with distraction, but when he jumps on Usher's back like he always does, his arms don't drape quite the same way. It's hard not to graze neat fingernails against the back of Usher's neck discreetly or run a thumb against Usher's collarbone as casually as he dares, partly to see if he can and more because he wants to. He wants to pick at the edges of this, figure out exactly where it makes him get nervous, what makes Usher stutter for a moment in return. It's frustrating that Usher doesn't really seem to initiate in the same way, and so Justin only pushes so far, simultaneously reckless and careful.

He tones it down completely as they run some errands. Justin calls his mom while Usher stops at a bank, lets her know that he loves her. They hang out for the day, and Justin goes with Usher to pick up his sons from Tameka's. He's going to spend the next few days with them until he has to fly out for a couple appearances and performances.

It's almost strangely mundane. It's just like the kind of normal they were before too recently, before Justin spent more time glancing at Usher and thinking about what-ifs and acting on some of them. With the exception of Justin's mind and the way Usher has let Justin's hand linger here and there, it's almost like nothing's happened, easy enough to laugh and talk, humming along to the radio.

;;

Usher is an okay cook, but it's never been something he actually enjoys doing all that much. Justin wants to help make stuff for the boys, because he's kind of fond of making meals alongside other people, something he associates primarily with his mom, the two of them cooking together. It feels grounding. It's like the reward for a day well-spent is eating well. Plus, Naviyd and little Usher are picky eaters, so it's like winning a challenge if they eat something and then want more.

He and Usher make a pasta dish that the boys devour even with all the vegetables in it. The only reason they don't really finish off third helpings is because they start to doze off at the table, and Justin rinses plates while Usher herds both the small dudes to bed, glancing up and half-smiling when Usher comes back into the kitchen and stands to the side of the sink, watching Justin's hands.

When Justin finishes, he dries his hands on a dish towel and turns around, leaning back against the edge of the counter. He says, "Is it time for 'the talk'?"

He drops his voice low on the end of the question, some mock foreboding.

"Which one is that?" Usher says, sounding sincere, though Justin knows that's what this is. They both must.

"The one where you say I'm too young. I won't be able to handle it. I should go with something different," Justin says.

"Is that what you want me to say?"

"I'm just familiar with it," Justin says.

Usher exhales, head tilting. He says, "Then I probably don't need to say it." He reaches out at bumps his hand against Justin's elbow. "Besides, anybody who tells you that is wrong. You know that right?"

Justin nods, because he knows what Usher means. With the music -- with work, he's always reminding Justin that he can take it. There's a difference between pushing it and not letting people convince him that he can't roll with what's thrown at him. Justin agrees and appreciates the vote of confidence, except -- "But this is different?"

"There's no good answer for a double-edged sword," Usher says. He folds his arms, and then drops them again. "What about your girl?"

At that, Justin shrugs. He doesn't really know. Sometimes he's dating Selena, and sometimes they're really close friends. When they can be around each other, it's great, and when they can't, it's complicated.

When Justin doesn't offer more of answer, Usher says, "You've got better things to do, man. Better places to be."

"I want to be here," Justin says.

"Really?" Usher says, skeptical. He gestures over his shoulder. "Cleaning dishes, watching kids, dealing with tantrums --"

"Not just them," Justin says. "And, come on, you like this --"

Usher says, "After most of my twenties celebrating not having the responsibility, though. You're haven't even let yourself hit 18, yet."

Justin huffs. "I'm too young."

"Your age isn't a bad thing, dude," Usher says, nudging Justin's shoulder. Justin catches Usher's wrist, halfway guides his hand up, until Usher's got his palm curved along Justin's neck, gentle.

Justin says, "What about right now?"

"What do you want, J?" Usher asks, leaving his hand where it is.

"It'll sound cheesy."

Usher's mouth picks up at that, a faint lopsided smile. He says, "I won't laugh."

"Kiss me," Justin says. "I mean. I want to know if you want to."

Usher sighs, exhaling through is nose, and the movement seems to bring his shoulders down, just that fraction of an inch closer. Justin tries not to read into it too much.

Usher curls his fingers against Justin's neck, stroking back and forth softly. He says, "I probably can't tell you what you want to hear."

"But you did it already," Justin says, pushing up on his toes. Usher doesn't have quite the same height on him that he used to, but it's still enough to feel like an effort. Justin raises up slow, anticipating, not hoping -- he is hoping.

Usher says, "Justin --"

"No, don't. Don't, please?" Justin says. "You don't have to, then. Forget I said --"

Usher brings him in close and wraps his arms around Justin's shoulders. He's warm, hugging tight enough that Justin knows it isn't sympathy. At least, he knows that it's not only sympathy. He doesn't need pity. Usher kisses the side of his face, at his temple, which is tease enough as it is.

"Again," Justin says, and he worries for a second that it might sound too much like a question. Usher pauses only momentarily, and then he gives another kiss, this one over Justin's hairline.

"Again," Justin repeats, angling his face up more. Ushers lips catch the bridge if Justin's nose this time.

Justin keeps encouraging Usher, repeating a single word as Usher gets his eyelids, his cheeks, his jawline, until Justin tilts his head the way he's been envisioning the whole time, murmuring nonsense, too anxious to focus, because it would take nothing, almost nothing for Usher to lean forward, for him to initiate the next one, for it to be all him if Justin hasn't actually said a word at all.

Justin can feel the slight stretch of lifting himself all the way through his toes. He could drop back down, could let it go if Usher's not going just do what he's thinking, what Justin's thinking too, but then he really is resting back on his heels, and it's because Usher's craned in, following Justin down.

And this -- this is a real distraction. Justin loses himself in the feel of the kiss until remembers that Usher still hasn't told him what he wants to hear. He wants to know what Usher's thinking. Justin has spent years listening to the music, watching the videos. He's been around in rooms full of grown folks, sometimes hearing things he probably shouldn't -- stories. He knows a little bit about the things Usher's gotten up to in his life, with women, and where his mind can go, and Justin wants to know exactly what Usher's thinking about him.

After a minute, Justin murmurs, "Did you want to?" against Usher's mouth. Even if he knows the chances of a simple yes are slim, it's still what he needs, just once, because his head's full of images and possibilities, and he wants to know he's not alone in that.

What Usher says, after some push-pull where Justin tries to get closer, Usher holds him off, and then lifts him to pin him against the fridge, to get control of the moment again -- Usher says, "If you were anybody else--"

It could be in reference to Justin's squirming, a chastisement, but Justin says, "What? Say. If I was anybody else, what?"

"What do you think?" Usher asks, their lips still so near, brushing lightly as they converse.

"I don't know," Justin says, but maybe he has an idea. He hopes he does. He's got his legs hitched up around Usher's waist. It's difficult not to have some theories.

"You want me to say I'd kiss you?" Usher asks, and then does, soft and pretty chaste. Justin licks experimentally, testing, and Usher opens his mouth wider, lets Justin's tongue get farther until the kiss isn't too wet but undeniable.

He feels bereft when Usher pulls back and mutters, "Want me tell you how I'd touch?"

He tightens his grip on Justin's thigh and slides it along until his hand's nearly curved over Justin's ass, as much as possible while holding him against the metal of the fridge. Justin's back is chilly against door, T-shirt nowhere near thick enough. He's cold at the back and warm along his front, making breathy noises as he tries to kiss him again, and Usher only lets him get so far.

He lets Justin's body slide down some, and Justin tries to buck his hips against that, stay longer. Usher hunches in to make up for the slack, like it's on purpose, and when Justin bucks this time, their hips are more aligned, the friction the perfect kind of suggestive, and Usher says, with his mouth brushing the edge of Justin's ear, "Hoping to hear how we'd fuck?"

Justin chokes on an exhale, like his body isn't sure what it wants to do next. He groans, the sound quick and jagged, and Usher reels back some, bracing Justin. He says, "Is that how you feel?"

There's something searching about the way Usher's looking at him, heavy -- unavoidable. Justin tries get his arms around Usher's neck.

He says, "I'm slipping."

 "Nuh uh," Usher says, canting his hips forward, reminding Justin that he's pinned there.

Justin thinks that, under the circumstances, they could laugh here, an easy pause where nothing's really funny but it just feels appropriate. The faint smile that starts to shape across Justin's own mouth stalls when the backs of Usher's fingers touch the underside of Justin's chin.

"Your turn," he says. "Is that what you think about?"

Justin's pretty sure his angle in this has been transparent from the start. He gets the smile to work this time, huffs a little, a quiet laugh and says, "I'm 16, man. What do you think?"

Managing to turn Usher's own words around is just a bonus, really, and he's smiling so hard he has to bite his lip to control it. He feels unexpectedly giddy somehow, and then Usher hoists Justin up again, gets both arms around him, high enough that Justin can look down a fraction, air gone again. Usher says, "Tell me."

He's stepped back from the refrigerator, and Justin feels completely suspended, clinging. He says, "It's not like --"  "Tell me," Usher says again, soft-spoken but direct.

Justin remembers that he doesn't have anything to hold back, didn't want to in the first place, and he says, "It's only more recent -- curious --"

"J."

"Yes, I think about it," Justin says, finally -- okay, okay, yes, and he closes his eyes as his head drops forward, because his pulse has sped up. It's one thing to know they both know, but it's another say something. Except dropping forward to hide his head just brings him closer to Usher, and Usher kisses his neck affectionately.

Justin holds on as Usher starts to walk, takes in cautious, deep breaths as he's carried across the room. He's set down sooner that he anticipates, Usher setting him down on the table. Justin lies back slow when Usher comes up after him, planting his hands on either side of Justin.

Usher leans in, kisses the ridge of Justin's cheek and trails back, says, "Where? -- like here? You want us to do it like this, after dinner, everything cleared?" He sounds like maybe he's smiling now, but Justin can't really see his face in this position. He curls his hand around Usher's arm and flexes his fingers.

"I could stand at the edge, pull you to me," Usher says, and he drags one hand down Justin's side and back again. "Or I'd lay back and let you set the rhythm. You want that?"

Justin fixes his mouth to say something, but he loses it and ends up moaning around a single, aimless syllable.

"Unless you want it on your back. Do you? You want me from behind?" Usher asks. His voice is warm and secretive. He wraps his fingers around one of Justin's forearms, like a point of reference while Justin's mind races. It's so hot in the house to him now, even with all the open space. "Might have to move if you want it on your knees. The couch, the bed -- up to you. It's what you want. You're in charge. You ready for that?"

And Justin -- Justin doesn't know. He hitches on leg up, rolling his hips. Usher moves both of his arms in to brace Justin's head, fingers in his hair so that Justin has to look at him. He repeats himself, says, "Would you be ready?"  "I don't know," Justin confesses, a little breathy and just as quiet.

"You don't?"

"I want to be."

Usher ducks forward and kisses Justin's brow, moves low enough to catch his mouth. There's no tongue this time, but it feels just as private, teasing, and when Justin tries to catch Usher's lip, Usher pauses for it and chuckles.

He says, "You're always testing."

"But," Justin says, and then he clears his throat. "But you like it about me."

Usher kisses Justin again once, twice, a couple demure pecks, and he says, "You finished in the kitchen?"

God, yes. Yes, yes, there's not a dish or messy surface in the world that Justin cares about right now. He's turned on and wrung out with it, all of his senses working in overdrive. He nods, and Usher shuffles back, gets off of the table, and encourages Justin to follow. "Alright."

Usher's held his hand before, for other unrelated, less charged reasons, Justin's sure, but this is different. This is being led upstairs and past the boys' room, past the guest room, and Justin says, dumbly, "Where are we going?"

Looking over his shoulder, Usher doesn't even look smug. His is expression is kind of hazy, faded with the hour, and Justin yawns a little in sympathy. Ushers says, "You already know. Look, you're yawning and everything," making it sound completely casual.

Bed. That's it. Like it's not everything.

Once there, Justin's wonders if this is the moment where he needs to quit pretending like he knows what he's doing and really do it or chicken out, particularly because when he stops Usher inside the room, Usher turns to Justin and just looks.

Okay, Justin thinks, he's supposed to make a move here. He slides his hand under Usher's shirt, and then thinks -- off, get it off. He starts pushing it up, and Usher lets him do that too, even raises his arms until it's gone. Justin's holds it in one hand for no reason. It takes him a second to think to drop it, finally, because, well, okay. Now that's done.

Once it's gone, Justin doesn't know what to do. He's left sort of staring -- marveling, which is crazy, because it's not like this should mean so much, but it kind of does. Context is amazing, how it changes the meaning of everything so suddenly, and before Justin can do anything else, Usher touches his neck, kisses his head again and lets his hands trail to Justin's hips.

He walks Justin back to the bed, and Justin finds himself lying down again, going with it. This time Usher climbs over him with his legs on either side of Justin's thighs. When Justin reaches down, he curl his hand against Usher's thigh, opening mouth for the kiss. Usher lifts his head, and when Justin tires to follow him up, Usher moves out of range again, smiling softly. Justin groans, and Usher's chuckle is low, fond.

"Just sleeping, okay? That's all that has to happen," Usher says. "You can even go back to your spot if that's better for you."

Shaking his head, Justin says, "No, here's good. I can stay."

"Sure?" Usher asks, so casually that it takes a moment for Justin to realize that it's the first time Usher's asked him that quite so plainly.

Justin nods, swallowing. Usher slides back, off the bed, and despite the belt, Justin's pants are already low enough on his hips that Usher can work them off by tugging at the legs. Justin lifts his hips, and he feels like he'll just be perpetually half-hard at this point, feels a little strange lying out like that, but Usher doesn't comment on it. He pats Justin's ankle, says, "Be back."

While he heads into the bathroom, Justin turns over and opens his mouth against the comforter in a silent yell, because what the hell. What the hell. He's not sure how to take this, all of it exciting and too much, and his heart is still beating too fast. He's going to spend the foreseeable future turned on and out of breath at this rate, and when he climbs up to the pillows, Justin lies back and exhales.

Usher's pantless as well as shirtless now, coming to the bed in only his underwear. Justin rolls over and moves in to kiss him automatically. Usher's grinning against Justin's mouth. There's something amused about it, and Justin doesn't even care to analyze it right then, feeling so full of everything that he can't pick anything apart. Usher doesn't move away as the kiss gradually devolves, until Justin's just lying close, breathing against his neck and trying to be calm. He feels wired until suddenly he feels like an anchor, completely worn and drifting off with his hand on Usher's arm, steady.

part 2

Legal Now (Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews, NC17)

gigantic — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 14:07:42 GMT

Hey, it's my birthday! I wrote a story -

Legal Now
by Charli J

Hockey RPF. NC-17. 98,000 words.
Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews (Kane/Sam Gagner, Toews/TJ Oshie).

Some people come to a city, play hard, and then to wind down, they get married.

Many thanks to thediane for letting me ramble about this to her enough to even get it started, to insunshine for being there for every email and doing all the tedious stuff, and to the Syndicate girls for indulging me a few Sundays. Both figletofvenice and joyfulseeker also graciously stepped in, spent time, and asked me a lot of key questions. Also, Rihanna recorded an album that I listened to for huge chunks of this. Any remaining errors or glaring inaccuracies are all me.

There are other fabulous stories about accidental marriage, being outed, and secretive shenanigans, but I'd never written it, and my mind kept coming back to this. So --

[ Legal Now on AO3 ]

Extrasensory Beginners (Mike Ross/Cary Agos, PG)

gigantic — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 06:00:09 GMT

Extrasensory Beginners
by Charli J

Suits, The Good Wife crossover. PG. 7700 words.
Mike Ross/Cary Agos (implied Mike Ross/Harvey Specter).

Mike and Harvey take on a case that sends them to Chicago. This is Mike's first business trip. He acts like it.

Notes: Big ups to paitac for helping me vague it up enough to make this situation just improbable, and to insunshine, who graciously made me less of a slob. The law is as phony as Mike's cereal box degree. My apologies to the bamf ladies on both shows that are missing from this story.

;;

Most days, Mike's still excited that he can bill for attending nighttime events because he might meet with a client. Business travel isn't even on his radar when Harvey comes by his cubicle to say, "We're staying downtown, and it's colder in Chicago than New York right now. Pack well. I don't need you sniffling in the middle of testimony."

He's dropping a file on Mike's desk as he speaks. Mike opens the folder and scans the first two pages, saying, "We're going to Chicago?"

"If Ground Fleet wants to deny financial responsibility, it's because they're confident they have enough money to drain us first," Harvey says.

"One trucking company," Mike says, frowning at the words in front of him.

Harvey says, "With a much bigger parent. They want to avoid my territory? I'll crash theirs."

"You're actually going to court?" Mike asks, sitting back in his seat. "I get to come?"

Harvey points down to the file and says, "Read."

In the second it takes for Mike to glance back to his materials, Harvey's already moved on. Mike glances up, shifting in his chair to call, "Harvey!"

"Just book a one-way on the Pearson Hardman account. We'll worry about the flight back later," Harvey says.

"But I need --" Mike tries, except Harvey's already disappeared around the corner before he can finish his sentence. He swivels his chair to face his monitor again. "How do I book a business flight?"

;;

Expensing. Is. Awesome.

Expensing airport purchases before a flight is nearly as amazing as then getting to board a first class flight he didn't have to purchase himself. Mike eats way more food than he needs, just because he can, and when the flight attendant asks him if he'd like another drink an hour into the trip, Mike looks to Harvey.

"What about alcohol?" he asks.

"It's ten in the morning," Harvey says, eyes on his newspaper.

"I mean, I'm not --" Mike pauses to turn to the attendant and request another Coke "-- it's curiosity."

"Hush, or I'll make you fly home business select."

"Is that supposed to be worse?" Mike asks, because he's only ever flown coach and not even with an airline that has wifi or enough blankets for everyone.

That does get Harvey's attention. He raises an eyebrow at Mike, and says, "You've used my business card before. How is this new?"

"That was different," Mike says. "That was for clients. The omelet that was just the size of my face was all me."

Harvey rolls his eyes. He says, "If you make yourself sick, you still have to work."

"Oh, I didn't realize I brought my grandmother on this trip," Mike says.

Harvey's voice is flatter as he says, "You can have another Flintstone's vitamin before lunch," flipping the paper over to continue reading.

Mike buys a large cinnamon roll after they land at Midway. When the cashier asks if he needs a receipt, Mike says, "Yeah, so I can expense it."

"Oh, goodie for you," she says in a way that makes it clear she doesn't really feel that excited that Mike glances around to make sure he's not still in New York. It makes him rethink his words.

Mike says, "I mean, I could just not worry about it too."

The cashier hands him his pastry and his receipt. She says, "Have a good day, sir."

"Uh, you too," Mike says, though he at least means his well wishes.

Biting into his fresh cinnamon roll cures his moment of self-doubt for the ten seconds it takes to meet up with Harvey again.

"All that sugar's going to make you crash later," Harvey says as he notices the snack. "Don't get glaze everywhere. I don't carry Wet Naps."

"I'll just lick my fingers," Mike says and smiles at the way Harvey twists his mouth. "Want some --"

"Stop, no," Harvey says, ducking Mike's food. Mike takes a victorious bite out of the roll when Harvey cuts a quick disapproving glare back at him.

"Yeah, I know, I know," he says, voice muffled by dough.

;;

But the real laughs are on him, because Mike spends a nice chunk of money on food, gets a good flight, and then when they arrive at the Cook County State's Attorney's office, he realizes that Harvey's accepted a proposal for a joint case.

"Eldridge is suing for damages," Mike says. "We're ready to go for an interstate accident."

"Ground Fleet is owned by Neitland Trucking," Harvey says. "It gives them deeper pockets, but it exposes them to Neitland's problems too. On paper, Neitland's a clean transport corporation. A couple years ago, one of their hauls was implicated in a seizure."

"Like Eldridge and his container," Mike says. "Are they related? Somehow Neitland's setting it up"

Harvey shakes his head. "Courts ruled that the other driver acted independently."

"And now they're going to the do the same to Eldridge," Mike says.

"If Neitland's bold enough to refuse settlement and absorb a subsidiary's dispute, then they're confident they can bury our client," Harvey says. "But it also tells us that people at a central, senior level think they have a need to. The state attorney's been trying to build a case against the hub alone since before he was reinstated, but Neitland's got a good team."

"They don't have you," Mike says, and then thinks about Harvey's words again. "Wait, re-instated?"

"State Attorney Florrick," Harvey announces, holding out his hand as Peter Florrick appears to greet them.

"Harvey Specter," Florrick says. "They told me I was getting New York's best closer. It's good to meet you." He gestures to the man that comes to stand beside him. "This is one of our best ASAs, Cary Agos."

Harvey says, "And this my associate, Mike Ross."

He steps back to draw Peter's attention to Mike. His hand presses to the small of Mike's back briefly, and Mike tries to catch Harvey's eyes for some kind of confirmation that he isn't losing his mind. Peter Florrick -- as in, Mike listened to the leaked sex tape featuring Peter Florrick and a girl named Amber after Trevor got him high one night and then wouldn't stop quoting parts of it in a really bad attempt at sex phone voice.

Mike shakes Peter's hand.

"Welcome, Mike," Florrick says.

Holy shit.

"First interstate case?"

Mike stops thinking about how he's going to milk the reveal of this story to Rachel, and says, "Uh, yes, sir. But I came ready to go to court."

"Luckily, it doesn't have to happen that fast," Florrick says, mouth stretching to the side in the kind of amused smirk Mike's seen on a lot of people in the last year. "But I like your enthusiasm."

In that Chelsea Handler interview, Amber said they'd had a threesome.

He realizes he's staring when Harvey touches Mike's arm as he says, "We know the major parts, but we need to make sure we're backing ourselves up."

Florrick says, "Of course, I'll set you up with Cary."

…which is how Mike comes to Chicago for a big court case and ends up in a room full of boxes with Assistant State Attorney Cary Agos.

Mike scans the boxes, counting them, and says, "How much do you have on Neitland?"

"Not as much as it seems. They're good at drowning people in paperwork," Cary says. "Nice tie."

Mike looks down at his shirt and skinny tie and presses his lips together, frowning. Great, a funny guy. He looks to Cary and says, "And they need us to get through all of this in time for trial."

"Our focus is really names,"Cary says. "Your guy Eldridge is an involuntary runner, right? So we're thinking there had to have been other drivers, people who got suspicious and were eliminated."

"Great, so we get to stay in this room and search a bunch of papers for suspicious terminations," Mike says.

Cary says, "What, too much for you?"

"Please," Mike says. "I can get through these in two nights."

"Yeah, right," Cary says.

"It won't make it not suck, but I can do it."

Mike thinks about elaborating, but Cary's already glancing from the boxes back to Mike and says, "Want to make a wager?"

No, Mike thinks. He wants to see a trial. He also wants to explore Chicago, but if he has to be stuck buried in files for the next few days and then try to convince potential witnesses to testify, he might as well make the first part as interesting as possible.

He says, "Winner gets the other guy's tie."

Cary snorts, and then chuckles when Mike doesn't budge. He says, "My -- my tie. Why do you want my tie?"

"Because you mocked mine, so I figure I should get a respectable tie while I'm out here." Mike shrugs. "Why not start with yours?"

"Whoever's made it through less boxes in the next four hours buys dinner," Cary says.

"Deal. I'll take a tie and dinner," Mike says, and they shake on it.

;;

Mike loves Chicago. Free flights, free food, free ties. What a beautiful, giving city.

Cary buys Chinese at Mike's request, and as the victor, Mike eats all the beef and broccoli. Cary says, "You cheated, but I'm a man of my word, so."

"Hey, you suggested the bet," Mike says. This is the best Chinese food he's had in a long time. It tastes like superiority and unsportmanslike gloating drenched in soy sauce.

"You could at least tell me how you did it." Cary winds noodles around his chopsticks and watches Mike as he chews.

Mike says, "Eidetic memory. Plus, I'm just good with books and documents anyway. Always have been."

"So that's why you're the associate Specter brought with him."

That sounds nice and all, Mike thinks, like he's just that much of a star among fifty associates at Pearson Hardman, but he's never been sure that's really the case. He says, "Yeah, super glamorous how it means I get to do research just like everybody else."

"You're still here. They're not," Cary says. He turns to look at the stacks of paper on the table next to him. He holds up a document and says, "This memorandum from August 23, 2006. Did you read it already?"

"Yes," Mike says and wipes his mouth with his hand. He needs a napkin. He considers undoing Cary's tie from around his arm and using that, but then thinks about Harvey warning him about the glaze. Mike gets up to get a napkin. "It seemed alright. No alarm bells."

"Do you remember it? All of it?" Cary asks.

Oh. "Oh, yeah."

"What's it say?"

Mike makes Cary wait while he takes another bite of food and swallows before he recites the entirety of the document. He does not perform memory tricks whenever someone pleases, thank you very much. That is, unless it's needed to convince a client that he can hack this job despite his age. Cary's eyes get wider as Mike goes, so impossibly large by the end that Mike almost laughs at him when he finishes.

"That's insane," Cary says.

"Look at how you look," Mike says, and then makes himself shake it off. "Whatever, we still haven't found a possible yet."

"No, but it won't take long with you here," Cary says, which throws Mike off. Cary almost sounds impressed.

;;

Suggesting they might have some luck seems to help bring it about. Cary's right; they find more than one viable witness over the next day and a half. Having one witness with a strong enough foundation and more than one attorney working on the case engenders more confidence in some of the people Cary and Mike contact than Cary says he'd encountered on his own before this point. One woman is still so bitter about her termination that she volunteers to testify that afternoon. They only need to say the word.

They present the information to Peter Florrick and Harvey. There are three people willing to offer a testimony: two men and the woman, another Ground Fleet employee.

"Dolores Albert sent several reports to her supervisors, warning them about them about people she'd met on the road that had too many questions," Cary explains. "She thought she was being felt out for people looking to rob vehicles without enough protection or insurance."

Mike picks up the story. "Ground Fleet never did anything, and then claimed they were limiting the runs throughout that district. They needed to cut drivers."

"Took her out of the pictures," Peter says.

"And copies of her formal reports aren't in the files we have," Cary says.

"But Dolores has them," Mike says, and he slides Harvey and Peter a folder each.

Harvey flips through his contents quickly. He looks up and says, "She's willing to put this all on record? How soon?"

"Today," Cary says. "We can depose her today, if we need."

"We do," Harvey says.

Cary leaves to arrange for Harvey to meet with Dolores Albert later that afternoon. Peter congratulates Cary and Mike on finding such useful information, and Mike gets up as Harvey does, following him out of the room.

"Peter Florrick," Mike starts, because he hasn't had an opportunity to bring this up yet. "As in prostitution scandal of Illinois Peter Florrick."

"Sure, Mike, let's talk about this in the middle of a government office," Harvey says. "Let's not even wait until we're out of earshot."

Florrick isn't there when Mike looks around to check, so he presses on. He asks, "Have you ever worked with him before?"

"No."

"But we agreed to working with his office even with those corruption charges?" Mike says, lowering his voice and ducking his head in closer. "After Cameron --"

"After Cameron, it's important to me that Florrick was cleared of all charges," Harvey says, interrupting. "He campaigned to earn his position back, and it worked. It's a strong case. And the material you and Agos found is part of why we'll win."

"Me, mostly," Mike says, "since I'm the faster reader with the impossible memory."

Harvey steps out to the curb and says, "Competition between associates -- cute. And now you get bragging rights." He touches Mike's elbow. "Hold out your arm."

"What?" Mike says, confused, but he does it. Harvey checks his phone. "I got more than bragging rights. It was his own bet too."

"Good," Harvey says.

"I had him buy me dinner." Harvey looks up then. Mike looks at his arm. He asks, "Why am I doing this?"

"Cab."

"Seriously?" Mike asks. Seriously? He's going to drop his arm now.

"Leave it," Harvey says. He furrows his brow as he continues to survey Mike. "Remember, we're getting paid to work here, not flirt."

"It was takeout," Mike says. There's nothing seductive about fast Chinese food even as a joke, and Mike admits this as someone who thinks the world has never offered better cuisine. "OK, I've seen six cabs pass."

Harvey finally looks back toward the street and raises his arm to hail a taxi. A car pulls over less than a minute later.

"How did you do that?" Mike asks.

Harvey opens the car door and motions Mike in. He says, "Well, it's lunchtime now, hot shot. You can go over more details about the witness while we eat."

"Wow, you're taking me to lunch."

Mike loves business trips.

"Unless you have leftover takeout," Harvey says. He seems pleased by the wry smile Mike gives him, but then holds out his hand as Mike starts to make room for him. "No, don't slide. You stay on this side."

He closes the door, and Mike catches the eye of the cab driver during the seconds it takes for Harvey to round the cab. He says, "Wrinkles the suit pants, I think."

The cab driver averts his eyes.

;;

Harvey's present for the deposition, but he and Peter leave the bulk of the witness preparation to Mike and Cary. Somewhere along the way, Cary forgets that they're supposed to be trying to help these people, because he starts poking holes in testimonies like he's trying to get their witnesses to confess to murder.

"Mr. Vance, you said you'd heard rumors about other trucks on your route with stolen cargo?" Cary asks.

Spencer Vance is in his 60s, the kind of well-worn and real that makes Mike feel silly for having his shirt buttoned up all the way. When Vance talks it comes out in a jagged rasp. He says, "Yes. Never saw much hard proof before, but you hear things."

"Why no proof? You never interacted with any of the the drivers who'd been targeted on the same route?"

"Everybody's coming and going," Vance says. "A lot of drivers don't even stick to one kind of haul. It's a big operation. There's always new rigs. I was lucky to be making enough with the same runs."

"So the system was hard to get a handle on?"

"Yeah. At first."

"But someone familiar with the route would know how often other drivers crossed paths?"

"It would take a while."

"How long had you been driving the same route for Neitland Trucking?"

Mr. Vance sits straighter in his seat. He says, "You're not suggesting that I --"

"I'm asking how long you were employed with Neitland on the same route, Mr. Vance."

"It's OK to answer the question," Mike says.

Vance starts to wrings his hands. He fidgets more when he starts to get anxious. Mike reminds him to take a breath.

"Twenty years," Vance says. "Some variations here and there, but twenty years of about the same route."

"Long enough to get used it?" Cary asks. "You knew which drivers were regulars?"

"Yeah, some of them, but ---"

"Were you used to how often you'd run into familiar drivers on the route, or even signing in cargo? You knew the lay of the roads? Were you that familiar?"

"I had a reputation at that company," Mr. Vance says, sitting forward in his seat again. He taps the table with his index finger. "I have kids struggling out here. I have a home to keep."

"Please answer the question, sir."

"Why would I risk my job?"

Vance fidgets more, folding his hands and unfolding them. Each time he taps his finger against the table, Mike blinks.

Cary, still calm, says, "You just mentioned that you had kids. A home."

"I worked thirty-five years for these people, and they force me out!"

"Mr. Vance, were you familiar with --"

"Mr. Agos, can I have a moment?" Mike asks, cutting the line questioning as Vance starts to cough. He sucks in a breath, and Mike holds up a hand. "One minute, Mr. Vance. Excuse us."

Mike rises from the table and waits for Cary to come along. He follows Mike to the door, stepping just outside the room. As Cary pulls the door to, looking back one time to see Mr. Vance, Mike says, "Dude, calm down. What are you doing in there?"

"What am I --" Cary repeats, and then, "I'm sorry, I thought we were preparing a witness. That includes prepping him for when they try to twist the facts."

"Look at him; he's about to start hyperventilating," Mike says. They're supposed to be getting ready for trial, not harassing an old man.

"He's going up against a corporation that got rid of him because it was convenient," Cary says. "It's been near impossible to get this company into court, and it's not because people haven't tried."

Mike says, "He knows his story. He's just nervous."

"You don't think they'll use that to discredit him?" Cary asks. He's a few inches shorter than Mike, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in this kind of intense conviction to his words.

"He'll be fine."

Cary says, "Yeah, if he's ready for everything they throw at him. They won't trust him as much as you do. We need to ask him tough questions. Dude."

"Chill out."

"Are you telling me how to do my job?"

Cary is all confidence, but that also makes him kind of a dick. Mike exhales and pushes past him.

"I'm going back in to help our witness," Mike says, shrugging Cary away. As he enters the room again, he asks Vance, "Sir, can I get you some more water? Do you need another minute before we continue?"

;;

Reviewing the tapes later, Harvey pauses halfway through Vance's questioning to ask, "Albert -- she's more solid than this man, correct?"

Mike says, "Yeah, but Mr. Vance is good too. They'll work."

"Mr. Vance here needs to learn to control his outbursts," Harvey says. "Explosions make you look like a liar. If you're innocent, what do you need to be stressed out about?"

"Agos practically accused him of stealing all of that merchandise."

"Neitland's subsidiary will do the same thing." Harvey sets down the remote control and gets up to pour himself a glass of water.

"That doesn't make sense. They guy's still barely making ends meet now."

"But he's out of major debt. He still has his house."

"He didn't do that."

"What matters is whether or not that jury'll think he did that," Harvey says. "And if Vance gets up there and starts shifting and stuttering, they will. It was a good cross examination."

Mike isn't buying it. He can't believe Harvey's buying that either. Mike drops his head in his hands, trying to see it their way, but the only thing behind his eyelids is the image of Vance's jittery hands. He says, "It was cruel."

"So is Neitland." Harvey finishes his water, set down the glass and taps its rim. "Anyway, Cary Agos is trying to earn back second chair for trial."

"This really is a competition?" Mike asks, focusing in again. At the look Harvey gives him, Mike reorders his thinking and lets it dawn on him. "Wait, it's you and Florrick. So we don't even get to go to trial."

"It's open court, Mike, you can come to trial," Harvey says. He turns off Vance's tape completely. "You think I want you to miss me in front of jury? Come on, we need to meet with Florrick."

"But we came all the way to Chicago," Mike says. He's not even going to court? He came to an entirely new state to do what he does in New York every day? "So, Florrick runs the show while you sit back. You're letting that happen."

Harvey buttons up his jacket as they exit, saying, "No, I'm going to close this case. And you're going to make sure Martin Vance doesn't ruin my performance. Or we'll have to pull a new witness out of thin air."

Cary's words to Mike from their first night going through files comes to mind. Mike asks, "Is that why you brought me out here instead of another associate? Because I get through this information fast enough."

"I didn't hire any of those associates," Harvey says. He holds his hand out for the files and Mike hands them over. "I hired you. I brought my associate. Now, this third witness -- he works for another subsidiary?"

"Oh, yeah," Mike says, frowning to himself a little. "But in Michigan, so there's been some direct overlap, unlike Eldridge."

;;

On their last day of witness of prep, the day before trial, Cary says, "I'll need to ask Vance some harder questions again today. Do you want to make him milk and cookies first?"

"Good one," Mike says. "Did you think that up this morning?"

"Special for you," Cary says, smiling, and Mike takes a moment to make sure there really is enough water at least.

"Awesome," Mike says, flat. "Do what you want."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Does it really matter what we do here?" Mike asks. "Florrick was good enough to have people want him back, and I've never seen Harvey lose anything for real, so what are we doing? Why badger him? Just encourage the guy."

Cary takes in Mike's words, and then makes his mouth droop. "Did Cinderella just find out she wasn't going to the ball?"

"Whatever."

"You can still wear the gown if it'll make you feel better."

Mike quickly turns to move closer to Vance and greet him. "How are you, Mr. Vance?"

"I'm here," Vance says, hands in his lap. He looks calm. "That's something, I guess."

"We appreciate it." Mike reviews his notes and says, "Today should be similar to what we've done before. We want to make sure you're as comfortable as possible when you testify."

"Actually, we'll mostly be giving tips," Cary says. "You have a good handle on how the process goes. We just have some final pointers."

Mike's attention snaps to Cary, but Cary is still engaging Mr. Vance.

"Ready? How're you feeling about tomorrow?" Cary asks, and Mike doesn't know what to contribute for the first five minutes.

;;

By the time they finish their hours of witness prep, meet with Harvey and Peter, and then wrap up for the evening, the sun is long gone. Cary and Mike hang around for an extra half hour to straighten up notes.

Cary finally hits the lights in the conference room. Mike double checks his pockets for his room key and wallet, and Cary says, "Is this still the same day? Are we sure we haven't been shut in this room for a day and a half, and that's why it's night again?"

"You're losing it, Agos," Mike says. "You're starting to speak gibberish."

Cary wraps his scarf around his neck. Sliding his gloves on, he says, "You know, they tell you that too much compassion becomes toxic for most of us, but you make it work for you."

"Uhhh," Mike says. He's not sure if that was a backhanded compliment or what, but his grandmother raised him right, so he finishes with, "thanks?"

Cary smiles, says, "I mean, this worked," and gestures between them. "What you do and what I do. We built a good case."

Mike decides to give the guy an inch. He says, "You do make a pretty effective tough lawyer to my nicer approach."

"Hey, I'm nice," Cary says.

Mike scoffs, "Yeah, tell that to our second and third witnesses. The last guy was still crying when I checked in with him yesterday."

Cary laughs as they walk out. He says, "Well, I'm nice to you."

That's debatable, which Mike is about to say, but when he looks up again, Cary's still smiling. Definitely overtired. They both need some sleep before trial.

As Mike starts to say goodnight, Cary throws in, "We should celebrate."

Instead of speaking, Mike open and closes his mouth twice. Fortunately, a fish impression is exactly what he'd been going for here, so at least that works out. Cary isn't laughing anymore, though, watching Mike with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Mike rubs his hand across the back of his neck. He says, "Ahh, I don't know. I don't think Harvey'll want to celebrate before we've even won the case."

Cary says, "Did I ask Harvey?"

"Umm," Mike says, because he knows his grandmother never prepared him to know how to respond to an ASA asking him out. If that's -- is that what's happening?

Cary says, "We did all that legwork. I said we should celebrate."

"Now?" Mike looks at his phone. "It's already after midnight."

He should sleep. They have to be in court at 10 in the morning, ready to go with all of their material.

"There's a really good pub that hits its best time of night right now. Great spot, I promise," Cary says, and his smile finally dims a few watts when Mike doesn't answer. "Unless you don't drink. If you don't, there's a restaurant across the street. Open late. It's not Chinese, but it's one of my favorites."

Then again, Mike thinks, neither one of them gets a chair.

"No, let's --" Mike starts to reconsider, but by then the words are already halfway out of his mouth. "No, let's go to the bar. Why not? I haven't been out much here."

"There we go," Cary says and touches Mike's arm, guides him down a hall. "Let's do it."

;;

In bar lighting, Cary looks more like a successful young Chicagoan and less like a douchebag.

"Ouch," Cary says, but he still passes Mike a beer.

"Didn't you call me Cinderella earlier?" Mike asks.

"Fair enough." Cary holds up his beer in surrender. "But was I right?"

Mike twists his glass against the table. It's already wet on the bottom, creating smeared circles of water. He says, "Aren't you upset about it? Isn't that why you tried to give Mr. Vance a heart attack?"

The smile comes back, but now it strikes Mike as more sincere, less aimed. Cary says, "I was hard on Vance to prove to him that the company that dumped him was still more bad-ass than he is."

"Mm-mm," Mike says. He takes a drink from his glass. "You were emotional."

Cary hedges a moment, and then says, "It does blow that neither one of us really gets to shine."

"Second chair doesn't get to say much anyway," Mike says.

"Yeah, that's what we tell ourselves now," Cary says.

Mike lifts a shoulder and drops it again. He concedes, "Well, for whatever it's worth, Harvey liked you when he first watched the tapes."

"What did you think?"

"You know that already."

Cary rests his elbow on the table and drums his fingers against his mouth. He says, "I did it your way today. Compassionate, understanding -- almost sweet."

"Almost," Mike says.

"Is that how things work at Pearson Hardman?" Cary asks.

Mike scoffs, says, "Not really. I'm a renegade in my caring."

"The sweet rebel," Cary says.

Mike laughs despite himself, says, "Yeah, maybe -- no. No, I refuse. That's worse than Cinderella." He thinks about walking into a hotel office space with a briefcase full of drugs. "Nah, I got lucky."

"I doubt it. Harvey doesn't seem like the kind of guy who does handouts," Cary says. He furrows his brow. "How long have you worked for him?"

"More than a year now. A few months over," Mike says.

"Where'd you work before?"

Tapping the side of his glass, Mike says, "First firm."

"First-year associate, fresh out law school, and you're working with someone known as New York's best closer?" Cary sits up straighter on his bar stool. "There's no way that was luck. Where'd you go?"

Mike picks up his glass again, saying, "Oh, you know. A law school is a law school."

"No, it's not. Modesty is pointless." Cary's smile morphs into a smirk quicker than Mike's comfortable with. He says, "But you don't have to tell me. I already know. Harvard 2011."

If Mike has any luck left in this world, it's hopefully dark enough that if the blood drains out of his face, there's only a 20 to 30 percent chance that Cary will notice. He says, "How do you know that?"

He then takes a few gulps from his beer, because suddenly Mike's thirstier than he's ever been in his life. Cary's face is awash in amber beer and distorted by the bottom of Mike's glass.

Cary says, "My memory doesn't work exactly like yours, but I'm good with research too."

"Our firm only hires from Harvard," Mike says. It's no big deal. Harvard is no big deal. Mike looks toward the exit.

Cary doesn't let it go. He says, "So why you? Why're you special?"

"Are you always challenging?" Mike asks.

"You didn't believe me when I was sweet." Cary exhales, pretends to look forlorn. He asks, "Are you always this evasive?"

"Does that work for you?"

"Does it work for Pearson Hardman?" Cary perks up again, biting his lip. He drags it out slowly, exposing his teeth in increments.

;;

It turns out that even in bar lighting, Cary's a little reminiscent of college frat boys Mike was never around for very long, so that isn't why Mike goes to his place. It's quicker to get to Cary's apartment than Mike's hotel from the bar.

"Is that why?" Cary asks as they get in and shut the door.

"Seriously?" Mike says.

"Sorry. I'm competitive, I can't help it." It takes Cary two seconds to cross to where Mike's moved inside the living room. He touches Mike's shoulders, leans in.

Mike kisses Cary, because he's in Chicago, and he doesn't have to own anything he does on a business trip. None of this is his responsibility.

"You think I'm dating him?" Mike asks, taking a moment for breath.

Cary's fingers go to the buttons of Mike's shirt. "I think you're here right now."

Mike kisses Cary because he wants to.

Cary kisses as carefully as he uses his words, not always delicate but somehow precise. And still, Mike manages to catch his shin on the edge of an end table. Cary's chuckles vibrates against Mike's mouth.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"It's nothing. Just my dignity," Mike says, and that makes Cary laugh again. It's not an unwelcome sensation.

Cary reaches down for Mike's hand, catches his fingers. He murmurs, "Bedroom's this way."

Mike allows himself to be led.

;;

In the morning, Mike opens his eyes and finds Cary kneeling beside the bed. Mike jerks back, startled, and Cary's amusement comes out a soft puffs of air. He makes up for his viciousness with a glass of orange juice.

"Morning, Mikey," he says.

Mike twists up his mouth, squints at the sun through the window. The taste of the juice proves a welcome alternative to the leftover death accumulated in his body.

Mike says, "Nobody calls me that."

Cary looks unfazed. He says, "I'm a trendsetter. Plus, I made eggs. You hungry?"

"Oh, god, yes," Mike says. Maybe food will help him feel better about the brilliant combination of alcohol and limited sleep. "How are you perky?"

"Closely-guarded secrets of the cruel people in the world," Cary says. "Dark, dark magic. You wouldn't be into it."

"Ha," Mike deadpans as Cary stands and walks away. He's only wearing underwear.

When Mike rolls onto his back, he looks down the length of his own body and finds that, oh, right, he's wearing nothing.

"Well," he mutters, "this was a choice."

With a few minutes to gain clarity, Mike walks into Cary's kitchen and sees that he's not much more alert than Mike himself. He's just had time to wash his face. He passes Mike a plate and says, "Court in an hour."

"Alright," Mike says. Plenty of time. He's cut it way closer for much higher-pressure situations, except -- "Shit, I need to go back and get a fresh suit."

"You won't make it," Cary says. "Just wear one of mine."

"For real?" Mike says. "I could -- yeah, we're close enough. I can make it work. Thanks, that's --"

"Sweet?" Cary says, bringing his own cup of juice to his lips. He can even pull off his smirk behind the rim of a glass, completely sober.

Mike breaks off a piece of bread crust and flicks it at him. Cary dodges it and points at Mike, warning him. He says, "Hey. Don't go there," but closes the distance between them to sneak a kiss to Mike's face anyway. "Ohh, just completely over-processed sugar there."

"Get away from me."

"But I'm adorable," Cary says.

"You want my breakfast to come back up?"

"I worked so hard on it for you." He looks so genuinely stricken that Mike cracks up, and Cary ducks in to get Mike's mouth this time. He lingers, lets Mike sigh into it, and then pulls away to say, "I'm taking a shower."

Cary lays his hand on Mike's shoulder as he stands up, squeezes. Walking away, he says, "Take that as an invitation if you want it to be."

Mike eats more toast and eggs, listening to the sound of shower starting. Cary starts to whistle, the bathroom door clearly open and allowing the sound to travel easily. Mike washes down his food with the rest of his orange juice, leaves half on his plate and finally pushes back to trace the source of Cary's humming as he starts in on a tune that sounds a lot like Sinatra.

With water cascading between them, Cary says, "I went to Harvard too."

Mike tries to stay neutral, but he can feel horror surging inside him anyway. He says, "I, uh. I don't remember you."

"Different class," Cary says. "I'm a few years older than you, Ross. I had girlfriend who wanted to get married right out of school and everything, but I wanted other things. Peace corps instead."

"But you came back to law?"

"That was always the intention." Cary ducks his head under the water more directly, rinsing.

Mike thinks about what that might've been like -- finishing school, him and Trevor. he tries to imagine what it would've been like to meet Jenny if they were both legit. He says, "My best friend almost made me a runner. I was almost a dealer instead of a lawyer."

"Wow," Cary says, wiping his eyes. "And now you're trying to bust big drug cases."

"It's crazy, I know," Mike says. Cary doesn't even know the half of it.

He says to Mike, "I was high on shrooms in the middle of a murder case once."

"Okay, that tops me," Mike says.

Cary amends, saying, "Not a trial or anything, but it was -- I was in a room while our client was being questioned for like a day and half. Freaking out. I was supposed to have a day off."

Mike laughs him. He says, "No, that's amazing. You definitely win."

Narrowing his eyes, Cary asks, "Are you just saying that because I like hearing that phrase?"

"Of course you like it," Mike says. Lawyers.

;;

Splitting up and taking separate routes to court seems like a good idea until Mike has to jump out of his cab and sprint the last two blocks. Harvey's waiting on the street for Mike. He holds up his wrist and shakes once or twice, as if Mike's supposed to be able to reads the face from across the street.

"Court's at ten. We should've walked in already," Harvey says.

"Sorry," Mike says, opening his bag to dig around for copies of the documents they're starting with. "It's not like you need me. I gave you this stuff."

Harvey doesn't answer, simply makes an impatient motion with his hand, beckoning the folder to him. Mike relinquishes it and tries to catch his breath as Harvey gives them a once-over.

"There was traffic on Wacker," Mike explains. "I had to run that last -- it was bad."

"Miss your bike?"

"Yes," Mike says. Harvey doesn't smile, but he looks less impatient for the few seconds it takes him to then notice Mike's ensemble.

"Whoa, whoa, where'd you get this suit?" Harvey asks.

Mike says, "What? It's nice."

He's not lying, though the pants are almost too short. Cary's chest is a little broader than Mike's. Fucking people who work out regularly and need defined arm muscles. Mike tries not to push at the waist of the suit and draw more attention to his ankles.

It's doesn't matter much, because Harvey still says, "You look like a child playing in someone else's wardrobe."

"Do you want me to change? I thought we didn't have time," Mike says, attempting to bring the focus back to the case. His ankles threaten to make an appearance anyway. He's probably in for a day of that.

The expression on Harvey's face makes it clear that he's no longer endeared to Mike at all this morning, but he at least turns to head inside the courthouse. Florrick isn't in sight, but Cary's waiting for them, looking way too pleased with his morning, but then again, people on time probably have that luxury.

"How did you," Mike starts but thinks better of himself just in time.

"Morning," Cary says, sweeping his eyes across Harvey and Mike to include them both in the greeting. He stops on Mike. "Nice suit."

Harvey's expression sharpens, moving quickly from Cary to Mike. Cary's looking at Mike's ankles, entertained. Mike catches Harvey's eye and shrugs. Harvey doesn't comment, just opens the door and takes the lead as they move to start.

;;

On the bright side, they trounce the competition.

Mike stops sweating in his seat, strangely engrossed and nervous as he watches the proceedings. When he stands, he thinks he'll definitely have to get Cary's suit dry-cleaned before he ships it back, but a it's small sacrifice to make given their triumph. When Cary smiles at him as they walk out, Mike thinks, okay, his triumph. He had a good night.

Florrick shakes Mike's hand outside of the courtroom. He says, "Great work, Mr. Ross. Glad we could come together on this.."

"Thank you, sir," Mike says. "You and Harvey sold it."

They exchange a few more words, Florrick ultimately distracted by Harvey himself. As Mike watches, Cary comes to stand at his side and says, "Congratulations, counselor. You won."

Mike tilts his head to the side, considering, "You're right, that is a great sentence to hear."

"So, even compassionate men have pride," Cary says, wistfully, like he's taking time to appreciate the concept.

"I'm still a lawyer. And this is probably only the first round for you now, right?" Mike says. Even with few feet between them, Mike can't make out much of Florrick and Harvey's conversation. "Why do you work for him?"

"Florrick?" Cary says.

"Does his reputation get in the way?"

Cary mulls it over, says, "He's good at what he does. And he trusts me to be good at what I do."

"Yeah," Mike says, seeing Harvey finally turn and head for the exit.

"Ever think about coming to Chicago?" Cary asks. That steals Mike's attention. From the pleased look on Cary's face, that was his goal. "I wasn't kidding yesterday -- about this. You're good at this, too. You'd do well here."

At a loss for a response, Mike wipes his hands on the jacket of his suit -- Cary's suit. Harvey's on his phone when Mike glances back. It's one thing to step out of New York on a business trip, but it's another to take his risky show on the road.

"I don't know," Mike says. "I'm still learning with Pearson Hardman. I owe Harvey a lot."

"Harvey," Cary says slowly.

"It's not like that. Don't make it something it's not." Mike says. The strap of his bag cuts into his shoulder. He shifts it, but it doesn't help. Cary holds his hands up, but it doesn't really communicate a forfeit. "And it's not a competition."

"Of course it is," Cary says, slipping his hands into his pockets.

When Mike looks back this time, Harvey's returning Mike's gaze. He nods his head toward the doors. Cary's smirks flattens out, flips into something Mike saw last night -- this morning.

He says, "Have a safe trip home, Mike."

"Thank you," Mike says. "I'll, uh, I'll send your clothes back."

"No rush."

"Okay," Mike says, suddenly floundering. He's thankful all over again when Cary holds his hand out.

They shake.

Harvey's disappeared by the time Mike goes to catch up. He heads outside quickly and spots Harvey standing on the street, hand up to hail a cab.

"Wow, are you sure you can do this without me?" Mike asks, the harsh sunlight forcing him to squint. Chicago may be chilly, but that doesn't stop it from being extremely bright some days.

"Had to before," Harvey says, which Mike isn't expecting. Of course a cab pulls up within a minute. "Wrap up your betting?"

The tone of his voice halts Mike. "Are you mad at me?"

Harvey reaches to open the car door but falls short of getting in. He stops, blocking Mike, and he says, "Look, yeah, traveling for a case on the company's dime can be fun, but when we're supposed to be working, we do. That could still mean we stay late, and it means showing up on time. Do that. Otherwise, I could come by myself."

"Now you're regretting bringing me," Mike says.

"I brought you, because I needed your to help to get something done," Harvey says. "Because I thought you were the best for it. That you could be reliable on a trip instead of lost in Chicago with friends."

Mike frowns. "Are you talking about Cary?"

"Look, I don't care what you do on your own time, but it's a problem when you start cutting into mine, showing up late and sloppy for my cases."

"Harvey, it was like a minute, and we won," Mike says. He thought that that was the point. "Are you serious? One minute messes this up, so now it was a bad idea for me to come? I'm sorry, fine. I'll go back to New York, and I won't come to Chicago ever again, if that's what you want."

"Excuse me?"

"Can we just go home?" Mike asks. "I'm tired, I'm uncomfortable, and I'd really like us to go home."

Harvey quiets, expression severe and then slowly relaxing. He lets his eyes travel down, visibly put off by Mike's suit, which Mike doesn't get. Maybe it's not custom fit and didn't cost $2000, but it's fine.

Mouth quirking, Harvey says, "Don't tell me you're keeping this on. These pants."

Mike's mouth drops open a little, offended. He says, "Hey, I barely have time to go back to the hotel and grab my bag. I have to wear something on the plane."

Harvey's smirk is in full force then, one puff of breath escaping him in a sound that resembles the beginnings of a laugh.

"What?"

Harvey shrugs off the question, twisting to get into the cab. He's definitely chuckling now.

Mike tries again, "No, tell me. What?"

"Come on, before you make me late for my flight, too," Harvey says, ignoring Mike until he moves to slide into the cab behind Harvey. "Other side!"

"Right, no sliding," Mike says and shuts the door to walk around the trunk.

Make Whole What Has Been Smashed (Sherlock/John, R)

gigantic — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 02:42:34 GMT

Make Whole What Has Been Smashed
by Charli J
Sherlock (BBC). Sherlock/John. R. 12,500 words.

"Don't look that way, John. Blank stares are already a dreadful reminder of how hopeless other people are," Sherlock said.

"Since most people aren't maintaining a home with Merlin living backwards, I think I'm doing alright at going with it so far," John said.

Notes: Many thanks to sobota for beta work and encouragement! The title comes from a section in Benjamin Walter's “Theses on the Philosophy of History” about Klee's 'Angelus Novus' painting. Also available on AO3.

;;

Sherlock realized he'd missed something within the first few minutes. It was impossible not to, of course, under the circumstances. He found himself with his eyes open, lying flat and unsure about the world, about his surroundings. He was without words about any of it, to be completely honest. Those came later. At the start, he'd simply opened his eyes and blinked and hadn't any words, but then someone was standing over him and said, "Sherlock? Sherlock, you're up early. Is everything all right?"

Sherlock hadn't any recollection of this person, hadn't any knowledge of the words he spoke, or that they were called words, or that he was in fact a he. Sherlock fixed his mouth to mimic the sounds, curious and confused, and since the person kept speaking to him, it seemed to be the thing to do, opening his mouth and closing it and producing invisible shapes that tickled his eardrums.

"Are you feeling okay?" the man asked.

Sherlock didn't know. He couldn't know okay nor alright or if he should be concerned about feeling either, because he couldn't have imagined how those felt or that feeling was sometimes a thing of emotion and not a physicality or that these two things might differ. He simply saw a man. He saw the opening and closing of his mouth, the lift of his eyebrows and something like anticipation. There were long pauses, and Sherlock did not understand these either, but he felt he should mimic them. There seemed to be space enough between the words to try, and he was unsure that he could produce the sounds, but it was worth it to make an attempt. The shapes weren't the same from his own throat. His version of sound had been darker, more thready.

He said -- he couldn't be sure of what he said in the moment, but later he would remember it as the least eloquent he'd ever been or could be, pursing his mouth and saying, "--hoo?"

The eyebrows of the man over him dropped, came close together, and Sherlock couldn't have named this look, but it felt altogether different. There was still some space left, too long a pause that he hadn't managed to fill up, and perhaps this was the problem.

"Oh," the man over him said. "You've forgotten again."

;;

That had been day one. The very beginning of the first day, Sherlock Holmes had known nothing. By the middle he knew a few things, and by the late afternoon he knew a few more, like an overstuffed closet in his mind, and every so often, the door couldn't bear any more and some contents would have to spill out.

He knew some of these things by intuition, a familiar pull at touching a lamp or a plate or a mug. Those items he knew because John told him. John told Sherlock a lot of things, starting with, "Here's your tea, then, with sugar, no milk. Your cup's already clean. Might as well start easier if it's going to be one of these days."

John handed over the cup, and in that moment Sherlock learned several things. He learned that mornings started with tea, that he had a cup, that he liked sugar more than he liked milk, and that the man who'd offered it to him was in fact someone who gives things and that he knew Sherlock cared about personal hygiene -- to name a few. It took some more time to sort it all out. The lessons didn't come to him in linear, coherent thoughts at once, but he sipped his tea with some prompting from John. John reminded Sherlock to curl his fingers and tip the cup just so. Sherlock tasted tea, and it felt right, the drinking of it. It felt right that he should get this from John, whose eyebrows pinched over and over, who looked like he might benefit from lying down the way that Sherlock had begun his day.

Sherlock quite enjoyed the lessons he got from John. His name was about the seventy-fifth lesson, after a visitor came and inquired about Sherlock. This visitor said, "Hello, John," upon his arrival and then, "How is he today? All backwards?" and looked at Sherlock and asked the question again. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock knew the answer from his first ever conversation, from the beginning of the day. He pinched his eyebrows the way John had and copied the shapes of his mouth. He said, "Oh. Forgotten again."

The visitor had looked shocked or impressed or confounded. The three did overlap too frequently, Sherlock would find out. He'd said, "Is that right?" and looked back at John, exchanging more words, all of them curved and worn at the edges -- a whisper.

"Afternoon, John," the man said eventually. He vanished soon after that, and John saw to his exit.

When he returned, Sherlock said, "John," just as easily. He liked that shape, the way it came out all in one push and then was done. Simple, complete. "John."

The eyebrows lifted again, and John titled his head. John's face was made up of the tiniest expressions, tells and cues and complete thoughts in one glance, and Sherlock thought he might mimic and learn those too. But at the start, the expressions were all just halting, and there were the spaces that Sherlock thought he might try to fill, but before he could repeat his word, John touched his hand to his chest and said, "Yeah," nodding. "Still just me. Not going anywhere."

So the seventy-fifth lesson Sherlock learned was that John was what to call this man made of expressions, that he was John and still just John, as if there were times someone might have thought him someone else. He was only John, and he was not going anywhere, though he had gone to the door at that point, so he might go somewhere at times, not very far, and come back. That seemed okay. He wasn't going to any place that he deemed significant enough to call different, and Sherlock hadn't had a full understanding of space and lengths and distances, but he learned as he went that he rather preferred when John was more near than far; that it was not to his taste when he could describe John as being far because nearer meant more lessons, meant all of John's looking and leaving space enough for Sherlock.

And Sherlock did enjoy those spaces, too, filling them up with things to evaluate what would make John furrow his eyebrows or let them sit apart. He learned more than three hundred lessons the first day alone, until John seemed too worn out of teaching to even hold his face together, expressions all soppy, and Sherlock thought that maybe he could teach John to lie. That didn't seem to be a thing John did much of, and Sherlock knew that one at least, could remember what it was like even if he couldn't explain all the cues. Sherlock urged for John to have tea, and John got up to make it, which was fine, because Sherlock didn't think he'd perfected the technique yet, but then after it was made and consumed, Sherlock insisted John lie down. He guided his limbs so that they would bend and straighten correctly.

John said, "Patience, patience," but he did lie, the two of them together.

It was fine like this, after the showing and the learning. Sherlock's mind felt full. He tipped his head to the right and lifted it, waited for something to come out, but the fullness stayed. He tried again.

John said, "It's all right, Sherlock. We can rest."

He touched Sherlock's shoulder and had him lay back. Sherlock said, "John," touching their arms together.

John's hand came over Sherlock's wrist, humming. He asked, "How are the thoughts today? How many words?"

"Many," Sherlock said. He couldn't categorize them all or understand them completely, had picked up quite a few, but there was still so much.

Nodding, John said, "Right, well. That's good. Don't you think we should arrange them?"

He had that lifted look again, and Sherlock simply tried to copy it. He gave John an answering look until John felt satisfied with the duration of that particular pause and said, "Okay, three true things today. Let's have it out." He patted Sherlock's chest when Sherlock didn't fill the space this time. "Speak."

It took some cuing, but Sherlock said words and John said more, helped Sherlock piece together sentences and thoughts. It was long a time before something dragged Sherlock under, heavy and soft like the words of their visitor, a whisper against his brain. He felt full and sorted, all John's doing, so Sherlock gave himself over to the weight, and before he was unconscious, John pressed his mouth to Sherlock's shoulder, and that was lesson five hundred and three.

;;

The second day Sherlock knew more than the first, and so on for the third and fourth. John became harder to parse, though. He said Sherlock sometimes didn't make enough sense, had got caught up again in talking about things that hadn't happened. It was confusing, the way John couldn't remember the visitor they had when Sherlock asked his name.

Sherlock described the man quite clearly, and John said, "Sherlock, that hasn't happened," but Lestrade had come around several days before, maybe two weeks, if Sherlock meant him.

Sherlock thought, no, but it's been only a portion of that. He could track it by a calendar, a fascinating way to keep a day.

There was the curiousness of John's method for tracking the calendar, filling it up with colorful crosses, and then Sherlock would wake up and one would be gone. It seemed a little silly to him, and he said it to John in one of the early days. He said, "Wouldn't it be simpler to draw through days after they happen and not before, John? Don't you agree?"

He'd gotten better control of speaking. It was thanks to John for the most part, helping to rearrange the words and sentences Sherlock kept, and they made so much more sense when put right, as if he really had known it and forgotten. He did that a lot, according to John, forgot things or got them mixed up.

Sherlock figured out the problems with the days and the way John and visitors always seemed to know things differently than him about the same time John told him. He had a suspicion on a Sunday, tried it out, and then on a Tuesday asked John if he remembered the film they watched, described the setting perfectly, from the key scenes to how John kissed Sherlock's knuckles in the middle of it, during an exchange between two children.

John asked, "Are you sure, Sherlock? Are you sure that's happened?"

The phrasing tipped him off as well. The way John always said something "hasn't happened" in present tense was another clue among a whole list of others. Sherlock liked keeping the lists, took the facts that he and John talked through and wrote them down, even, but he was always losing the lists and occasionally finding ones John must have done of his own thinking. John's present tense phrasing had been on the one Sherlock had started Sunday and lost, and he would have to add it to a new sheet so as not to forget, though he never forgot the things that were important, so it was no serious matter in the end.

It was John who always told Sherlock that he forgot things, but Sherlock knew clear as anything what had happened on the sofa, watching telly. He said, "Yes, I'm sure. It happened yesterday, John. Are you alright?"

"Do you mean yesterday or tomorrow?" John asked. He balled up his fingers and stretched them out again. "Because yesterday we sorted this, and today you've -- you've forgotten again, Sherlock."

"I remember it clearly."

"You're living backwards. It's all reversed," John said, finally. "I can tell you what's happened if you --"

"Why would you tell me what I know perfectly well?" Sherlock interjected, cutting through John's nonsense. "Be sensible, John. It's not me that's disoriented."

Though it was what he suspected. The calendars and lessons, the memories. It all made more sense to think of it plainly, that John and Sherlock were living in different directions. They couldn't remember the same things, but they could piece the parts together. If only John could see.

"I can go through the timeline," John said. "Catch you up."

"Don't bother," Sherlock said.

He went to their bedroom and wrapped his dressing gown around himself tightly. John was full of useful knowledge, perhaps it made sense that he could get so turned around about the days, doing things in illogical ways. If one person lived one way and another man another, it was possible they'd get tangled and mixed up.

John offered to tell Sherlock his version of things again, and Sherlock dismissed him. He said, "I have to organize the words. I'll do it alone."

So John didn't help him with his thoughts, and Sherlock spent most of the next day in the room still, trying to figure out the issue. John seemed shocked that Sherlock was still thinking, asked what had got him in a strop, and Sherlock only came out for tea and to notice another X mark on the calendar gone.

"If you'd only mark them as the days went by," Sherlock said.

"On what?" John asked, and then looked back. "Sherlock, I do. You know this, remember."

"Why are you insisting I've forgotten?" Sherlock asked. "It's a tedious argument to have twice, John."

"More than that," John said. He was wrong of course. It had been two times.

They argued again, about the direction of time, until Sherlock said, "If I'm not heading in the right direction, then what I have missed?"

It was a challenge, a frustrated outburst. John said, "It would -- it would be easier with the papers. Yesterday I told you about a car crash I witnessed two blocks over. Do you remember?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said. He wouldn't forget something like that. They spent most of their time shut up in the house or downstairs for food, and he wouldn't have forgotten something like a collision, even if John had completely forgotten about the protest happening on the other side of town, had gotten so wound up when Sherlock mentioned he'd caught something on the news, by accident, because Sherlock knew John disliked the news and more still when Sherlock mentioned seeing it.

But now John huffed and turned on the set. He switched right to a news program, and let it play. Sherlock said, "This isn't necessary."

He didn't want to agitate John for fun. They had some things to resolve, and Sherlock had learned quite a lot from books and movies about fantastic histories people dreamed up, of places and things, and John had said, "Oh, a lot of it is real but a lot of it is make believe," but now he said, "This is all fact. You'll see."

And so it was. Or so it mostly was, because even the news got things wrong Sherlock would come to learn, but that day he watched and got drawn in, and they talked about yesterday the way John did. They talked about things that hadn't happened, and it was impossible to believe, a whole nation of people living so completely wrong, but if all of them thought one way and Sherlock another, then -- well, that would require some more thinking.

"John," he said airily, absorbed in the stories and updates, so sure of what sounded like make believe and yet fit in with books he read, all varying degrees of fiction, according to John.

Fiction was easier, John had said on the eighth day, and Sherlock didn't mind easy, since tea was filed under the same header, and maybe that was why Sherlock could never find his lists. Maybe they were all his lists, old and new. He moved away from the TV and searched until he found one he hadn’t penned. The writing looked familiar, but Sherlock had copied his own handwriting after John's on the first days, and so he thought the unfamiliar lists were John's, but now -- now he held up a piece of paper and said, "Did you write this?"

John said, "No, I don't touch the lists. You keep them in a certain order, in a certain place. It's easier for you to catch up, Sherlock. Do you remember?"

No. No, Sherlock did not, but it made an eerie sort of sense, that today he and John had a row, and two days ago, when Sherlock asked John if he'd tell him some true things and help arrange the words, John had seemed surprised and asked, "Not the whole story?"

"Just the true things. I will ask and you sort it, like always," Sherlock had said, because that was their routine, wasn't it? It had been since day one, from the beginning, except in the day between, Sherlock had told John not to bother with any stories and apparently hadn't ever asked John for the whole story again in any day that followed, not even at the end of the first day when John had kissed Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock fell asleep.

Sherlock knitted his brow together the way John did many times and asked, "What do you know about November 18?"

It was the first day, and Sherlock woke up on day two and November 18 had been unsurprisingly blank, like November 19 and 20 and the days before those, because they'd already happened. There was no clutter there, as all the words for those days were sorted and wiped clean. John liked to clear the days away, so he marked calendars backwards and left the past tidy, except today John said, "Nothing, you know that. It's the future, Sherlock."

"November 19?"

"The same," John said, exhaling. "And you don't tell me, of course, that's always been the deal."

"Right," Sherlock said, and it was just as well, because it occurred to Sherlock that he didn't know of November 19 either.

;;

On day three, John had said, "I wish you could know it again. I wish you could remember that it's different for us."

From early on, Sherlock had known that he and John were different, but it took Sherlock a while to make sense of too many words and loose ends, and how he could intuit things, and why still some things didn't fit together. He knew they were different, that John wouldn't go anywhere, because he was just John, and therefore things were different for them, because John liked to mark his days backwards. Sherlock knew things and always remembered, contrary to John's frustration, but it eventually came to light that they were different because Sherlock was even more divergent on his own, because Sherlock's tomorrows were John's yesterdays.

It became more evident once Sherlock gave the notion a real chance. For instance, there was never any newspaper in the house, and then one morning there was a small stack. Sherlock asked, "Where'd these come from?"

"Mm, I forgot to throw them out," John said, and then did so, which was alright, because there were a lot of words in the one Sherlock had started to investigate, too many to rearrange all at once if they were all fact, like the news on television.

The next day the papers reappeared, and this time Sherlock said, "I thought you took these out?" remembering too late.

John said, "Oh, I will. Slipped my mind this morning," but of course he didn't, because Sherlock knew that yesterday -- tomorrow -- Sherlock would remind John.

It happened that way, Sherlock trying to read things and being overwhelmed, so John would minimize the news, or increase it steadily, as Sherlock was able to accept more of it, want the new words. He wanted the facts of yesterday, to close in on the source of a problem and see how a political race ended up one way or a disaster another.

Several long weeks after the beginning -- or before, for John -- Sherlock read a story about a dead woman. He read out the headline and first paragraph to John, the way he did sometimes, so that John could help him arrange the city correctly in his mind, and John had said, "That was so tragic," with a deep regret.

The next day, he asked John to take him the library across the street from where reports had mentioned the woman died, and they checked out books for Sherlock. It was overwhelming to be amongst the bustle, people everywhere, living and altering the course of things. He and John didn't see the woman die, but they saw the emergency vehicles after, and it made all the more sense when they asked the details of the unfortunate accident. John's regret was clearer to Sherlock then, and Sherlock didn't like the look on him, more upset than he'd ever been, even when Sherlock got wound up and had a sulk.

During the ride home, Sherlock couldn't stop thinking of it. He said, "If only I had paid closer attention."

The woman could have possibly lived. John wouldn't have to frown tomorrow and take on an expression that creased his features.

"We can't always," John had said, resolute but low. He sighed. "Sometimes you have to choose the good days."

He was relieved the next day when the woman was alive and John was unconcerned. It was strange but better, and he kept looking at John's face for some recognition, but there was none. Eventually John said, "Well, what is it?"

"Yesterday -- tomorrow, I saw something," and John held up his hand.

He said, "Whatever it is, don't tell me. I want to have a quiet day."

A very interesting reaction, Sherlock decided, because Sherlock’s tomorrow could be quiet. They had many quiet days, but then Sherlock thought of John's closed off expression, a resignation that was even more silent. It was Sherlock's doing, then, to a point. Had John not known of his own tomorrow, then he certainly wouldn't have had to feel guilt about today, and that was the state of Sherlock's life, it seemed. Maybe that was why John eventually thought to keep less news around. Forward and backwards all at once.

Sherlock told John to leave the papers and the news as time went on. Although there was no shortage of unfortunate things that had already happened, it meant there were also stories about people always coming back to life, getting a new day, even if it was an old one, even if they would make the same decisions and lead them to Sherlock's past, ticking off the days with small, colorful crosses until they hadn't an opportunity to do it anymore.

That could be a decent way to think of it. Set backwards, people were always dying. Set forwards, people were always living, and that could fit on the list John must have had Sherlock start at some point a long time before, closer to the beginning that Sherlock hadn't reached yet. He could tell by the way the paper browned, hidden inside the bathroom mirror and boasting 'silver linings' at the top, underlined twice.

;;

"This is boring," Sherlock said. He'd sat at home for so many days, branching out as much as John let him, but he'd read through the news and kept better lists, annotated and carefully dated. He started some experiments or woke up to find them mostly complete, really, and would set about unraveling a mystery until its most basic point, and that was fascinating until it wasn't quite fascinating enough.

John said, "Everything always is."

That was another thing John was wrong about. Sherlock had been content until today, mesmerized by a universe in which he started in the middle and had to catch up. There was a world out there, with people coming back from oblivion all the time, each of them mysteries unraveled, and Sherlock had enough of reading about it more than seeing himself, first hand, out in the action.

He knew so much from studying -- his name was Sherlock Holmes, and he had had a brother, and he had John, and he once had a website where he logged all of his lists in a different way, focused on individual people, unwinding crimes and events, and John logged their lives on the internet, but those were both gone. He knew the day he was born and the date he would most likely die, his beginning and end all in one, and John knew the first of those dates but Sherlock would never tell him the second, because John might get that expression, the regretful one, and Sherlock didn't think it sensible of John to frown about a day where he had taught Sherlock so much.

Sherlock memorized and remembered more than other people, because he had to. Studying made things easier, and John liked easier, since it got extremely difficult for him towards the end, with Lestrade coming through to check on them once in very long whiles. Sherlock could recognize that the further he got away from it, how trying it must be to live with a man who seemed to forget everything each day, more and more still, because he hadn't yet learned them in his own timeline, a man who opened his mouth one morning and couldn't even form full words without more practice and effort.

So Sherlock memorized for John's sake, and they were getting younger every day, and he was much more articulate now. But he knew of texts and not enough of real experience, and he said, "Well, take me out. John, I'm bored."

"It's not wise, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock didn't give up, because John sounded like he didn't really want to tell Sherlock no, like if Sherlock picked at him more, was careful about his coaxing, he might be able to see something interesting again.

He'd gotten so preoccupied with reading John backwards that the day snuck up on him, and he hadn't paid enough attention to it when a story on the news made him shudder, the details of it gruesome and enthralling and too much at once. He could separate out some of what happened, how it could have been prevented, and Sherlock said that aloud, sternly said, "It could've been solved."

He was at least half sure of it.

John was at his side, and that had been what was distracting, how John said, "Most of them are," then touched Sherlock's neck. John always left space in sentences for Sherlock, and he insinuated himself where Sherlock didn't even realize he needed John, and that was all fine, but John had not kissed him quite like he did then, on the mouth with his brow furrowed, and it felt sad. It felt regretful, all wrong, and Sherlock pulled back and eyed John warily.

"Sherlock --"

"Stop that," Sherlock said. "I don't want it."

John looked surprised, and then offended, and then overtired, and that. That was what Sherlock didn't want, when he'd been trying so hard to keep facts straight for John. He hadn't even done anything to deserve the look today.

John was too calm about how he said, "Sherlock," that false calm for an agitated madman.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "Why would you do that then? Like that? I don't deserve it."

John argued the point a bit, but he let it go before too long, getting up and leaving the room. Sherlock turned off the TV and stared at the ceiling, perplexed by John Watson's actions. There were billions of people on the planet, and none of them were as much a puzzle as John, who stayed with Sherlock and felt compelled to kiss him when he was sad about perfectly true statements Sherlock made about the news.

He spent the rest of the night thinking about John, everything about him that he could remember living and hearing John say about their lives, and John still came to bed with Sherlock that night, solid and warm. He was absolutely confounding, but as long as he ended up here no matter what, Sherlock thought that would ultimately do.

The odd evening made more sense the next day when Sherlock got a call from Lestrade, saying they'd found another body. Sherlock had been right, which meant time was running out.

It turned out to be the case from the news reports. Sherlock did his best to conjure more of the details, tracing them frontwards and then fixing them backwards in his mind again. He tried to recall precisely when the last body had been found and when the murderer committed suicide by police fire, but he'd mixed up the times and the sequence, and two more people died, and Sherlock knew with immediate certainty that this moment was inevitable, but it still felt utterly unsatisfactory.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that the shocked looks of authority figures were coupled with conciliatory rubbish about next time. Next time Sherlock would be in top shape again. They were worse than the ones who said that this was truly it, then, a Sherlock Holmes turned human and fallible, and Sherlock scoffed and walked away from them, remembering John when he touched Sherlock's arm and caught up.

"They're bitter about missing the details in time," John said.

"They were right," Sherlock said, because it was true. "I saw it. I should have known."

John nodded. He said, "It doesn't always help. This isn't the first time, Sherlock. We'll --"

"Don't bother," Sherlock said.

He knew that if he was direct with John, then John would listen. He'd learned that from experience at least, and he didn't want to be placated by anyone, least of all the man who knew how it should go, that if Sherlock spent so much time studying, had seen the headlines only yesterday, tomorrow, then he should be able to do something about it.

John reached out to touch him back in their flat, and Sherlock wouldn't have it. He didn't deserve to suffer failure and John's sorrow, and he knew John would try again tomorrow, while they relived it, and then he'd not try that again, ever, and Sherlock was going to be better for it, none-the-wiser, because he didn't want pity from John.

Sherlock figured out his mistakes in the following days, living backwards through the case. He couldn't change the fate of these people, all resurrected and doomed, but he could do better for the next one. He would know what to keep watch for in criminals and how they thought.

It seemed so simple when he made it to the start of the crime, feeling too anxious the morning of because he knew Lestrade would call, and John said, "You won't be bored forever."

"Of course not," Sherlock said, still tapping his foot restlessly, if only the text would come.

He worked through the start of the crime quickly, examining the scene and finding every clue he knew he would. He told John about it, painted the clues out for Lestrade and John, and everyone, and Lestrade said, "Then we can have this one solved with no problem?"

"It's always solved," John said testily before Sherlock could say something different. Sherlock didn't mind it, he thought, because Lestrade would not have liked the entire truth.

;;

Crimes were so interesting. Much like the home experiments, Sherlock could peel them back, fact by fact and trace their origins, and sometimes Lestrade would get to question suspects, ask, "Why does your best mate want to kill you?" and Sherlock could find out if they knew the answer already the way Sherlock did. The most fun ones did, but there were some that didn't, and very few could predict how they would be put down, by knife or poison or bullet or chainsaw (which had been an especially nasty one).

Sherlock had missed points on his second case, but less than the first. The third went better still, and he realized that there were merely too many facts. He couldn't keep all the words and thoughts for the mundane at the front of his brain if he was meant to keep all the true things about crime scenes past and future. There was too much to remember.

He'd keep the essentials. He'd keep the experiments and motives, common threads in various crime scenes. He'd keep how he liked his tea and most everything related to John, naturally.

"I'm clearing out the clutter," was how Sherlock explained it to John. "There's too much. Some of this data must go."

"Reformatting the hard drive?" John offered.

"What?" Sherlock said, pressing the tips of his fingers together. "Oh, yes." That was a genius way of describing the process. "Deleting everything extraneous to keep the important parts. You'll forgive me unlearning to hoover."

"I have for this long," John said.

Very interesting, Sherlock thought, considered it, and then filed that away for keeping too. John was a forgiving man, evidence number eight hundred and twelve.

John said, "Be careful what you're deleting. Can we password protect the bit about how to pay bills on time? I'm tired of teaching it."

"Hm," Sherlock said. Passwords. John Watson was absolutely bursting with exceptional ideas. "Of course. You must say the password though, I think. For it to stick."

"I know the routine."

Right, right. Sherlock said, "Alright, say it."

"Lieder," John said, the word sparkling in Sherlock's mind. He felt that tingling in his brain that he'd come to know as the intuition. It was so much more pronounced all of a sudden, now that he knew what this word meant to him, like an unlocking in his brain, and there John Watson was, all the bytes of him, compressed and filed with the attention of a lifetime.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, closing his eyes.

John looked up from his book. He said, "What is? Have you protected it?"

"Without a doubt," Sherlock said. "I keep everything of you, John."

John closed his book at that. He shifted in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock. He said, "No, you don't."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You forget things all the time," John said, a bit incredulously. "I've been here to witness it, you know."

John had it twisted again. Sherlock said, "I remember everything."

"It's difficult to keep backwards and forwards all at once. You've said this to me; I've lived it."

Sherlock lived it as well, in his own way. He could say for certain that he memorized every moment of being with John, a doctor who only had one patient. Sherlock was John's life's work so far, and would always be in a sense. He knew very well how to help a backwards man through a forward world. Sherlock could feel so much of them laid out, John staying John and teaching Sherlock, and it was endlessly interesting to observe the documents on it.

He said, "I've lived it too. I assure you, you're there."

"I can't tell with the way you still don't make tea," John said, sarcasm palpable. "That was about lesson number one."

"Not so true," Sherlock said, since he could never forget lesson one. The first day he knew in great detail. "You make it righter that I can."

John snorted, and then the sound bubbled down to a laugh, and yes. Sherlock had that one on file, like everything else. John said, "You only store the facts, the important parts."

"You're all fact," Sherlock said. Even more than the news. Sherlock was with John all the time, and so he could verify his entire existence as true and important, since John taught Sherlock everything he knew or would come to know.

"Amazing," John said.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "What was that?"

"You're amazing," John said again, as if it was inconsequential.

"Really?" It was Sherlock who regarded John suspiciously for that.

"You're always amazing, Sherlock, even now," John said with confidence, and that turned out to be on file, too, how astounding, but Sherlock hadn't heard that out loud before. He knew John liked him enough not to go away, but amazing? He hadn't thought to ascribe it to himself from John, not when he hadn't proven anything yet and only filled John's life with hard education.

Sherlock remembered himself and closed his eyes again, dropping his head back. He collected his thoughts and put John Watson away, making sure the files were properly guarded. He said, "Hm. John, aren't you worried about this password? It's predictable. You must know that."

"It's worked this far in," John said. He had amusement in his voice still.

Sherlock said, "My most played classic piece. Anyone could guess."

"So you've said time and again," John said. "But you picked the word, not me. I've only kept it because you said."

And that did sound familiar, now that John mentioned it. Sherlock said, "That's unlike me. Its sentimentality makes it easy to deduce."

"It was the first piece you played for me that wasn't droning or terrifying," John said.

"Sentimental and thought about romantically --"

"It's a fact."

"Ah," Sherlock said. He didn't know this memory intimately, but it sounded right, and John said fact, so it must have been. And facts were different, weren't they? Facts were imperative for survival. The password would have to stay.

;;

The first time Sherlock solved a crime, truly prevented a criminal, was because he'd studied the history and taken to perusing past newspapers and internet articles with a close, routine eye. He and John were on the scene, and they sustained some bruising, Sherlock a very serious concussion, but John had taken him home at the end of the night, after the medics fussed over him, and he kissed Sherlock on the mouth again.

He'd tried a few times in between, and Sherlock had done his best to evade him, but this time John was more exhilarated than worried or sad. Sherlock could see it in him, knew somewhere deep in his senses, and so this kiss was far better. It felt like a reward. Sherlock didn't need trophies so long as he could solve the mysteries, as long as there was proof that he was getting sharper, mind working faster than ever, but John had his easy smile on, and he pressed it against Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock liked the taste of it, so this reward was different.

They stayed up for hours, at John's insistence.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "I know it for certain."

"But I don't," John said. "You have a concussion. We're staying up."

He didn't need to worry, because Sherlock could remember all the days before this one where the concussion hadn't been a problem. John kissed him again, and he said that it didn't matter, he still wanted to stay awake. It was just as well, because yesterday Sherlock had woken up around one in the afternoon, which made sense if he and John had gotten to sleep very late.

"There are several hours between now and the morning," Sherlock said.

John said, "Would you want me to talk you through a story?"

"One from before me," Sherlock said.

John made a face that signaled his distaste. He wasn’t keen on talking about before Sherlock, or after, as Sherlock would see it. He said, "Those aren't exciting. Wouldn't you like to hear about a case?"

"Another time," Sherlock said. "I need to know about you. Your genesis is equally as important as anything else."

More than thirty years before Sherlock, and John didn't like to talk about any of them as much as the cases. It wasn't fair that he could know Sherlock from day one, but Sherlock couldn't know John.

"You've heard most of it," John said.

"Pretend I haven't," Sherlock said. The protected files needed to be originally recorded at some point. They didn't come from nowhere, and proper analysis indicated that they were from John's past storytelling and Sherlock's future. He eventually had to hear them all once, as John was the key to inspecting those files directly, his voice.

With some coaxing, John told Sherlock a story about a time while he was in school. He and Harry had never been close, but they spent more time around one another back then at least. They’d shared mutual friends. It was one of Harry's friends that became John's first girlfriend, and Harry was annoyed with him initially, because she felt John had stolen away her friend's attention. Lucy was her name. John had stolen Lucy, and it wasn't until much later that John learned that Harry had simply been in love with her too, how Lucy loved Nutella sandwiches and preferred the music her father played on the family's old phonograph instead of anything more recent, much like everything John had loved about her and then stopped enjoying as much when they broke it off.

"She's the reason you reject hazelnut," Sherlock said. He'd pushed his face into John's shoulder during the story, and then even closer, almost right up against John's throat as if he might breathe in the words that way and get an exact sense of their shape to have forever.

John scoffed and didn't make Sherlock move. He said, "That was years ago."

"Not a denial," Sherlock said. He shifted up to see John's eyes. "I know you're softhearted, John. You can't hide it when I can see it up close."

"Who's hiding? I'm right here," John said, which was not an admission any more than it wasn't a denial, but true all the same.

John was right here for Sherlock and not Lucy or anyone else, and he wouldn't go anywhere, not even when things were so hard that it would be fair for John to stop loving too many words and thoughts associated with Sherlock. He knew because he'd lived through it, and Sherlock couldn’t change his past any more than John could change his own; he'd tried with a crime scene and remembered nothing differently that how he'd experienced the outcome. This would be the same, but that was definitely something to go on the Silver Linings list, both of them stuck in a timeline already told from beginning to end and back but irrevocably tied together.

Sherlock kissed John. He touched his face, tracing a long, tired line curving up John's cheek and kissed him the way John had done first.

John was impressively responsive, sighing for Sherlock and kissing him back in earnest, as if Sherlock had unearthed all of John's own locked materials. It was a shame and oversight that Sherlock hadn't thought to kiss John from day one, undeniably one of the best days of Sherlock's memory, but he would make up for it in the future.

John's mouth was all-consuming, full of so much new detail that Sherlock couldn't process it all thoroughly enough. He'd have to do much more research, staying at it for several minutes, and John let him, groaning only when he reached for Sherlock's bottoms and Sherlock held him at bay.

Sherlock learned everything of John's body in due time, often after crime scenes, when their adrenaline was highest. Sherlock learned that John could make him come with only his hand and kisses, could do it with his mouth on Sherlock's cock as easily as an expert. He taught Sherlock how to do the same for him, re-taught, and so the first time Sherlock had sex was much later in life than people living in the opposite direction but relatively early for him, trusting John to show him how and make him perfect again, whole and arranged in all the proper ways.

"Sherlock," John said in breathless desperation as Sherlock pushed inside him, the present sensation of being here so much more vivid than the echoes in Sherlock's pre-programmed memory.

"Say the word," Sherlock said. He knew John would understand.

John scrunched up his face, biting his lip. He said, "What?" in frustration, clenching around Sherlock. "Now?"

"I want to keep this."

He had to update his records, highlight these, and make sure they couldn't slip out. John arched under him, let Sherlock graze his teeth along his throat to taste and learn.

"Sherlock --"

"Say it," Sherlock said, and their voices matched here. They had the same trouble breathing, but John said the word, and Sherlock could access him entirely, filled in suggestions of things known and would never let them be deleted.

next

Despite Gibberish (Zach/Chris, R)

gigantic — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 20:50:59 GMT

Yesterday I was going through my fic folder and re-discovered this, which I remember starting but don't remember apparently finishing, but there you have it.

Despite Gibberish
by Charli J
Zach/Chris. Star Trek RPS. R. 9500 words.

In which Zach has trouble with sentimentality, dusting off certain words, and people overestimating his relationships.

Note: All mistakes are due to my wretchedness. Matt is obviously Matt Bomer. (Obviously.) This is also available on AO3.

;;

"Some of us have kids," Matt says, holding up a hand.

"Oh, shit," Zach says, and it makes so much sense now. He wonders why it took him so long to realize. "That's it. You're old."

"I'm --" Matt snorts, looking sideways, incredulous. When he turns back to Zach, his mouth is still hanging open a little. "I'm not old. I'm an adult."

"You're in denial."

"I'm turning you down for more drinks," Matt says. "At midnight. It's already late, even. I think that's fair."

"I'm too young to have old friends," Zach says, but he's doing it to watch Matt flounder now, tapping his fingers against the table and exhaling.

Matt drains his glass of water and says, "See? I'm not playing this game, because I'm actually cool with the fact that I'm not 20."

Zach leans back in his chair, folding a paper napkin in half. He says, "You're absolutely right. You should get home, because it's dark out, and you're probably not allowed to drive at night."

Matt rolls his eyes, but he's also standing up, apparently not kidding about making an exit. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and extract s a few bills. Setting them down on the table, he says, "I'll see you later this week."

"Daylight hours this time."

"It's not like you won't be around for a while," Matt says, crumpling his own napkin. He set in his glass. "Are you staying in New York after? Have you decided?"

"Maybe if I find a better apartment," Zach says.

"You like it here," Matt says. "It suits you. Me and Simon like seeing you."

Zach shrugs, running a finger around the rim of his glass. He says, "Moving is a whole production in itself. I don't know. We'll see what happens after everything wraps here."

"Excuses. What's in LA?"

"My entire house, Bomer," Zach says, and Matt laughs. "The feng shui is perfect now. I'd have to start over."

"Do you mean real furniture, or are you using it in the Soylent Green, you have a bunch of young blonds as --"

"Wow, LA can be embarrassing, but it's not that bad." Zach is almost surprised that Matt still has a good one like that in him. "Nicely done, though."

"So just the one still hanging around, I'm guessing," Matt says, and then screws up his mouth. "Isn't there a word for that? The furniture thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I still live alone," Zach says, bringing his drink to his lips. "And the word is forniphilia, but I think it's a little different these days, you know. "

"I knew you'd know."

His laughter doesn't let up, Matt grabbing his jacket and draping it over his arm. It's too hot during the daytime, too hot during the night, but Matt's a 'just in case' kind of guy now. He wears a tie more than sixty percent of the time, solely because he likes it. He feels more comfortable that way. He's halfway into a retirement home or something.

Lately, Zach's been thinking about not buying socks anymore. He doesn't wear them half the time anyway. He's always losing the matches. It makes more sense to go without.

Patting his shoulder, Matt says, "Get back to your place safely, good sir. Always a pleasure."

"Don't forget your night glasses," Zach says. "For the roads."

Matt smiles and waves as he goes, dedicated to his maturity and going home before the bars close. Zach finishes his drink, and he's not really tired, could call someone else to come out, maybe. He scrolls through his contacts, but most of the people he knows that are still up are, of course, in Los Angeles. It's barely after nine there, not quite late enough for any good show to be finished.

Zach orders a glass of water, pays, finishes it, and goes home.

;;

Two days later, Zach's phone rings while he's getting dressed. He realizes his shoulders are still wet as he pulls his shirt down, and he hates that feeling, the annoying cling as missed water seeps through the cotton, but it's too late now, so he grumbles at himself in the mirror and reaches toward the dresser.

"Hello?"

"I wrote a song," Chris says. "Sorry -- first, good morning. How are you? I'm great. I wrote a song."

"I haven't had coffee yet," Zach says, as a warning.

Chris says, "No, you'll love it. I promise. It goes, 'I found your sweater, made me think of you, hmm, hmm, blah blah, I washed it, it's folded on my bed, hmm, hmm, ba dum, Zachary, baby.'"

Zach shakes his head, picking at his shoulder. For real. The wet skin plus dry clothes feeling is awful. Maybe he'll deliberately avoid shady areas until he's all dried out.

To Chris, he says, "That sounds like Nickelback."

Chris sounds about as appalled as Zach thinks he should when he says, "How dare you? I worked hard on that."

"Which sweater?"

"It's the gray one," Chris says. "It smells like fabric softener now. Those are lyrics from the second verse, by the way."

Zach says, "Top 40. Absolutely," and picks up his keys and his hat. He's going to be late if he spends too much more time putzing around his apartment. "How'd your last show go?"

"People stood up," Chris says. "I had a lot of fun, and then some girl's mom tried to slip me her number."

"Successful," Zach says.

"God, yes," Chris says easily, right into, "Do you want to know the name of my song?"

"Downey Daydreams?"

Chris says, "No, but that's better. Forget anything else; that's what it's called. In parentheses: 'I Sleep With Your Sweater.' I haven't, but I might, if I forget to move it off my bed."

"That's sufficiently bizarre and unsettling," Zach says. He slips his iPod into his pocket, juggling his phone and keys and trying to remember if he's forgotten anything. "Is that why you called me?"

"I'm saying good morning!" Chris says. "It's early here, and I had all this energy."

Zach says, "You're trying to wear yourself out."

"Something like that," Chris says, and he sort of yawns, sort of grumbles. Maybe he's stretching. "I thought you'd be awake. Has anybody said it to you yet?"

"Good morning?"

"Yeah."

"No," Zach says, letting his door shut behind him. He checks the lock, twisting the knob. "Just you."

"Okay, then," Chris says.

;;

The last time Zach hung out with Chris in LA, they visited three different Goodwill stores to search the secondhand books and movies on VHS. That was the only reason.

"Sometimes you find gems, man," Chris had said. "And for three or four dollars."

"Or you could just buy books you know you want," Zach said, poking through a children's book about a dragon.

Chris said, "Where's the fun in that? I like the mystery."

In every school Zach attended, he thought he'd end up being the kind of student who kept all of his required reading and the various xeroxed passages of novels. Sometimes, more than reading books, Zach liked the thought of being the kind of person who collected them, but when it came time to pick up and move, it was always easier to get rid of things he'd never touched again.

"Funny," Chris said, once Zach finished telling him about it. "That makes sense for you, because I don't think of you as sentimental."

"I'm not."

"Ah, but you want to be," Chris said, shaking his finger in the air like he'd solved a mystery. He bent over to work a novel free from a lower shelf. "Start with this one."

"The Passion Prescription: Teen Weeks to Your Best Sex Ever," Zach read, and Chris whooped in the middle of the store, then took it back.

He said, "Wait, no, I want that one."

"The fact that it's here probably says something about its effectiveness."

Chris ignored him, pulling from a higher shelf this time, and then saying, "Here's one of marijuana horticulture for you. And, uh, here's one about impressionist paintings."

The horticulture book's cover was missing one of its corners, mysteriously torn off. Zach frowned at it.

"I don't want any of this," he'd said, and Chris sighed, taking both of the books and tucking them under his arm with the others.

He'd said, "Fine, I'll keep them for you. I'll build your collection for you, and you'll come for it one day, you'll see."

;;

Zach obliges old people for a change and has dinner with Matt and Simon at their house. Somehow it turns into Matt and Simon plus John and his wife Kerri, in town for the week. He cracks open the bottle of wine he brings along and has two glasses while Simon is still chopping onions.

"I didn't know you cooked," Zach says.

Matt says, "Better than me."

Zach doesn't have much time to cook anything anymore. He's got a semi-decent kitchen in his apartment, nothing as comfortable as his place on the west coast, and half the reason he cooked so much during the second half of 2009 was because Chris always showed up with recipes he stole out of Healthy Living magazines at the grocery store. Always ripped out the pages and never purchased the whole magazines.

"I know it makes me a thief, but I can't put them on the belt to be scanned. I can't," Chris had tried to explain once, like Zach even cared. They'd consumed several great stews and pastas that way. They never made anything that could be described as a casserole on principle. Their fingers always smelled like chopped onions and green peppers after, Chris holding his hand out to Zach and saying, "Really, though, see? You can still smell it, and I've washed my hands six times."

Now Zach eats a lot more sandwiches and leftover restaurant food, so watching Simon chop celery himself is kind of refreshing.

"I miss cooking," Zach says.

"You can come to my house and do it any time," John says, hand over his heart. "Please."

Simon says, "You want to help? I could find something to need a hand with."

Zach doesn't miss it that much. He's supposed to be the guest tonight. "No, no, I'm out of practice. You look like you've got a whole rhythm laid out over there."

"Work keeping you too busy to feed yourself?" John asks.

"Generally," Zach says. "And I don't have all my stuff out here. I'm kind of limited."

Matt says, "I still think you should just relocate."

"But you want to stay in LA?" John asks. "I mean, I understand wanting to be closer to me."

"Plus New York means phone feng shui all the time," Matt says.

"That sounds kinky," John says.

Zach touches Matt's hair, petting him sweetly and then cupping his hand against his cheek. He says, "Some of us have dogs, my friend."

Matt laughs.

"You feng shui your dogs?" John asks.

"Chris," Matt says.

"You feng shui with -- ohhhh." John makes the exaggerated 'O' shape with his mouth and everything. "Hey, can he cook? Has he cooked for you?"

Zach pours himself another glass of wine to pretend he misses the turn in the conversation.

;;

People overestimate his relationship with Chris. They tend to forget they really like very different things in people. Chris, for example, likes girls who wear glossy, bright lipstick when they hit the town at night, though he had an argument for that when Zach pointed it out.

"No one uses that phrase," Chris had said, fixing Zach's collar. "'Hit the town.' Are we suddenly back in 1995? And I date classy consumers of culture."

"Alliteration," Zach said and nodded, approving. "Well done."

"Thank you."

"I'm not insulting your preferences," Zach said. "I was pointing out."

"It's all about the situation."

Chris had stepped back as he spoke, fixing the cuffs of his shirt. Apart, they were both dressed in a semi-casual way, neatness mixed with something looser. Standing together, they'd been too dressed up for the eight o'clock movie and junk food they had planned.

Zach said, "Enlighten me."

"Oh, please," Chris said. "You know it instinctively. Me and women who dress up, we know what we want. A nice night, laughs and drinks and maybe, you know, something adult."

The inflection on 'something adult' forced a chuckle in Zach, the body of it stuck scratchy in his throat and hard to swallow.

"I'm serious," Chris said. "We're not looking for marriage. Nobody's getting up and going to IKEA the next morning."

"I went with you to buy a bookcase a month ago."

"An entirely separate thing." Chris ran his hand over Zach's shoulder, muttered, "Good," as if he got a say, and then inhaled deeply as he continued to appraise Zach's outfit.

Zach asked, "How do I not count?"

"You know how it is," Chris explained, picking at lint on Zach's sleeve. "There are the people you buy drinks, and the people you go shopping for box springs with."

"With whom you buy," Zach said, under his breath.

Chris snorted, touching his elbow. He said, "You can be the person with whom I buy a Coke tonight, how about that? A large one with two straws, if you've got it in you."

"Don't go out of your way or anything."

"Nah, it's nothing. I want popcorn anyway," Chris said, his fingers sliding down, cuffing around Zach's wrist. "We have to make it in time first."

;;

Zach wakes up with a hangover, but he learned how to gauge his drinking a long time ago, so he chalks it up to spending a whole hour of the evening talking about mortgages and home equity. He says as much when he realizes it's his phone that's woken him and Chris is on the line.

"I've heard," Chris begins, "that as you get older, your system starts to backslide. Maybe you're becoming a lightweight again, revisiting teenage tolerance."

"Can we not talk about my age?" Zach asks. He's still got a headache, and neither being older nor revisiting adolescence sounds appealing at 9AM on a Sunday.

Chris says, "Home loans got you down."

Zach just hadn't anticipated how much working in New York for a few months would make people want to talk to him about things like responsibility. He says, "Should I be considering permanence? Others seems to think so."

"What's the point? Aren't housing markets disgusting everywhere right now?" Chris says. "That would be irresponsible."

"You always know what to say," Zach says, droll, but there really might be something to the words. Zach's head still hurts, though. Padding his ego doesn't seem to help that.

"I'm a practical man at heart." Chris clears his throat, speaks louder as he says, "Plus, that sounds lonely."

"It was more about a package. A place, a companion."

"Saying it flatly like that -- I really pick up on the excitement that situation holds."

"Well, maybe it's different depending on the someone else." Zach starts to chuckle and thinks better of it midway through. "I think that's what they meant -- ow."

"Married people," Chris says critically. "Do you not have painkillers? I bought a new bottle the other day. I'll Fed Ex some if you need."

"Don't make me laugh."

"Why would I want you to laugh at my sincerity?" Chris asks, voice suddenly syrup sweet, but he's on the edge of giggling then, too. Zach presses fingers to his temple and winces, the intensity of it subsiding as Chris sobers up and continues. "No, I'm really sorry. Anything I can do?"

He's too far away, but Zach appreciates the thought. "I'll live." He glances at the clock again. "I should go. Find something greasy to eat."

"Find a house to buy, a person to tie you down," Chris says. "Busy day, I got it."

"Where do you even go to find someone to tie you down?"

Chris exhales roughly, saying, "God, I don't know. That's a good question -- Costco? Where can you buy economy-sized bottles of ketchup in New York? Probably there."

"Thank you for describing a scenario in which I never want to find myself," Zach says, laughing again. It hurts, but it's sort of worth it.

"Don't worry. I'll never let you end up buying condiments in bulk."

"You would never do that me."

"No houses, no condiments," Chris says. "I respect you too much to sign a deed. Promise. But I'm not your type, anyway, so we don't have to worry."

;;

Which is, fine, something Zach actually said to Chris once.

It's a testament to how they've spent too much time together, being acquaintances/neighbors/friends/co-workers/whatever that they've had the kind of conversations where Chris had said, "And then it's that inner debate: their place or mine? An important nighttime question."

"If you bring them home, then they know where you live and what it looks like," Zach said. "And maybe it's too much, too personal."

"And if you go to their place, you never know what you're going to get," Chris said. "At least your place has home court advantage."

Zach said, "Yes, but someone else's place you can leave."

"See? The inevitable inner debate," Chris said. He'd been holding the menu for a Thai place nearby, flipping it in his hands repeatedly. "In the end, you just hope you've been reading all the signs right, and they're not crazy, except in the good ways."

"There are good ways," Zach says, skeptical.

"There is being tied to the bed, because it's hot," Chris had said, and then pretended his hands were weights, one high, one low. "And there's being tied to the bed, because you're going to die."

Zach said, "You watch too many crime procedurals."

"I like them a little wild. Or to be quick enough during the pre-game that maybe there's some hope for when you actually start going rounds."

He said, "We should order."

"Okay, I get, I get it," Chris said, passing the menu to Zach for review. "You're more on the opposite end. You like to be the one teasing."

Raising his eyebrow, Zach said, "And you think you know this about me how?"

"Oh, come on." Chris was lying on the floor. He pushed his heels against the carpet, worked his back against the flat surface enough to half-turn toward Zach. "Your bread and butter is a guy who spends most of his scenes smirking at people before he kills them. Plus, I've read your Twitter. I've seen you mythologizing your life in half-formed picture haiku."

Reaching behind himself to grab his phone, Zach had said, "I'm going to call this place, and I'm ordering for one."

"Don't you dare keep me from my curry," Chris had said, raising his head and pinching Zach's thigh. "Hey."

Zach ignored him, moving his cell phone to his ear and waiting for someone to answer. The woman who picked up sounded pleasant but rushed, and Zach said, "Yes, I'd like to place an order for delivery. Just a quick, small order."

Chris pushed himself upright. He dragged himself closer, grabbing for the phone and saying, "No, so much bigger. I'm starving here, and I need noodles."

Zach laughed at him, edging away each time Chris leaped forward again. He said, "Yeah, do you need my address? I might be in your system -- oh, I can hold, sure," and then turned his face up to Chris, saying, "Stop being a child. Eat some cereal in the kitchen."

"This from the man who won't feed me just because I called him a tease."

"I don't write about myself in haiku."

"It's a compliment," Chris said. "Enigmas are fascinating. The intrigue!"

"You do realize that insinuating that I'm crazy doesn't make anything better," Zach pointed out, because Chris kept smiling as if he was somehow making progress.

He said, "It means you remind me of my perfect woman. You, Zach, are my perfect woman."

"I hope you starve," Zach said, but Chris wiggled the the phone out of Zach's grip and darted away. "I wouldn't go home with you if you begged!"

He preferred guys who were less difficult, less mouthy, less prone to running away and leaving Zach out of breath on a living room floor. Chris was too tall, too broad-shouldered, and too completely annoying.

"Hello?" Chris said elsewhere, urgent. "Hi? Hey. I need all the pad thai you've got."

;;

Matt constantly has new pictures of his kids to show off. It's not that they aren't great kids -- Zach's met them; they're beautiful, lovely, but there are always new pictures, and Zach always has to look at every one of them.

"Are you making fun of me again?" Matt asks. "This is a privilege."

"I never said it wasn't," Zach says, swiping through the photos. There are enough for several albums. An entire portfolio or two all on one tiny device, and anyone who asks the right question has to make sure to see and coo at each shot, even the blurry ones.

Zach's looking at two of the cutest blurs he's ever seen in the natural world, he insists, and Matt laughs at him. He says, "You can try underselling it some. You're just being disgusting now."

"I'm completely genuine."

"I appreciate it anyway," Matt asks, snatching Zach's cell from his other hand. “What kind of award-winning, mind-blowing examples of awesome living do you have on your phone, huh?”

Zach doesn't know. He doesn't really keep any of it organized. He snaps things as they come -- people, places, unintentionally funny window displays. New York is especially good for those. There are probably a lot of pictures of his dog. Zach’s pretty fond of Noah.

"I like this one of your brother," Matt says, flipping the phone around to show Zach.

Glancing, Zach smirks, "He was so tired. The look on his face was too great not to capture."

"Where's this?"

Looking to the phone again, Zach catches sight of Chris with a fountain drink in on hand, books in the other. It could be any day of the week. "Must have been one his Goodwill days."

Half-laughing, Matt asks, "His what?"

"Yeah, I can't -- you should ask him about them. He'll tell you all about it, with great enthusiasm. That, and about all of the other things he cons me into joining." Zach glances again, right before Matt turns the phone back to him. He thinks he remembers that day more and more; they'd ventured into Pasadena and Glendale.

"That’s funny. I'll do that," Matt says, still scrolling through the images. Holding it up again, he says, "What's up with the rooms?"

It had been an apartment Zach looked at when he was trying to get set up in New York. He says, "I was exploring all my options."

"Recently."

"No, no, that's from when I first --"

Matt shakes his head. He says, "You said they were going to extend the run, right? It'll keep happening, just live out here."

"I honestly doubt the show could get extended quite that extensively. I also don’t know if I’d survive running that long."

"Does he know you're doing it for more weeks?" Matt asks, flashing another picture of Chris. He's trying to balance a spoon on his nose. It wasn’t the only random item in Zach’s house he’d tried to do that with either. They’d made sure to get evidence of all attempts. Zach’s threatened to turn them into a collage for display at Chris’s next birthday party.

Zach says, "As much as he'll miss jogging together, I think he'll live."

He takes his phone back, shoving Matt's children across the small divide again in return. That's enough of that for now.

"If you live out here, we can make the dinners a regular thing. Rotate homemade meal responsibilities."

Any time Zach's tried to reserve a specific day of the week to routinely do anything, it's always fallen by the wayside or turned into a hassle. He can't. "If I'm around all the time, you won't need to show me the photographic evidence."

"There's plenty you'll still miss out on," Matt says, all confidence in his ability to come up with new reasons to pack his phone's memory with pictures. "Don't worry."

;;

Chris uses misdirection to lure Zach into his mischief, like talking about the weather. A true child of the desert at heart, Chris loved to complain about rain and yet never seemed to resort to common sense and buy an umbrella.

"I like the rain," Zach had said on one such deceptive day.

Chris's thoughts on it had been more concise. "Agh, no."

"It makes everything smell fresh."

"In the city?" Chris said as they ducked into a hardware store. "Maybe if I lived in some random suburban Valencia neighborhood."

"I'm into the idea of washing everything away," Zach said. He had since childhood, what could he say? "Sue me."

"Well, that's just damn enchanting," Chris said. "But my point about the city still stands. You'll get enhanced dirty pavement smells. You must plan to live somewhere with more than a driveway between houses."

"It's fine in Silver Lake now. Getting into the hills even a few blocks makes a difference."

"Good point," Chris said. They found the tools, because Chris needed to grab some more screw drivers and a wrench. Grabbing a Phillips head, he held it up and nodded. "Here we go. Success."

"What's this art project you've got happening?"

"That entertainment center I bought. It needs way more assembly than I was thinking."

Zach felt duped. He said, "You tricked me."

"I need help!" Chris said, rubbing a hand over his hair and managing to shake more droplets of water from it. "Look, I'll buy you dinner, Zach. I'll feed you. It'll be worth it."

"I can't believe this," Zach said, but he conceded anyway. Chris smiled like he knew Zach would, patting him on the back as they walked back towards checkout.

Putting the set together really didn't take very long. Chris needed an extra pair of hands to hold things together for the most part, smoothing out the process. Zach still complained about it until Chris laughed, telling him to okay, whatever, shut up and pick a place to order from.

"Wherever you want," Chris said.

"You don't want to just go out?" Zach asked, moving to grab menus from the far drawer in Chris's kitchen.

From the living room, Chris says, "I put together a whole new center today. This is about to change my TV-viewing experience. Let's stay here, and you can pick the DVD too."

"Lucky me," Zach said. Chris was somehow way more of a homebody than he ever led anyone to believe, but he always found some way to get around actually admitting it. Chris had a nice TV, though, so Zach couldn't complain too much when they chose to re-watch classics on it.

;;

"He makes me feel unorganized. Plebeian," Zach confesses, taking his hat and covering his face with it.

"No way," Chris says. Zach can see nothing but darkness, and he can smell his shampoo on the inside of his hat, focusing on that instead of how Chris is laughing at him.

"Stop contributing to my torment," Zach says. If he whines, it's solely to make a point.

Chris says, "Are you kidding? This mocking is packaged in love. I'm allowed."

"Am I immature?" Zach says.

"You're the most boring, grown-up, and responsible person I know."

"Oh, thank God."

"God says you're welcome," Chris says, playing with the pitch of the sentence, all ho-hum and relaxed.

The world feels small to Zach these days. It's one of the hazards of having the good fortune to travel so much, but it means he never gets a chance to really miss a place, always aware of how easy it is to go back or go visit, but in this moment, he's struck with a sense of longing for Southern California, to pet Noah, and to have Chris humming right in front of him.

Zach can picture him with his feet up, slumping down into the couch cushions, a glass of soda or water resting on his stomach. Chris tends to flex his foot when he's half-distracted like this, this idle roll of his ankle, around and around. It's awful how comfortable the image is, how easily Zach draws it in his mind.

Chris eventually says, "Hellooo. Did I lose you?"

"I'm here," Zach says, voice soft around the edges. He clears his throat.

"You got so quiet over there."

"I was thinking about," Zach says and yawns, "how glad I am that I've never had to do something like consider childproofing my home."

He knows it doesn't sound enough like wanting. He assumes that's the reason Chris saying, "Oh, man, you need to stop hanging out with lifers," doesn't quite sound enough like asking Zach to come back.

;;

Because having types and friendship and boundaries doesn't mean they avoided sleeping together once. Almost. Sort of.

There's nothing sexy about discussing politics of the 80s, but one Red Line factoid led to another in Zach's kitchen, all started by Chris complaining about how driving home wore him out and it wouldn't be a problem if Los Angeles had any good public transportation.

"You're not even at home," Zach had said. "This is my house."

"Semantics," Chris said, bumping his hand against Zach's side. "I drove."

"It's not like you're even drunk," Zach said. Chris moved sluggishly, but otherwise he was perfectly bright-eyed. They'd even come back a little early, and Zach finished the last half of Chris's drink for him just to avoid risk.

Chris said, "But I'm beat, is the point. I blame Henry Waxman."

"I'm sorry," Zach said.

"California helps get him into the House, and what does he do? Prevent me from falling asleep on trains to get home," Chris said. "I hate driving."

That wasn't true at all. Chris still woke Zach up at inhumane hours sometimes to take trips to Long Beach for no reason, or further into the desert, just to feel how the temperature changed on different sides of the mountains. He always drove with one knee lifted if they were going far, purposefully butchering the lyrics to Springsteen songs and then swearing, no, the lyrics really were saying something about a devil in the freezer, listen closer, because it was his idea of amusing.

"Poor baby," Zach said, squeezing Chris's shoulder as he came up alongside Zach, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and filling it with water from the tap. They stared at the tile together when Chris turned around, sucking down his drink and then dropping his head to Zach's shoulder.

"I don't feel like going home," he said, and Zach lifted a hand to touch Chris on the head awkwardly, vision just blurry enough to make it seem like the right move. Poor baby. Pobrecito, he thought and mouthed the word. He should really look into learning Spanish again.

Zach said, "No rush," and exhaled. "Although maybe there's a bus."

"Too late at night," Chris said, completely dejected. "The fucking man, you know."

"Wronged by your representatives."

"Classism sucks," Chris said eloquently, and he picked up his chin to rest against Zach at a different angle. He lips moved against Zach's neck. "Read up on it. LA in the mid-eighties."

Zach let a chuckle bubble up slowly, delayed by heavy limbs and an unfocused mind. Chris felt like an anchor on his left shoulder, keeping him held to the ground, impossibly heavy. When he shifted, angling up higher, Zach caught a whiff of his cologne and held his breath.

"Mm," Chris said airily. "What you thinking about?"

"Dizziness," Zach said.

"Hm?" There was concern etched on his face when Zach looked at him. He touched Zach's waist, mouth still turned down. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Zach said. "It's just a thought."

"You sure?" Chris said, actually touching Zach's face with the back of his wrist, and Zach wanted to laugh at him. He could feel it in the corner of his mouth, something tugging upward, but he couldn't muster the energy, again mesmerized by the weighted feeling when Chris flipped his hand palm to Zach's forehead, brushing his hair back, gaze focused, and Zach didn't really feel himself lean forward more than he thought about it, and then Chris's mouth was there.

He'd made no noise at all -- not a gasp, not a protest. His fingers were still playing along the edge of Zach's hair, and finally Chris pushed toward him, taking over.

For two tired people, they'd gotten out to the couch alright, or it seemed. Zach was on the cushions one moment, catching a breath, and then they were pulling the throw hanging over the arm down to the floor with them as they toppled over.

Zach felt sloppy. He tended to like kisses a little wetter anyway, but the alcohol dulled his senses, made it harder to control the chaos. Chris felt something like a fluke. He carded their legs together, grinding his hips down, earning some friction, not enough to matter, except that Zach could somehow feel his tailbone right against the floor, awkward. Chris grazed his teeth along Zach's slip, and it was -- right, totally right, but off too, like their hands kept missing the mark by half-inches. Zach tipped his head back, inhaling deeply, shutting his eyes against the light above their heads, and his moan slipped into a short, stuttered laugh.

"What?" Chris said, looking up.

"Nothing," Zach said, but it was obvious that there was something. It could have been the alcohol, or the bad jokes about trains, or the way Chris worked his hips against Zach's in quick beats, all of it making him giggle at the wrong time.

Chris looked nonplussed, but by the time he said, "Oh, God," he just sounded bland, moving aside. "You're right. This makes no sense."

"Well," Zach had said, and then found himself glowering at Chris's back, extending a hand as he sat up and moved away. It didn't make sense, but funny didn't mean that it couldn't, wait. He fixed his mouth to say it even, but Chris got there first.

"Okay, I think I'm awake enough to make it," he said, leaning in to kiss Zach's cheek roughly. "And you make sure to sleep in your bed, though, huh?"

Well, Zach had thought, listening to his door close.

;;

As a birthday gift to himself, Chris goes on vacation. Zach says, "Where? With who?"

"With me," Chris says. "Perhaps. I haven't thought through all the details."

This is supposed to be Chris's big 3-0, some kind of milestone, and he wants to be by himself? Zach says, "Choosing the life of a recluse for your next pull up the hill."

"Watch it," Chris says, "Every time you start to make an old people joke, remember that you're always going to have a few years on me."

“And yet I’m not the guy prepared to start checking things off his bucket list because he’s turning 30.”

Snorting, Chris says, “I didn’t say I was about to take a road trip of epic proportions to fulfill every dream I never had. I’m not even about to live my Walden.”

“You’re not going into the woods to suck the marrow out of life?” Zach says, the corner of his mouth tugging up as his leg bounces. Despite himself. He’s felt nothing but impatient all day, and there’s something about a gentleman’s retreat that sounds absurd right now.

Chris says, “It could be a beach. And I’m not much for marrow.”

“You don’t want to do something --” Zach starts and then recognizes belatedly that he’s not sure where that sentence is taking him. Something -- better.

“More exciting?” Chris says. “It’s a birthday and vacation. Shouldn’t it be restful? I could bring someone.”

“Nevermind,” Zach says.

Chris says, “Where would you go?”

Zach’s already made that choice for the time being. New York was meant to be a vacation, and then Heroes got cancelled officially, and now the vacation can be a primary if he wants. He says, “I’m already crossing things off my list. It’s only full of petting dogs and trying certain restaurants.”

“Hm,” Chris says thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad list. But the east coast is so humid.”

“Right,” Zach says. Nevermind. Nevermind, never mind. “Well, have fun. I guess I don’t know if I’ll be able to get in touch with you, so -- “

“You can call,” Chris says.

“-- happy birthday,” Zach finishes. “I’ll send you an e-card.”

“Wow,” Chris says. The awe Zach detects could be funny, but he exhales through his nose and stays quiet. “How special.”

Zach thinks so.

He only talks to Chris a few more times between him booking the trip and then leaving. He’s got preparation for shooting in Vancouver, Zach has the play, and they touch base a few short times between then. For one of them, Chris recounts a debate he and Katie had about how difficult reciting the alphabet backwards might be in reality and then proceeded to try to do it for Zach. A few nothing conversations, and Zach feels like he somehow has way more free time without idle prattle like that in the middle of his day while Chris is gone.

It’s not like Chris is unreachable while he’s on vacation, but they still don’t reach out to each other. Zach goes to events. He gets to know his castmates. He rehearses. He goes through his phone and organizes his photo albums whenever he’s in a cab, until half of them are sectioned off and neat, and the rest he can’t figure out how to categorize. He moves on to doing the same for his emails, goes back through text message threads to see what he can delete.

Zach has a few hundred texts in his phone between him and Chris, but half of them are Hipstamatic photos of graffiti and other people's dogs they pass on the street. Chris sends one text from beautiful Who Cares. It’s a cute brunette standing in some department store, holding her hand up, fingers splayed in a Vulcan salute, so Zach goes out with Billy after he stops working that night and lets himself smile when he orders for the table and the waiter says, "A take charge kind of guy, huh?"

His hair's messy, and his smile's crooked. He gets half the orders wrong, but Zach comes back when the restaurant closes anyway.

"Forgot to leave a tip," Zach says.

The waiter's name is Eric. He's not from New York. He gives good head, even if he's the kind of guy who makes more noise than necessary, considering Zach hasn't even gotten to open him up yet.

"You're enthusiastic," Zach says. It's more polite than telling someone to stop talking, he's learned.

Eric likes it hard, burying his face in the sheets, panting. Zach presses his knuckles against the side of Eric's back and grazes his teeth against Eric's shoulder blade when he comes.

He only tries to kiss Zach once afterward, and he puts back on his slacks and shoes even though Zach says he can stay.

"It's late," Zach says.

"Work night," Eric says, smiling. He tilts his head, adds, "Thanks, though," and still leaves anyway.

Zach lies back on the bed, absorbing silence. His phone lay face down on his nightstand, and he picks it up to see if there's anything new. There’s nothing important. He turns out the light.

;;

He was the kind of guy who did better with independence. He’d broken up with his last serious boyfriend, because they decided to move in together. Once they’d gotten everything sorted out, Zach realized his place didn’t have enough space for two. His life was effectively and thoroughly single-serving.

When they pulled themselves apart, Zach had said to his brother, “I’m exhausted from over-thinking it. Joe, make my life easy and move in with me.”

“Didn’t you decide you were bad at that?” Joe asked.

“It’s not the same.”

For one, Joe wouldn’t take up nearly as much of the bathroom. More importantly, they were related. Joe already fit; they’d grown up accustomed to it. With his ex, he’d had an idea about live-in dating, but It took too much work to fit other people into the mold he’d created for himself. Experiment conducted; conclusion reached.

“Whatever, man,” Joe had said.

“No, it makes sense,” Zach said. He was better unattached.

;;

Back from vacation, Chris sounds relaxed. He sounds like the kind of person who’s spent several days sleeping and eating well and getting a tan somewhere. Zach doesn’t begrudge him his calm, but some people have spent the week busy and worn thinner than recommended.

He says, “But have you ever felt like you could get swallowed up in a place? It was serene. Literally serene. I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“I’m not good with the quiet.”

“Yeah, right. You would’ve liked this.”

“I like sitting in the park here,” Zach says. "I was thinking: it wouldn't be difficult to just stay in the place I've got right now or find a better spot. And if I freed up my house in Los Angeles, I could use that money for something else, other projects. I could have parks all the time."

"You want to move to New York for real?" Chris asks, smacking on something.

Zach asks, "What are you eating?"

"Apple slices," Chris says.

Ah. Zach taps his knee and says, "I could use the money for one of my own great excursions in solitude."

"I’m serious about how much you’d have enjoyed it," Chris says. "And you should read this manifesto, I'm telling you. I got a bunch of historical novels. There was an unofficial theme the last few days."

"I can't afford vacations or books or -- "

"Wait, wait, hold on," Chris says, and makes a small, whiny sound. "Do you hear that?" He keeps doing it. "I'm playing my tiny violin for you."

"But if I lived in one state, then maybe I could," Zach continues, chuckling.

Chris says, "Please," accompanied by a fresh crunch of apple. As he speaks, his voice cuts out, and he says, "Hold on, hold on, I've got somebody on my other line. Might be my sister again. Hang on, okay?"

"Sure."

Chris clicks away, and Zach waits, waits, and then finally hangs up after a few minutes. Chris doesn't call back within the hour, so Zach goes to bed.

;;

They'd gone out for lunch one afternoon, and Chris dozed off on Zach's couch when they went back to have beers, to hang out. Zach watched television for a while anyway, letting Chris snore softly, taking up two-thirds of the space in his sprawl. Zach ended up watching part of Singing in the Rain on cable, getting up to make coffee when he’d started to yawn himself.

While he stood in the kitchen, he heard the familiar strains of the title song start, bobbing his head softly to the rhythm of the strings and the lilt of Gene Kelly's voice. When it was over, Zach heard humming, the chorus all over again, softer, and as turned his head, Chris was shuffling in, dropping his chin on Zach's shoulder.

"You're up," Zach said, reaching up to press two fingers to Chris's forehead, nudging him. Chris didn't go anywhere.

He murmured, "Yeah," and cleared his throat against the scratch of it. "Coffee?"

"I was preparing some for myself, yeah."

"Aw, come on," Chris said, the rasp of his voice still there, whisper sweet. His hand touched the Zach's, sliding up to the base of his neck as he turned his mouth into Zach's shoulder. "Come on, come on, come on."

"Are you whining?"

"Mm, no." Chris raised his face, the close-lipped smile thin and sated. He took a deep breath, eyes dropping shut as he inhaled through his nose, brushing Zach's skin as he leaned forward even an inch more. "'Smells good."

"It's good coffee," Zach said softly. "Don't worry, I'll share."

Chris snorted, a sudden jagged sound that made Zach's shoulder jump. He glanced at the coffee machine again, and then back to Zach, eyes narrowed. "Yeah," he said, and eventually dropped his head again. "Thanks."

"Mhm," Zach said and didn't nudge Chris again when he still hadn't stepped back.

;;

There's one message on Zach's phone when he gets a chance to listen to his voicemail messages the next day. It says: I was going to get around to saying this, but then you were gone, and it felt weird to redial just to, you know -- how fucking trite, right? I couldn't be that person, because -- well, evidently, being this guy is so much better. There's really no possible way for me to maintain any dignity in this situation, is there? I promise I'm not stalling here; there's a point, there's. Don't buy anything. Alright? I can't let you. I promised, and I've been a man of my word my whole life. Don't ruin it for me. Okay? Uh, well. Okay.

;;

And sex had been a one-time failure, but that wasn't the only way to complicate something. That hadn't stopped him from kissing Chris before the coffee finished, Zach turning into his body and tugging at the front of Chris's shirt. That hadn't stopped Chris from sleeping over two nights later, passing out on the couch again but then climbing into the bed with Zach after he woke up and was probably confused to find the TV had already been turned off. That hadn't stopped Chris from, yes, making Zach breakfast a few times, eating in together on Chris's living room floor. They'd spread out on the hardwood after meals, wasting days off where they could get them, Chris throwing a leg over Zach's for no real reason.

;;

"I saw Zoe a couple days ago," Chris says the next time Zach speaks to him. It's four days after Zach hung up while Chris was on the other line, four days after Chris called back and left a voicemail.

Zach says, "Yeah, how's she?"

"Gorgeous as ever," Chris says. "She says hi."

"She could've called me," Zach says.

Chris says, "She assumed I'd talk to you, I guess," laughing behind it. "You're the one of the few people I interact with, she must assume, because she spent a good twenty minutes essentially implying that I'm antisocial."

"You?"

"That's what I said!"

“You did go on a celebratory excursion by yourself,” Zach reminds him. "And there have been more than a couple nights where you did unabashedly choose to stay in and watch The Nanny instead of going anywhere."

"First of all, that's a great goddamn show. Second of all, you only know this because you've been there too. You accompanied me to my sofa, and you liked it."

In the last few days, Zach has worked, bought new gloves, seen another show, and slept. He'd talked to his brother for two hours the other night, catching up on nothing and using their easy camaraderie to clear his head of other pressing matters. It hadn't worked perfectly. Zach's calm is still starting to crack as this call continues, the same anxious hum pulsing under his skin since the weekend.

Zach says, "I mean, we worked so hard on your set up. We should take advantage of it again when I'm in town."

"Yeah?" Chris says with a frustrating calm. "You're coming back to California?"

The way his voice flourishes the statement makes him sound flippant. Zach tries not to mimic it too much as he says, "I have to some time, right?"

"And then leave again."

"Temporarily," Zach says. He doesn't own his New York place.

Chris sniffs and clears his throat, and Zach silently claims that as a tell. He doesn't know for sure, but there's no reason it should be. They're both entrenched in this, pretending not to be caught.

Chris could say anything right now, and Zach's sure it would all still feel like a bomb. The phone lines implode around Chris rasping, "Yeah, sh --" and clearing his throat just one more time. "Yes, yeah. Let's take advantage then."

Zach doesn't expect the laugh that spikes up in him. He touches hand to his temples, curving into himself in a fit. Shocked, he says, "What the fuck. We’re articulate people. This is pathetic."

"It's your fault," Chris says. "You're wordy. You make me wordy, and then metaphors and euphemisms are always a disaster -- "

"I miss having you around," Zach says, then, to simplify the problem. It’s too obvious to say so clearly, but, "I miss you."

"Thank, God," Chris says.

;;

When Chris visited during the spring, they spent more days around one another than not. Nothing happened, but Zach still felt exposed when Matt made a joke about escaping across a country just to fall into familiar routines. Chris had laughed too hard and said, "It's me. I'm bad at long distance."

“Does New York to LA sincerely count as long-distance in this day and age?” Zach had asked. “Some people make that trip constantly.”

“I don’t know,” Matt had said, full of betrayal and not even realizing. “I can see how, for some people, it’d be enough. It feels like enough when I have travel a lot. I miss my house.”

Chris said, “I don’t need to stay in one place forever. I’m in the wrong business for that, but I’m preoccupied with the idea of returning. I like going back to Los Angeles.”

“Mmm, no, New York beats LA every day,” Matt had said. “Better people.”

“Better weather,” Chris said in defense, raising his eyebrows.

“More romantic,” Matt had said, and Chris had raised his water bottle in salute.

He said, “That one I’ll give you.”

Zach doesn’t know if he meant to prove it, or if it was a testament to Matt being right. Chris and Zach had gone out and stayed in, and Chris touched Zach a million times without trying to make it mean anything. The weight of it still resonated through Zach every time, hot and anxious, like a threat and a reprieve rolled into one, the kind of slow crumble that made falling asleep in the same hotel bed one night feel private. And Zach’s talked about the trip since then, mentioned to people that they saw a show, they ate, they laughed, and he passed out in Chris’s room, and they had separate agendas the next day, no big deal, and the retelling is always totally comprised of bullshit.

;;

So the real conversation, when they have it, starts with Zach saying, “I don’t know when I’ll see you.”

“There’s a pretty set amount of seeing me time scheduled next year,” Chris says. “That’s going to happen regardless.”

Zach’s heard Chris’s voice through a receiver a lot the last few months. He doesn’t like admitting it’s a problem. He says, “But before then... via satellite?”

“I’m thinking hologram,” Chris says and huffs out a distracted chuckle. “No, you’re flying into LA at some point. Aren’t you?”

“I wanted you to come here for your vacation,” Zach says. Simple words, he thinks. Their new aim is break themselves into easily digestible parts to avoid communication failure.

Chris breathes in and says, “I wasn’t sure.”

They both could have been clearer, they’ve learned. Zach has never owned something as foreboding as a pendulum in his life, but he thinks about one during moments like these, even spaced and ominous. The moments when what comes next carries too much significance, defining everything before it’s even had a chance to present itself, because Chris doesn’t do well with long distance, and Zach doesn’t like when the odds aren’t in his favor.

“Well, you can be,” Zach says. “But I wasn’t going to demand it.”

“And that rules out even mentioning?” Chris asks. Zach folds the pocket of his hoodie and pushes it right again.

The thing is that Zach could say the same for Chris. He says, “You could’ve asked.”

“I don’t want to be the person that we talked about,” Chris says. “I love sample Sundays, but if that ever becomes the most exciting thing in someone’s life because of me, especially now, I. I had a great time on my trip, I liked picking up and going, and you would’ve -- you should’ve been there, but I don’t want it to sound like --”

“It doesn’t,” Zach says. There’s a difference.

Chris says, “Good, because I thought we were supposed to have the ‘is this when I grow up?’ freakout in our twenties. I thought I’d already confidently decided that idea could go fuck itself.”

“You think I have?” Zach asks, because of Chris was serious about Zach being the most adult, boring person he knows. He loves Matt, and he even loves John, who’s getting there in his own way, but Zach isn’t --

“Don’t,” Chris says. “Don’t. Yet. This is the most convoluted conversation I’ve ever -- don’t settle there.” He huffs into the receiver, like frustration, starkly honest. “Pretend that statement didn't sound as Oregon Trail as it seemed.”

“I’m not buying this place,” Zach says. He’s not cut out for it yet.

“Come visit?” Chris asks. “I’m asking. Can you come back to the west coast at some point? I’ll make sure I’m here.”

“I can, um.” Zach has to check his schedule. He performs all the time, so he’d need to find a way to juggle it. “Yeah. Yeah, I can figure it out.”

;;

Chris could sometimes talk like a playboy, but Zach learned relatively early on that he was almost too courteous to really be one. That somehow made it worse, though, made it better when instead of touching at all while he visited, they ended up jerking off together 3000 miles away once Chris had flown back home less with words and reading into each others harsh breaths and curses. Zach bit hard enough on his bottom lip to leave it swollen.

The best part was not planning, sliding from a conversation about traffic to Chris’s meeting with his agent, to the best place to get the best fast food burger, to something more unimportant, to something deceptive, the minutes running together until Zach forgets the exact steps of the thread even though he knew he’d remember how Chris’s breath staggered when he had his hand on his dick for a long time.

After, Zach experienced a brief, embarrassing second where he wished he had a picture, something, wondered if this was when other people might ask for camera phone messages. It felt sad, though, in the next moment, too easy to get into a habit, the kind of silly risks people took to guarantee thrill.

Zach had wiped his had on his shirt and said, “I have to get up early.”

“Shit, me too,” Chris said after a pause, sounding the way he always sounded. Normal.

It had been really easy to say goodnight. It had been distressingly easy not to do again.

;;

Zach finds time and Chris plans around it, and when they first see each other, Chris hands over a handful of ketchup packets. It’s a gift. Zach laughs, because he can’t kiss him yet.

“Perfect,” Zach says when they hug. Closer to Chris’s ear, he adds, “But you can keep a toothbrush in my bathroom.”

“I left one there on accident months ago,” Chris asks and he shakes his head. “Fucking married people. You can’t hang out with them.”

“They like symbolism,” Zach says, shrugging. He’s thought too much about establishing permanence. “And so what, you like candlelit dinners.”

“I do.” Chris says it without shame, amused at himself. He claps his hands together when he pulls back and gives Zach a kind of buttoned-up smile, so close to taking over his entire expression. Those always mean trouble.

Zach roll his eyes and says, “Oh, fuck you. You’re planning one.”

He is. There’s a spread waiting at Chris’s house, candles and mood music he doesn’t play but keeps threatening to unleash. Chris has made him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and sometimes it’s planned, down to the where, because he knows how Zach likes having the option of leaving.

“Food and an emergency exit plan,” Chris says.

Zach stays.

Cautioned (Mark/Sean, Mark/Eduardo, R)

gigantic — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 02:50:54 GMT

Cautioned
by Charli J
The Social Network. Mark/Sean, implied Mark/Eduardo. R. 2900 words.
After dinner, Mark still wants to hear what else Sean has to say.

Thanks to M for the help! Yeah, this was bound to happen. Sort of a what-if.

;;

"Do you feel like going somewhere else?" Mark asked.

"What, for dessert?" Eduardo said.

Christy said, "I have zero room left for more food."

"He mentioned that he might head somewhere, a club or something," Mark said. He glanced toward the restaurant entrance. "We could have more drinks."

"That wouldn't be a bad thing," Christy said, nudging Eduardo.

Folding his napkin on the table, Eduardo said, "We've pressed our luck already."

"He might be able to tell us some more of his ideas now," Mark said. "Sean's got them already. Why wait? We could go with him, get a better idea."

"Hear more about fish."

"It was a good metaphor."

Readjusting his jacket as he stood, Eduardo said, "He was putting on a show. He talked more about himself --"

"I was convinced," Christy said, a little sheepishly.

"Yeah," Mark said, glancing at her. "I want to hear more."

"I want to go to bed," Eduardo said. "We've been going almost non-stop. I want to sleep."

As they gathered their things, Eduardo thanked their waitress again, grabbing Christy's hand and heading toward the door. Mark was right behind them, pulling up on Eduardo's other side.

He said, "Everybody's so tall here. Dressed up."

"Vivienne Tam designs all of the employee clothing. The hostess mentioned it to me," Christy said, moving her arm up, linking her and Eduardo's arm at the elbows. "You could've at least put on different shoes, Mark. It's chilly outside, and that's a nice restaurant."

"I'm comfortable," Mark said, tilting his face up as they exited the building. He turned his attention down to his phone. "It's not even midnight."

Eduardo said, "I've been up since 6:30 this morning."

Pressing his lips together, Mark considered his phone again and then said, "I think I'm going to catch up with Sean. He might have some ideas about which other west coast colleges to get into next. We can talk process."

"No one talks process in nightclubs."

"You're not dressed for it," Christy said, leaning forward to see Mark.

"Sean won't care." Mark pulled up the hoodie on his sweatshirt, and then tugged it back down again just as quickly. To Eduardo, he said, "Then I need you there. You'd talk process."

"Mark --"

"I need you."

"Can this wait until the morning?" Eduardo asked. "If he's partying already, then it doesn't matter. Me and Christy will probably just stay in. I'm --"

"Right, you're bailing on me."

"I'm sleepy."

"It's fine," Mark said. "You're probably right. I have to check in on the site anyway."

"Do you need my help?"

"No, I can do a check-in on my own," Mark said, brusk.

Eduardo stopped him, placing a hand on Mark's shoulder and making him give Eduardo all of his attention. Eduardo was particular about eye contact and firm handshakes. He'd learned it form his father. Right after they'd first met, Eduardo spent a good five minutes showing Mark how to greet somebody like he meant it. "Nobody likes a fish grip," Eduardo had said, which was sort of funny in light of the evening. Mark didn't laugh.

Eduardo said, "First thing in the morning, I'll come to your room."

"Sure."

"First thing, Mark," Eduardo said again, squeezing his shoulder. The slightest pressure.

"Okay," Mark said, nodding this time. He held Eduardo's eyes, let him stand there until he felt satisfied enough to look away first.

"You should get some sleep, too," Eduardo said, sliding his hand lower. He curved his fingers around Mark's bicep for a moment, then let go.

Mark said, "Yeah, I will," and hesitated when Eduardo and Christy began to step again.

Looking back, Eduardo said, "The train's this way. Did you want to catch a cab?"

"No, I'll," Mark said, digging his hand into his pockets. "I think I might've dropped my wallet back there. You guys go ahead, and I'll catch up."

"Are you sure? We can -- "

"I can find you later. Go ahead. You're tired."

He didn't wait for Eduardo to agree, spinning on his heel and moving back toward the restaurant. Mark ducked inside, muttering something to the hostess about leaving his wallet at their table. His wallet was fine, tucked away in his pocket, so instead Mark went to the bathroom and pulled out the card Sean had slipped each of them.

It was plain white, neat print, name and number. Sean Parker. He's been staying in California, and he'd mentioned to Mark and Eduardo that if they really wanted the site to grow, they'd made the right decision by expanding west.

Sean had said he'd get in touch with them, but Mark pulled out his phone and dialed the number anyway.

"Hello," Sean said, sort of shouting. He'd probably already made his way to a club.

"I want to catch an 800-pound marlin," Mark said.

Sean said, "Mark?"

"Yes, it's Mark -- Zuckerberg."

"You used the card," Sean said, and Mark could hear the smirk in his voice. Sean liked to talk through a smile, Mark had noticed. It was the first thing he'd noticed, after his confidence. Sean was all confidence -- in presentation, in his ideas. Mark wanted to know more. "Now what was that you were saying?"

"I don't even like trout," Mark said. Sean laughed.

;;

The hotel where Sean had a room was twice as nice as the place where Eduardo had booked rooms for them.

"I try to stay here whenever I'm in the city now," Sean said. "They treat me better than anywhere else. It feels like a second home."

"I usually crash on someone's floor when I'm in New York." Mark dragged his hand across the smooth surface of a corner table. "Carpet and hardwood might be home to me." He marveled at how much space Sean had in his suite, all for one person, for a couple nights. "This is huge. And you're kind of between projects?"

"There's still some money in the bank," Sean said, taking off his jacket and lying it on a chair in the opposite corner.

"Impressive."

Giving him a sidelong grin, Sean said, "You're impressed by money?"

Shaking his head, Mark said, "By the audacity of spending like this without a job."

"I've had jobs," Sean said.

Mark said, "I've had jobs, too, but I'm still living on ramen and hope right now."

"You ate well tonight."

"Thank you -- for that -- by the way." Mark stayed by the table, watching Sean as he stepped out of his shoes and moved around the room, settling into the space.

Sean said, "My pleasure. I had to make a good impression, didn't I?"

"Mission accomplished," Mark said, then thumped his knuckles against the table idly, feeling too forward. He cleared his throat. "Are you about to turn in, or. I thought you'd be staying at the club. If you're going to bed, I can --"

"What do you want?" Sean asked, his back to Mark as he opened the mini-fridge.

"In general?" Mark asked.

Sean looked around and smiled again. He said, "To start," and held up a bottle of wine. "It's chilled. White okay?"

"Oh. Yeah," Mark said. He still had a slight buzz from the abundance of appletinis at dinner, but Sean was offering.

Sean set out two glasses and poured wine in each, setting the bottle aside and bringing one the glasses to Mark. He said, "It's one of my favorite pinot blancs. I didn't know much about wine before last year, but now I try to go to Napa or Sonoma and do some tasting here and there. I've heard that anybody with real taste learns how to discern worthwhile wines. Do you know anything about wine?"

"Not to drink it out of a box on a school night."

Chuckling, Sean said, "You should come to the vineyard. You'd like it. We'll put it on the list of things for you to do in California. Girls love guys who can say impressive things about alcohol, too."

"Wardo thinks you're arrogant," Mark said

Considering that, Sean sipped from his glass again and then said, "What do you think?"

"I don't care. You know what you're talking about." Mark finished the rest of his glass in three gulps, leaving it on the corner table.

"Is that why you called me and he didn't?"

"He's," Mark started, and then reconsidered. "His girlfriend's in town with us. Christy, who you know now. They wanted to call it an early night together. I told him I could come talk to you some more."

"That's kind." Sean leaned in, saying, "It's good that you two are a team. Your website has potential, and it can only get better if everyone's on the same page."

"Eduardo's in," Mark said. "We're dropping the 'the' from the name. He agrees; you're right. It's simpler."

"People like single names. Easy to say, easier to remember. It's always better to avoid a mouthful," Sean said, drinking more wine. "Unless that's what you want."

Mark exhaled, looking away and then back. Sean seemed to have a thing about eye contact too.

"Finish this? I've had a lot already," Sean said, holding up his glass. There wasn't much left. Mark reached for the glass slowly, his fingers bumping into Sean's as it changed hands. He tipped his head back to down the liquid. When he straightened up again, Sean was still watching him. Mark set the second glass next to his own, swallowing.

He said, "Why do you think we should come to California?"

The corner of Sean's mouth picked up. Mark's gaze darted away -- to the side, down, catching sight of Sean's jacket on the bed, and the way the top button on his shirt was undone. Sean said, "Well, just look at the company. Apple's still out there. And Google, everybody's favorite story of the last five years."

"It would be too early to sell, wouldn't it?" Mark asked, narrowing his gaze.

Sean said, "Selling would be worse than advertising right now -- "

"Wardo just doesn't want us to lose on this. He's funding it --"

" -- I mean it sends a message to be in the same arena as everybody who knows how to invest in something like Facebook." Sean bumped the back of his hand against Mark, landing somewhere on his stomach and skidding sideways, like a point to his sentence. He repeated it over and over the longer he spoke. "You've got a network most people can't even see yet. At least if you move into MySpace's backyard, they know you're serious."

Mark caught Sean's wrist when his hand flicked forward again, coming in for another jab. He held on loosely, saying, "You want me to come to California for intimidation."

"For one," Sean said, and the smirk was back. "Would Eduardo let you?"

"He's not my father."

"That wasn't what I thought."

Mark was a smart person, logical, and tipping forward just made sense, then. It was the quickest way to prove a point. He was still startled when Sean kissed him back, sucking in a breath too quickly, gasping against Sean's mouth as he freed his and dragged his fingers down Mark's stomach more deliberately. The shock only worsened the more Sean touched him, ratcheting up until he could feel himself shake, just badly enough to be noticeable, the cool tips of Sean's fingers making Mark curse under his breath as Sean snuck underneath the hoodie and found skin.

"Shit," Mark breathed.

"Will you take this off?"

"Yeah," Mark said, breathing in deep. His hands couldn't figure out if he should continue or back out, though, as Sean gave him an inch to maneuver. He pushed past the indecision, didn't take time to rethink how things had shifted so quickly, everything about the room electric hazy all of a sudden, and then Mark was shirtless and Sean grinned at him again.

"Are you alright?" Sean asked. He was amused.

Mark rolled his shoulders, trying to keep them back. He said, "This isn't something. It's not that I'm not fine."

Sean moved in and kissed him again before Mark could get any further. It was probably for the best. Mark muffled a few words against Sean's lips, and Sean laughed, said, "I just want to blow you. Let me get your belt now."

"Okay," Mark said, and he took another breath. Yeah. Sure, that could work for him.

It turned out that Sean sucked cock with the same bravado he did everything else, like he just knew he'd do it right. Mark didn't get his pants all the way off, his belt cutting into the backs of his knees while he flexed his hands against Sean's naked shoulders.

Sean stopped before Mark could finish, crawling up and covering his. His dick slid alongside Mark's, hard against Mark's belly. Sean bit Mark's jaw, grazed his teeth along the slope of bone and made his way to Mark's ear, breathing hotly as he said, "Help?"

It took some trial and error, a few false starts, but Mark wrapped his hand around both of them, eventually stopped letting the head of Sean's cock slip from his fist, and when they came, Sean kissed him as the mess smeared between their bodies.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Mark asked as Sean caught his breath, mouth lingering near Mark's neck.

"What?"

"Your mouth."

Sean laughed low, the shake of it felt against Mark's arm. When Sean exhaled, it cooled Mark's skin. He said, "You should come to Palo Alto."

"You think we should be closer to Stanford?" Mark said. "Isn't MySpace farther south?"

"Sure," Sean said, "But Palo Alto taught me everything I know."

;;

A few weeks ago, Mark had never been pushed into a bathroom stall by a girl just to watch her get down on her knees. Before tonight, he'd also never taken a cab back to his own place at 4am after an impromptu night with a would-be technology playboy.

Maybe after Palo Alto, Mark could always eat well.

"You said a right up here?" the cabbie asked, angling his head sideways slightly to be heard over the seat.

"Huh? Yeah, that's right," Mark said, sitting up. "Thanks."

;;

"You slept through your alarm," was the first thing Mark heard in the morning. He picked up his head and saw Eduardo pick his phone up from the nightstand, silencing the ringing.

Mark yawned, willing away the fuzz in his brain. "What time is it?"

"Eight-thirty," Eduardo said. He pressed his knees against the edge of the mattress. "We have to get breakfast before we head back to Boston. Are you alright?"

Mark wriggled sideways on the bed, giving Eduardo room to sit. He stretched out with his back against the headboard, his legs extended in front of him. Mark said, "I guess I was drunker than I thought."

"Are you sick?"

"Eggs," Mark said. "Eggs and orange juice. I'll be golden again."

"There's a place close-by that I think you'll like," Eduardo said, bending his knee just enough to bump Mark's thigh through the covers. "How was the site? Still up?"

Mark had been too exhausted to check when he'd gotten upstairs. "It's perfect."

"I'm sorry about last night," Eduardo said.

"You don't like Sean, it's okay."

"I never said I didn't like him."

"You don't."

"But he's right about the name," Eduardo conceded. He slumped down on the bed, unconcerned with his suit. "We'll see if we hear back from those advertisers, and we'll have Sean tell us more about his VCs out west."

Sean. He was right, everything they needed to do next was waiting in California. They'd figure out how to get out there. Mark said, "I still don't think we need the advertisers. The meetings didn't really go well."

"Can we just see, Mark?" Eduardo bounced a little, edging toward frustration.

"Alright, alright," Mark said, reaching out to still Eduardo's movement. His head still felt sort of fragile. Note: sex didn't cancel out the possibility of suffering a hangover. He shouldn't have finished that last glass of wine. Mark inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. He drummed his fingertips along Eduardo's side.

He said, "I'm sorry, too."

"Yeah," Eduardo said. "Let's blame it on New York. We've done a lot the past few days, working on the site at the same time. You haven't been sleeping enough."

"I'm okay."

"We're tired. You're tired," Eduardo says, looking at Mark, and then sighing. "Anyway. Breakfast?"

As he started to move, jostling the bed, Mark flung his arm out to stop him. "Wait, wait, wait."

Pausing, Eduardo furrowed his brow. "You are sick."

"I'm not," Mark said, squeezing his eyes shut. Okay, he was a little sick. "I just -- you need to be still."

"Let me get you some water," Eduardo said, starting to get up again.

"I need you," Mark said and tightened his grip as his hand dropped down to grasp Eduardo's fingers. "Wardo."

Nodding, Eduardo laid out on the bed again, breathing out and scooting close. Mark intertwined their fingers, letting his eyes shut. He wasn't ready for light yet. He asked, "Where's Christy?"

"She's showering," Eduardo said. "And then she said she wanted to go downstairs to find coffee."

"Do you need to go?"

Eduardo was quiet. He shifted on the sheets, not enough to cause much stir. He said, "No, she'll come back up. I can stay for a minute."

"Okay," Mark said, already relaxed again. "Good."

I'll See You When We're Both (Joe/Nick, various, R)

gigantic — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 17:29:25 GMT

Let's just cut to the chase: yesterday insunshine and I managed to get our story fully coded for posting to jb_bigbang with a minute to spare on the deadline. We made it though. Better to cut it close than be a fail, right?

I'll See You When We're Both
by Charli J (gigantic) & Marianna (insunshine)

Joe Jonas/Nick Jonas (Joe/AJ, Joe/Amelia, Nick/Miley). R. 100,000 words.

Warnings: Underage incest

In which Joe Jonas grows up with an exceedingly inconvenient condition, challenged with learning how to manage being a teenager and a performer alongside his brothers when staying in the present isn't always an option. There isn't a relationship time travel can't complicate.

This is probably the longest story either one of us has ever posted, and it's been most of a year, but it's finally up, and so now we deserve to be drunk. (All the champagne and fresh fruit for us!) First, though, we have to say thanks to wovenindelibly for aiding this beast, pretty_bad_idea for so graciously providing the fantastic artwork, and mediaville for making jb_bigbang happen. Title is bastardized from American Football's "I'll See You When We're Both Not So Emotional." Story lifts from like two-thirds of the time travel books out there, many of which are totally name-checked, except for The Time Traveler's Wife, but that one too.

Any remaining mistakes are our bad. This whole thing is a false falsehood.

[Read on LJ] or [On the site]

[Check out the artwork!]

Stop Being Cool (Nick Jonas/Logan Lerman, PG)

gigantic — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 18:54:27 GMT

Oh, look, another random story about a Jonas Brother! Yeah, this happened.

Stop Being Cool
by Charli J
Logan Lerman/Nick Jonas, Nick/Selena Gomez. PG. 13,500 words.
The one where Logan Lerman goes for one thing and achieves the opposite.

Thanks to insunshine for all of her input. This story is basically a bastardization of "Boyfriend" by Ben Taylor. Logan Lerman was recently in Percy Jackson and used to be in a show called Jack & Bobby, where he met his best friend Dean Collins. Here's the Bonnie Hunt interview mentioned. Nick Jonas is a seventeen-year-old popstar. This pairing idea came totally and completely from moneyfolder, who I hope will grace the internets with a much, much better showing than this sooner rather than later. \o/ In the meantime, this is a sort of belated birthday present for her. Happy birthday! You're old! Read about some teenage boys!

Remaining mistakes are an oversight on my part.

;;

After The Bonnie Hunt Show, Logan's manager says, "Actually, we could probably get the Disney girl's number. Selena?"

"Mom, it's weird when you do the manager thing for real," Logan says, slipping on his jacket so they can get ready to head across town for another news segment. Promo, promo, promo. He doesn't even think there was this much press for Hoot.

Lisa smiles, laughing a little. She says, "I'm just offering. Bonnie said that girl liked you. She seems nice."

"Yeah," Logan says. He's seen her a few times. "I don't even know if she lives in LA."

"Everybody lives out here," Lisa says, and then she laughs again. "I'm not really cut out for this side of things though, as fun as it is for me to pretend. We can call the agency if you want to meet her."

Shaking his head, Logan says, "Thanks, but I don't think I'm that far gone already, that I need 'my people' to get in touch with a girl." He makes the air quotes and everything.

"I'm only throwing it out there," Lisa says, and then reaches out to fix the collar in Logan's jacket. "You're crooked, kid."

"Mom," Logan says, swatting at her hands, but he's also glad she doesn't let him walk around like a douchebag or anything.

;;

Really, Logan just gets Selena's number from his agent because it's the easiest thing. They don't run in the same circles exactly. It's a matter of plausibility. That's all. They're both busy people.

He keeps it in his bag for four days before tugging the number out on a Saturday. It's Brandon's fault, texting Logan about it incessantly the second Logan mentions he's had it stashed since the beginning of the week. He writes, step 1: CALL HER, step 2: NOW.

That's mobile peer pressure if Logan's ever seen it. He can't really resist that kind of urgency if he wants to maintain his sense of self-respect, so he dials Selena's number and waits to get her answering machine.

"Hello?"

"Crap," Logan says, and then sits up straight. "I mean, hold on. Let me start over. Selena? This is Logan. Um, Lerman?"

Um, he knows his own name, what the hell. She scoffs, though, letting it bubble into a genuine, companionable laugh as she says, "Hi, Logan, um, Lerman! I'm Selena, uh, Gomez."

;;

On the one hand, Logan convinces this cute girl who works for Disney to go out with him, and who fucking cares if it's a coffee date, because the operative word is the second one. On the other hand, Selena brings a chaperone or something. This shortish, vaguely familiar and kind of stocky dude with curly hair that looks bored out of his mind stands at her side, and Logan assumes he's her TV brother or cousin or something, until Selena says, "This is Nick," and then Nick confirms it by holding out his hand.

"Nick Jonas," he says, with this vice grip on Logan's hand, and a light bulb goes off in Logan's head.

"Hey," Logan says, politely, since he's not a total heathen. However, he doesn't think he'd be out of line for questioning the presence of a Jonas Brother on his coffee date if he wanted. "How are you?"

"Good," Selena says, smiling like it isn't awkward. "Did you find the place okay? I've been wanting to check out this shop for a while, but I'm never in the area. We thought we'd just ride over; we were hanging out."

Logan says, "Oh, yeah, it's no problem. I live over here -- pretty close to here, so it's not a big thing at all for me."

"Have you ever been to Urth? We heard that even their loaf cakes and stuff are pretty good," Nick says.

"I can't say that I have," Logan says, thinking, why are you here? as clearly as possible, and Nick just furrows his brow. "All the pastries, coffee house spots -- they're all kind of the same over this way. All trying to be organic, or whatever. All pretty good."

He and Dean decide to have junk food benders sometimes, looking up places that stay open into the nighttime so they can go on caffeine and sugar runs then settle to watch the entire Godfather series in one night. Logan woke up with the head of a toy horse in his bed after that one, and he screamed so loud that his sister came into the room and asked him if a woman was hurt.

He's going to save that story for Selena for later though. For now, he says, "So you guys were hanging out, you said?"

"Yeah, we went to see the new Scorsese movie," Selena says, but it's Nick's hand that Logan has his eye on. Nick touches her back, low enough that Logan starts to reassess the chaperone thing.

Nick says, "Did you see Shutter Island?" and Logan doesn't even want coffee anymore anyway.

;;

"You asked a girl out on a date, and she brought her boyfriend?" Dean asks, and then laughs in Logan's face for two minutes.

Logan says, "Yeah, yeah. How's that case of crabs coming?"

"Eat me. I told you, it was just a weird reaction to something I fed myself," Dean says, snapping the waistband of his pants for good measure. "The doctor even said. I got a whole checkup. I'm healthy."

"It's not like crabs is incurable." Logan points. "You could have just gotten rid of them."

"Remember that time that girl brought another dude to your first date with her?" Dean asks. "Man, I'm glad that's never happened to me."

"I hope they misdiagnosed you, and you have syphilis and lose your mind," Logan says, lifting the corner of his mouth.

Dean isn't fazed at all, though, saying, "Don't take your disappointment out on me. Don't worry about it, man. There'll be other opportunities. He's probably an asshole anyway."

;;

Nick disproves this theory when he calls Logan while he's getting ready for a couple morning meetings. There are a few prospective scripts that might help him figure out where to go while Percy Jackson does what it can do in the box office, and according to his mom, it starts with picking the right button down shirt. Logan has a plain blue shirt and a red and gray alternative, and he really just wants to wear t-shirt.

His phone rings while he's contemplating how much trouble he could get in for just wearing his Killers shirt and calling it quits. Logan picks it up and says, "Blue or red shirt, Mom?"

"Light blue or dark blue?" is the response he gets, from a voice considerably more somber than his mother has ever sounded.

"Whoa," Logan says, pulling the phone away from his face. It's Selena's number. He's pretty sure she'd never sound that low either. "Selena?"

"Nick, actually. What about your shirt?" Nick says, as calm as ever. For a guy who seems to like coffees, Nick continues to sound like he could use a little more pep.

Logan says, "You've got Selena's phone? Did you need something?" and looks at himself in the mirror. "It's a dark blue."

"Go with that one," Nick says. "Less aggressive early in the morning."

"I want to go back to bed," Logan says, then finds himself completely thrown off by the sound that comes out of Nick's mouth before he realizes it has to be a chuckle.

Logan wonders if Nick has to smile to laugh, because he's pretty sure Nick didn't really crack one at all while they were out together. Then again, there's not a lot to smile about when you're on a joint first date with your girlfriend and some guy who got her number from an agent. Logan still isn't sure how he read that one all wrong.

"Busy day?" Nick asks. "We've got some filming ourselves. Separate projects, but kind of in the same location, which is why I wanted to call before we got started in a little bit. Selena and I are eating waffles."

"Oh, that's cool," Logan says, even though he's lying. Or, well, waffles sound pretty delicious right now, but he doesn't care what Nick does with Selena. "You wanted --"

Nick clears his throat and says, "We were planning to go golfing this weekend, and you said you wished you had more chances. Thought we'd invite you."

"Right." Logan's actually really confused by the offer. He smiles as he responds, though, because he's been taught that that helps to cover up cluelessness. "So, you're, uh. Where are you playing?"

"I can send you the information," Nick says. "It's cool if I steal your number from Selena's phone, right? Wanted to check."

Logan says, "Sure," when he really means that he's not sure what's happening at all. He only wanted to maybe see a movie with Selena and kiss her or something. He's not sure how that all got misconstrued. He's not sure where golfing comes into the picture.

"Great," Nick says. "I'll talk to you later. Don't forget: blue shirt."

He hangs up with that. Logan puts on the red and silver shirt, considers it in the mirror and then switches, but he wears his Killers shirt under just to make the change after easier.

;;

"Am I attractive to you? What about assertive?" Logan asks Brandon. "Like, if I asked you out right now, you'd be able to tell if I meant as a date."

Brandon sets down his pool stick and eyes Logan warily. He says, "Is this about how we had to huddle for warmth in my apartment that one time? Because I told you, it was really because the heat was acting up. The landlord fixed it though. I have serious love for you, Lerman, but you're not my type."

"I'm not actually going to ask you out."

"Ah, good," Brandon says, "because you know I'm saving myself for Jesse McCartney."

"Ugh, for real?" Logan says, picking up the pool cue. "You could do better."

"Did I ask you?" Brandon says and gestures toward the table. "Take your shot. And what's this about -- about that girl? That could have happened to anybody."

"But it happened to me," Logan says. He lines up his shot to hit the 3, but he barely bumps it, throwing off his entire angle. "And, I don't know. Maybe I heard her wrong, but I feel like I would've remembered it if she said she had a boyfriend. I think it's her boyfriend, this Nick dude. I think they used to date, so they have to be back at it again, right? That makes sense. I should just quit while I'm ahead."

Brandon says, "Nah, dude, don't give up. You don't even know for sure if they're dating. They could just be hanging out. You know what they say about wedding rings, man."

"Uh --"

"Does she have one?" Brandon says, rolling his eyes. Logan shakes his head, and Brandon shrugs, eyebrows raised like that answers everything. "Fair game."

That makes sense to Logan. He's pretty sure Selena's like sixteen though, so if she did have some kind of wedding ring, she'd be way ahead of, like, most of the teenagers in the world, let alone him.

"Alright," he says, building up his resolve. He's still in this game.

;;

He figures he has to go golfing with Selena and Nick. If he intends to prove that he's a better boyfriend choice than Nick Jonas, he probably can't turn down an invitation from the guy. Logan is a responsible and mature individual. He doesn't actually know that much about golf, but he can fake like he knows, because the real goal is to edge in and talk to Selena as much as possible while Nick sets up his own shots.

To start, Logan says, "Hey, sorry about the first time we hung out -- if it was at all, you know. I didn't realize at first that both of you guys were like, you know. Sometimes I'm kind of an awkward guy."

"Are you kidding?" Selena says. "You're great. I was excited that you called. I'm -- we're," and she motions in Nick's general direction, "we have a lot of respect for you. I love to hang out with other people my age, who are good at what they do."

"Well, thank you," Logan says. It's probably unfair that he wants to gag a little, especially since it's his own fault he didn't realize that Selena had a guy and, of course he'd come along, because he's a beautiful, multi-million-dollar popstar dynamo, and there's no reason why they wouldn't want to do everything together. "You're awesome, too. I love your show."

"Thanks," Selena says, and she reaches out and pats his arm. "That's sweet."

Sweet isn't really worth enough in this situation, but Logan'll take it. He says, "So, uh. You guys come out here often?"

"Nick really likes it," Selena says. "I'm just learning from him, but he's the big sports guy. Plays everything."

"That's cool. Yeah, driving ranges and golf courses, like. Me and my friend Dean are just --"

"You golf a lot?"

"--nuts about it," Logan says.

That doesn't explain why he then proceeds to suck harder than a whole show team of Roombas at every shot he attempts for the next hour.

Behind him, Nick says, "You want some pointers?"

"No, I'm," Logan says, waving it off. The sun is behind them, so when Logan looks back at Nick and Selena, he has to squint. "Must be an off day. Weird winds or something."

"I was actually glad that it's so even out. There were a few really blustery days last week --"

"I'm more a baseball guy. Basketball or baseball," Logan says.

Nick says, "Really? Dude, you should come meet my brothers. We have these sports teams. You could probably play if you wanted."

"Oh, yeah!" Selena says, grinning. "Logan, it's a lot of fun -- the Road Dogs."

No, Logan thinks. No, no, fuck that, no. "Yeah! Yeah, sure. Just let me know."

;;

Logan hates Nick Jonas. How the hell do you compete with the most perfect seventeen-year-old in existence? When Nick isn't helping to save the world from diabetes, he's co-hosting with Kelly Ripa, visiting the White House like it's a vacation home, entertaining all the preteen girls in America and twenty-five percent of the girls around the rest of the world, and never complaining about the fact that he has an incurable disease himself.

Sometimes Logan used to fake headaches just so he could go to school an hour late and miss first period.

The worst part about Nick is that he doesn't even list his own accomplishments. There are a multitude of well-meaning people waiting in line to talk about how great Nick Jonas is every day of his life, starting with his brothers and running on down the line to co-stars and crew members.

Logan visits the Disney studios in Burbank and finds himself tossing a ball back and forth with Joe while Kevin and Nick shoot something on the soundstage, which is how Logan finds out so much about Nick's laundry list of good deeds and merits. It seems to run in the family, too, because at some point Joe mentions an event he's setting up in conjunction with the Special Olympics, and Logan sort of wants to vomit on his shoulder, but that might also just be because they've been standing out in the sun for a little while.

He asks, "Do you guys ever get time off?"

Laughing, Joe says, "No, not really, I guess. It's been laid back since the beginning of the year though, for the most part. Nick did a tour, but with filming at least we're in the same city more."

Nick did a tour. Logan isn't at all surprised. He says, "A tour? That doesn't sound more laid back."

It makes Joe laugh again, and he says, "We're busy bodies. He really is. That's what happens when you're doing Broadway from, like, age seven."

Whatever, Logan was doing commercials when he was four. He has that thought, and then he feels like a loser for having it and completely fails to catch the next ball Joe lobs at him.

As he chases after it, Joe says, "You're about as bad as me," and sort of moves in so that they aren't as far apart when Logan grabs the ball and turns around. "At least we'll match each other if you play with us."

"Right?" Logan says, half-smirking, but it's not really the most comforting thing anyone's ever said to him.

;;

"It's like -- Superman. I'm Batman, completely badass and completely handsome and all that, but without x-ray vision and the ability to fly, who even cares about how many cool gadgets I have?" Logan says. He holds his hands out, fingers poised like he's framing the picture.

"Your gadgets aren't actually that cool," Dean says, considering the space between Logan's hands critically. "I mean, you've got the latest video game systems, though.That's pretty awesome."

"And I always find pirated versions before everybody else," Logan says.

"That's true," Dean says, holding up his Coke can in a salute. "Is Selena into Xbox?"

Logan pauses to think about it, then sighs and flops back on Dean's bed, stretching out. His bed isn't made; it's never made, and his room doesn't smell particularly fresh, but Logan doesn't mind, since his own room probably doesn't look or smell any better.

He should clean up when he gets home. Nick's room is probably clean. Nick probably has a mild case of OCD or something, just enough to make him charming and ensure that he's never unkempt ever. Fuck, Logan kind of wishes he were a germaphobe sometimes. He wouldn't mind picking up his dirty pants off the floor so much then.

"What's the scientific word for someone who's afraid of germs?" Logan asks, lifting his head.

"What does that have to do with the girl you want?" Dean finishes his soda, crumples the can, and then sets it on his desk. "Look, you said they used to date before and broke up. That happened for a reason. You just be better than however he messed up before. Find the chink in the armor."

"Maybe I'll bow out," Logan says. There have to be, like, at least fifty other cute Disney girls whose numbers he could get his mom to ask the agency to pass along. Out of necessity, obviously, not because he's lazy.

Dean shakes a finger, saying, "Okay, okay, then how about this: you remember Rebecca that I met at the audition for that Target commercial? Kind of tall. She has this friend who's really cute, I promise, and they want hang out with us. The other girl has this, like -- she was going on about how she doesn't shave her armpits or something, some personal statement, but I figured that wasn't really a deal-breaker --"

"You're right," Logan says, popping up suddenly and heading for the door. "I should get to know Nick. Superman's always got his Kryptonite."

"Wait," Dean says, frowning. "You're leaving?"

;;

Logan goes home and cleans his room, mops in the kitchen, sweeps the floors in the living room, and takes out the trash. When his dad comes home from work, he says, "What got into you today? You're not bringing a girl over here, are you? Is there someone hiding in your room right now?"

"What? No! Dad, no. I thought I'd help out," Logan says, looking around to take in the state of the house. He's kind of exhausted now. "I can see the carpet in my room now."

"Did you miss it?" his dad asks.

"Kind of," Logan says. "But it's funny how I didn't think about how much I missed it until it was back. It was a little exciting."

He's in the mood for a shower now that he's done, so Logan lets the warm water relax him for a while. Getting out, he moves back into this room, erases his white board and writes Operation: Remove Nick Jonas, and then erases it because it makes him feel like a tool. He settles for putting on a t-shirt and jeans, and then gives Nick a call to ask if he wants to hang out, grab a meal or something.

Schedules have them push it back to a Thursday lunch, Logan riding all the way out to Malibu to eat at a sushi place Nick says he discovered a couple months ago.

"I've been craving it ever since," he says as they sit down to order. "And it's probably better for me than eating McDonald's again."

"Do you have to watch what you eat a lot?" Logan asks. He wonders if that's an appropriate question a second too late, but Nick doesn't seem offended that Logan's apparently just going to butt all up in his business.

Nick says, "I try to pick more healthy stuff as much as I can, but I still have a fast food addiction like most people. It's kind of bad."

Lazy, junk-food-eating slob, Logan thinks and stashes that away in his mental notes. To Nick, he says, "You probably balance it out with exercise and other things. Keep it under control."

"Absolutely. As much as I can," Nick says, glancing down at his menu. "So, you do like sushi, right? Maybe I should've asked that before we came."

Inattentive, self-concerned asshole, Logan thinks, and he tucks that one away for safe-keeping too. "Yeah, I like it. But I'm not especially well-versed in what's good or anything."

"Want me to pick some stuff? We can just try a bunch of it," Nick says. "Joe and Kevin love eating weird things and making me try it, so I've -- I guess I've tried a lot more stuff than I would have on my own."

"Sure," Logan says, scanning the selection with his eyes. "Order away."

;;

In a couple weeks, Logan manages to compile a list of Ten Things To Hate About Nick Jonas, but when he eats a box of Twinkies for breakfast, he has to cross off number one. It's impossible to hold someone else accountable for things that Logan does too, which means he spends a whole lot of time thinking he's onto something and then falling back to square one.

In the meantime, they eat out together semi-frequently, Logan gets better at hitting golf balls where they're intended to go, and he even gets tickets for him, Nick, and Selena to go to a Dodgers game through one of his father's friends and clients.

"I know you're a Yankees fan," Logan says, bumping his wrist against Nick's shoulder, "but I figured --"

"This is awesome. I'm gonna complain about this? I got to go to spring training a few weeks ago. Any game is fun to me," he says, actually smiling, and Logan starts to file that one away, too, but catches himself when he remembers he doesn't have a mental list for shit like that. He shakes off the momentary mishap and clears his throat in a deep, manly way.

"You're welcome, man," he says, and it's while they're cheering for the home team that Logan realizes the problem with surveying the enemy up close is getting too invested in the wrong objective. It doesn't help, though, that Nick is really and honestly nice for no reason at all. He turns to Logan and says that the game is great and thanks him about five times too many, and Logan almost tells him to stop doing that, because he's starting to feel like he fulfilled a dream for a Make-A-Wish kid or something. It seems like it would be tiring, being that genuine all the time.

Nick seems to do it without effort. For everything Logan puts on his list, Nick turns around and does something to make him take it off again, up to and including the point about him being kind of a flake, since one of the times Nick reschedules on him, it's so he and Selena can go to a museum together. He's probably one of the best boyfriends out there. It would make Logan sick if he wasn't so impressed by it.

"I thought you were into his girl," Brandon says when Logan tells him about the charm bracelet Nick picked out as a really early birthday present for Selena. He'd sent Logan a message to ask what he thought. "You're talking a lot about this dude for someone who's supposedly into his girlfriend."

"I'm sizing up the competition," Logan says. It's a great plan. He's on top of it. "I'm trying to tell you about my findings and observations. It's scientific research."

"And your scientific conclusion?"

"Is that this dude is like a saint," Logan says. "He's so great at everything, that I'm considering just changing my research to finding out what lab he was engineered in, so that I can have all my future children created there too."

"Isn't he sick or something though?" Brandon asks, screwing up his face in confusion.

Logan says, "It's for realism."

"You're insane." Brandon points at Logan and pins him with a stare. "Stop now. You're starting to freak me out."

"I'm not kidding! It's like Gattaca come true --- ohhh, dude, let's get Taco Bell and watch that today."

;;

He then feels bad for making jokes when Selena shows up to see a movie with Logan alone the following week, because, "Nick isn't feeling well. He told me to tell you he'd catch up with us next time."

"Is he okay?" Logan asks.

Selena says, "He'll be alright. He's just gonna take a couple days to regroup." She hooks her arm through his. "For today, it's just us. You're not afraid of scary movies, are you?"

"Me? Afraid? Please," Logan says, because, okay, he may have been freaked out by Jason when he was a kid, but that was a long time ago. He's built up a serious tolerance now. He only grabs on to Selena's wrist twice during the film, and he jumps once. He's a sucker for a good moment of suspense, though, and he looks away from the screen only once, but it has everything do with texting Nick to see if he's alright and not, like, the amount of mutilation happening on the screen. He loves violence and guts.

In his text, he writes, you pansy; you're just scared of gore, aren't you? feel better.

Nick texts him back, just a smile and a thank you. Logan looks to Selena and says, "Does soup do anything to help in a situation like this?"

"What?" Selena asks, then chuckles under her breath and pats his hand. "Logan, movie now; soup later. You can relax."

Logan just feels like such an inadvertent douchewad. He thinks about what to do through the rest of the flick, grabbing something to eat with Selena afterwards, and before they part ways for the day, she kisses his cheek and says, "You're still such a sweet guy."

"My mom's my manager," Logan says. "I practice by trying to impress her every day."

"Then thanks to your mom," she says, laughing softly. She squeezes Logan's arm affectionately, and he promises they'll hang out again soon. "Just call me."

"Definitely," he says, and she lingers for a moment, before Logan hitches up his shoulders and points in a different direction.

He says, "Uh. Alright. I'm going this way."

When he gets back to his car, he heads east, a little out of his way and stops at his favorite soup place to pick up classic chicken noodle. He stops at a bakery and picks up some cupcakes too, then grabs a juice from 7-11, and the ride from Hollywood to Toluca Lake is pretty quick from there.

He remembers that Nick might be sleeping or something as he's ringing the doorbell. His truck is outside, but Logan doesn't see any other cars. He's going to feel real stupid if he came all this way and no one even answers the door. Luckily, Nick appears after a few minutes, groggy and confused.

"Did you -- are you by yourself?" Nick asks.

Logan holds out the small meal he's assembled and shoves it at Nick. "I didn't know if salt or sugar was good, or what, so. And, sorry, I didn't think that I might come over and interrupt your parents' day or something. My brain is all over the place."

"Don't worry about it," Nick says. "My parents aren't here. It's just me and my little brother." He pushes open one of the bags and says, "You didn't have to, uh -- is this soup?"

"Chicken," Logan says. He's a loser. "I didn't know if you had a cold or if it was something else."

"No, no, this is really nice," Nick says. He looks at the cupcakes and the juice, nodding approvingly. "This is great. You didn't have to, man."

"I felt bad," Logan says, thrown off as he catches on to the way Nick's moving forward, with an arm open. "Oh, hey, here we go."

He lets himself be hugged, unsure of what to do with his hands. Nick secures a grip around Logan's shoulder, so Logan touches his back, fingers splayed out alongside Nick's spine, and when he relaxes, Nick hugs him tighter. Logan exhales, and as he breathes in again, he catches the clean, fruit smell of Nick's hair, something like strawberries. Even that is somehow fitting: muscle musician guy Nick who can carry the world on his back, but still smell soft and sweet like summer fruits, powerful and non-threatening. Logan has the non-threatening part down, at least.

Nick's cheeks are kind of rosy when he pulls back, and Logan says, "Did I wake you up?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Nick says, "Not really. I've been sort of up and down since last night. One of my older brothers was here, too, this morning, but I think he left because I kept falling asleep on him." Nick sort of laughs and shrugs. "I mean, you're welcome to hang around, if you don't mind that."

Logan makes a random shushing noise that doesn't actually count as an answer. He regroups and tries again, saying, "I mean. Yeah." It's not like he has anything else to do today.

"Alright," Nick says, making room for Logan to come into the house, and that's how Logan ends up killing most of his evening, watching cable television with Nick and his younger brother.

Frankie tells him about his plan to sell candy on tour in the summertime, because he's noticed that people just come ready to buy everything at the shows, and the counters in the venues never have good sweets. The kid sounds way more entrepreneurial than Logan knows how to deal with all at once. When Logan was his age, all he wanted was to go to audition after audition, and he didn't even actually care if he made money as long as he got to be on film. Nick just laughs lightly and says that's how Frankie's always been, about ten times smarter than the rest of them put together, and then he falls asleep in the middle of School of Rock after Frankie disappears to play video games.

Logan watches the movie anyway, slouched into the couch and only startled when Nick's legs turns out in his sleep, bumping their knees together. Logan jostles him a bit, but Nick doesn't wake up, so he leaves it until the performance towards the end of the movie startles Nick awake.

"Sleep well?"

"Ugh," Nick says. "Was I snoring?"

"I didn't mind," Logan says, and he looks back at the screen, tapping out the rhythm of the song on his thighs. "Man, I haven't practiced drums in so long, because of Percy."

"You play?" Nick asks, rubbing his eyes. "You didn't tell me that."

"Yeah, I mean." Logan angles his head to the side to see Nick's eyes. "I've never recorded seriously or anything, but I wanted to learn to play as a kid. I have a little band."

Nick says, "We should play," holding out his knuckles and bumping Logan's thigh. "Soon, dude."

"Sure," Logan says, and then can't think of anything else to add, so he's just staring at Nick until it gets weird, and then makes him turn back to Jack Black's antics. "This movie is dumb as hell, but I love it."

;;

By soon, it turns out, Nick means three days later. While training and filming for Percy Jackson ate up a lot the previous year for him, now that press is mostly done, he has a lot more free time, so Logan tells Nick to come on over.

They mess around on guitar and drums for a couple hours, then switch off, and Nick plays Logan's drums like he hadn't just been fatigued at home a few days before. Until Nick came over, Logan hadn't even bothered to shower for two days, and this guy came in talking about all the errands he'd run that morning, then wailed through a bunch of improvised instrumentals without breaking too much of a sweat.

"Okay, okay," Logan says. "Time out. I need a snack break."

Wandering down to the kitchen, Logan pulls out the bread, organic peanut butter, and the special jam his dad loves so much. He starts to make sandwiches, and looks to Nick, asking, "This cool?"

"Sure," Nick says.

"Want something to drink?" he asks, but then goes into the fridge and pulls out another Diet Coke for Nick anyway.

Nick says, "Thanks."

"Welcome."

He gets a glass of water for himself and goes back to preparing their food. Logan watches Nick lean against the counter, glancing around the kitchen idly, and Logan says, "Dude, you have to slow down up there. You make me feel bad."

"What do you mean?" Nick asks, dragging his soda can back and forth across the countertop.

Logan says, "You're just like this powerhouse. I don't even get where you have all this energy from, because you were kind of pale the other day."

"I was under the weather, but I got over it," Nick says. "It's really not that serious."

"Not even just this week. Like, you and your brothers went to Texas, flew back, filmed a lot, did something else charitable, on and on," Logan says, spreading more peanut butter with each new item. "Meanwhile, I debated with myself about whether to have a Klondike Bar for breakfast or to do ten push-ups first to feel like I earned it. Your schedule is crazy."

A smile breaks across Nick's mouth slowly, and then he laughs. He even tosses his head back a little, and Logan doesn't think it's that funny, really, because he only got up to five push-ups, and then decided he'd worked hard enough.

Nick says, "You're an actor. It's just different schedules."

"Like you're not an actor," Logan says, because Nick is filming a television show.

"No, the acting you do is way bigger than our little show that we never have to leave Los Angeles for," Nick says, and Logan shrugs.

"I used to do TV, man. Sometimes that's grueling."

"I used to watch you on TV," Nick says, perking up for a second. "Have I ever told you about that?"

"The show on the WB."

"Yeah!" Nick says. He stops and shakes his head, looking up as he recalls it. "We used to watch together. My whole family, and I have this -- right, so, there's this running joke, kind of, where I talked about running for President one day in 2040 or 2038, whichever one it is. I think your character runs in 2040 somehow."

"I don't even remember," Logan says. He never really had to deal with that part of the show. The future stuff was all testimony.

Nick says, "Anyway, I'm like the same age as him or was -- the same age as you, kind of, so it became this thing in my house. Bobby was a cool character. Everybody said I was like him: an individual and stuff."

"I can't believe that's why they call you the President," Logan says, thinking about the times he's heard Joe or Kevin say it. "Oh, shit." He looks at Nick, eyes widening. "Oh, shit, you have a TV crush on Bobby McCallister."

"That's not at all what I said."

"You do, though! You're like -- man," Logan says, clapping his hands together. This is too good. "Dude, I didn't think. Dude. It's too bad I'm not anything like that guy."

Nick says, "You have the same face."

"Yeah, but I never started a space club in my school," Logan says. He's not at all cut out to be a President. He wants to be a director for a reason. He loves movies, loves sitting around on his ass and coming up with ridiculous ideas for him and Dean to try to write for feature one day. Not that that's not completely commendable, because it is. That's Logan's career in the making right there.

"How weird that you have a dude-crush on Bobby McCallister," Logan says, tickled. "On me, then. Because I'm Bobby."

"I really don't," Nick says, taking the sandwich Logan passes to him. He's cut the crusts off and everything, even though his mom always tries to tell him that's where all the nutrients are. He doesn't care. He'll just take a multivitamin.

"Don't deny it now," Logan says. "That's like -- I'm putting that on my IMDB page somewhere. Fun facts about Logan. Number one, Nick Jonas would hit it."

;;

His mom thinks it's kind of funny. She laughs outright when he tells her about it as he's getting ready for a new agency meeting a couple mornings later.

She says, "That's kind of a charming coincidence." She extends her arm and touches Logan's hair. "Look at you, inspiring people."

"Mom," he says. This is not a time to get mushy. He still has to pick out a shirt and brush his teeth.

"Okay, okay," she says, stepping back. She seems to notice the fact that he's still only half-dressed too, motioning toward his white t-shirt. "What's this? We have to leave in twenty minutes."

"I'm working on it," he says. He's got his pants on already. He's most of the way there, and a text message takes care of the rest as Logan takes out his phone and sends Nick a quick question: exec meeting. white w/ gray stripes? or pullover sweater?

Lisa says, "What are you doing? Stop playing with your cell so we can get out of here."

"Mom. I got this," Logan says, feeling his phone vibrate and reading Nick's reply: stripes are business but fun. He moves to kiss his mom's cheek before heading toward the door. "Ten minutes, and I'll be ready to jet."

He feels really confident in the meeting, and it goes really well. His agents don't know what's happening with Spider-man still, but no news continues to count as good news too. His agent compliments his shirt, says it's nice that Logan decided to put on a real outfit for them, half-joking, but Logan stills sends a message to Nick after the meeting to thank him for his infinite style wisdom.

i know how to make an impression, Nick writes, and Logan would assume the winking emoticon was heavily implied if he was talking to anyone but Nick.

important in a presidential candidate, Logan sends back. He still finds it hilarious that Nick is some real-life incarnation of lines Logan memorized.

He tells everybody about it, because it's a fucking funny story. His dad, his friends -- he tells Dean about three times, and it doesn't get old. Logan was trying to best Nick Jonas, and the whole time, Nick was doing his best impression of Logan. He's more awesome than he first thought, which he repeats to Dean when he meets him at a Jamba Juice one afternoon for one of their writers brainstorming sessions where they talk about movies for an hour and then draw caricatures of each other on napkins.

"It's not really that interesting a story anymore," Dean says, because he's the worst best friend anyone could ever have. He pays for Logan's drink, though, so Logan figures he can stay around a little longer.

He says, "Man, don't you get it? I'm trying to figure out this dude's deal, and I'm the answer. Kind of. The TV show we did is the answer."

"Bobby had a lot of character," Dean concedes.

"I have a lot of character," Logan says.

"You're not Bobby," Dean says.

"You're jealous because Warren was a dork, and that makes you one too."

"Hey, I got you this," Dean says, and when Logan looks at him again, Dean flips him off. Logan laughs, pushing his hand away. "Dude, you just talk about this guy all the time. So what if he has a hard-on for you? Does this mean you know how to get in with that girl now or what?"

"Selena?" Logan asks. Well. They already do spend time together at this point. Although he hasn't talked to her in a few days. He should text her soon.

"Yeah, the whole point of this."

"We hang out."

"But do you make out yet? I would've closed this deal by now."

"No, you wouldn't have. Quit talking like you're some kind of Don Juan, Warren," Logan says, smiling wide.

Dean says, "Oh, hey, I got you something else," and Logan's laughing again before Dean even raises his hand.

next

In The Company Of Glamour Words (Joe Jonas/Indio Downey, PG13)

gigantic — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 04:29:31 GMT

Long story long: here are a couple shots of Robert Downey, Jr. talking with the Jonas Brothers. And so soon after molokomolotov suggested in a comment that Joe Jonas/RDJ was a good idea! I could get into into Joe Jonas/RDJ quicker than something happening with Mel Gibson any day. Still, wearemany pointed out that the fact that RDJ's son being a year younger than Nick would probably make things awkward, and then (after a tangent where I got to see pictures of Indio Downey, because I didn't know what he looked like) it was suggested that something slightly different might happen, and boom. I KNOW THIS IS RANDOM.

In The Company Of Glamour Words
by Charli J
6,800 words. PG13. Joe Jonas/Indio Downey, Joe Jonas+Robert Downey Jr intimations.
Why, yes, he let Iron Man's cute son sleep in his bed last night after bombing with Tony Stark. That happened.
Warning: Underage shenanigans.
Many thanks to wearemany for talking to me about RDJ's crazy and asking the right questions. And much appreciation to insunshine for pointing out when I sound like an idiot. moneyfolder loled via text message. Remaining errors are all my fault.

;;

When a Grammy party sets the scene for a first encounter with someone, it just makes sense to assume that they're part of the business. Whether an artist, publicist, manager, instrumentalist, journalist -- it's usually somebody involved in the same line of work, or they're at least going to pretend they are. Even Joe knows that that's the way it works, although he hasn't gotten so used to the chaos that he's stopped introducing himself to people when they bump into him: a firm handshake, first name, and last name.

He's savvy enough to have stopped expecting all of those in return, though. Indio had said his first name and that he was in a band, and Joe nodded, saying, "Oh, that's cool," but he hadn't recognized him from anywhere. He'd been kind of distracted and embarrassed when he came across Indio, honestly, shaking his shoe a little more, like that was going to somehow make them magically not ruined by the diet coke he'd spilled.

The thing is, he hadn't even been realizing what he was doing, laughing openly and smiling with everybody. Joe thought he'd spent the night being personable and friendly with everyone equally, so when Robert had said, "I feel like I'm having reverse flashbacks. Me in the '80s and Silver saying, 'Oh, you're kind of a leaner, huh?' I know, you're thinking, 'fucking Joel?' but I was 19. It's cute from the other side."

Then he winked.

Joe was mostly caught off guard because he'd noticed, right that second, that he kind of was at a forty-five degree angle, almost. It was like he was auditioning to be in "Smooth Criminal" or something, which was freaking ridiculous, and, whoa, where was Nick? Where was anybody, suddenly, to help him out of awkwardly stepping back from Robert Downey, Jr. and how he'd said, "So, yeah, I'll be in Los Angeles for the next few months. Pretty stationary," and probably sounded ridiculous? Nowhere. He was alone, and he'd been called out, and the Diet Coke had kind of leapt from his hand at that point. All Joe could think about was finding an exit and being thankful that he hadn't worn Kevin's second pair of shoes after all.

He'd met Indio, and they'd gotten along really well, and Joe thought, hey, the great thing about not living at home and having two roommates is that sometimes he can invite people back to play videos games.

Joe's newest favorite video game is called Making Out In My Bedroom, and Indio proved to be really, really great at two-player. It turned out to be a night salvaged thanks to a new Grammy party friend, but this morning Joe's sort of glad they hadn't gotten around to the high score, because he drops Indio at home, and in the middle of wondering how some band guy he doesn't even recognize could swing such a nice place, Joe spots a guy standing out front with a coffee mug, wearing a leopard print Snuggie backwards.

"Is this your roommate?" Joe asks, because he's not about to ask the obvious question. That would be terrifying.

However, Indio gives him the obvious answer anyway, saying, "Oh, my dad."

Joe must be experiencing stress paralysis or something. He doesn't even know if that's a real condition, but his palms have already started to sweat, and he can't move. He's holding onto the steering wheel so, so tightly, and then Robert -- the Robert Downey, Jr. who watched Joe sputter and spill soda on his shoes in a way that had been completely unlike him, really, honestly -- comes over to the car with no slippers on as Indio starts to get out.

The worst part is that Joe has morals and knows how to be polite, so he can't not get out of the car, too, and then look at Robert over the hood as he's saying, "Where's your phone? I was going to call it."

Indio asks, "What are you wearing?"

Robert does this shoulder roll, moving his jaw to the side and then humming. He says, "Late night TV. It's soft. There was a two-for-one deal."

"For Susan?" Indio asks.

"Can you see her in Zebra?" Robert asks and laughs. He drinks from his cup of whatever -- coffee or tea, probably. Joe's eyes are so wide and so focused that he thinks he might be able to see the steam. Joe's also pretty sure if his eyes stay this wide much longer, they'll start watering. "Looks at these sleeves. This huge collar? I feel like a wizard. Where'd you go last night? I was looking up magic tricks." He furrows his brow then. "Oh, yeah, and what the fuck are you doing? I'm upset with you."

Joe knows his moment is coming then, because Indio says, "I couldn't find you. So I just hung out with Joe," and he can hear the echo of things clicking into place when Robert looks to him. Why, yes, he let Iron Man's cute, older son sleep in his bed last night after bombing with Tony Stark. That happened.

"Joe," Robert says, and then gives him an amused smile. His own eyes widen a little as he drinks from his mug again. He repeats himself. "Joe."

"Morning, sir," Joe says. He feels stupid about it. He feels like a twenty-year-old.

"Little Bobby Junior. You make me feel like a I'm seventy instead of sixty."

"You're forty-four," Indio says, turning to grab his jacket from Joe's front seat. He says it casually, like he's used to it, like it's no big deal that any of this is happening at all.

"Which is about halfway to a hundred," Robert says. "Joe, do you like magic? You watch, uh, what is it? That acid trip movie with the British kids. Harry Potter, right? I took Indio to see the first one when he was eight or something."

Joe thinks back to that. In 2001, he was in junior high, he's pretty sure. He was in seventh grade, and that lands heavy against Joe's stomach like a sucker punch. Robert's already proven that he doesn't really have much concern for accurate numbers, so maybe he's wrong about Indio being that young at the time. Maybe Joe doesn't have to amend his thinking about Iron Man's hot older son, because he's not really about four years younger than Joe. Maybe there's been a mistake. Maybe he's not actually even younger than Nick, and Joe doesn't have to feel like the world's biggest loser because he played his favorite video game with Little Bobby Junior's sixteen-year-old the same night he tried to pick up his dad like an amateur.

Joe says, "Oh, I've --" and sort of pauses as he notices that Indio's leaving. He's saying, "I'm gonna go change. This suit is nasty," and Joe thinks, please, God, please, God, don't leave him here alone, and then worries about how sad it is that he needs a high-school junior to be his buffer.

Because, okay. Bob Downey may be wearing a Snuggie, but he's still pretty damn buff.

He clears his throat and immediately starts word vomiting. Joe says, "I never, never meant to, uh. What a small world. You guys have a beautiful, um, beautiful house. Here in Brentwood."

"It isn't my style," Robert says, raising his arm to let one huge sleeve fall back, exposing skin. He chuckles. "Shit, it's exactly my style. I live here, and I love it, but what will people think of me, you know? I have a fucking manicured lawn. That says something unfortunate about a lot of people."

Joe says, "It looks nice," and fidgets.

Shrugging, Robert says, "My wife likes the grass even. It's this pet peeve she has."

"Well, I," Joe tries again, but he doesn't have high hopes for doing this whole small talk thing any better. "It was nice meeting you. I have to --"

"Nice watch," Robert interrupts. "I think I said that to you already though. I told you I had one like it, didn't I? Fake, though. Lost it last year, because the clasp broke. Had it in my pocket, this stupid, chunky thing. Fell out, and it turns out that I then run over it with my stupid, chunky car. I -- after something like that, you just start trusting sundials again or something, or you should. I should."

Joe nods, but he's not even sure if he gets it. He says, "Or a smaller watch this time?"

And that makes Robert laugh. He says, "Oh, yeah," and points at Joe. "Sorry, I get distracted and -- fuck, look. Look, you're funny, and you can relax, because I'm not going to ask you if you fucked my kid."

"Wow," Joe says, and he shakes his head.

Robert says, "I'm just thinking. You're probably not a bad kid. You brought him home, and, frankly, some of us ended up doing a lot of cocaine in the 90s; I won't name names. As long as he can look me in the eye, you know?" He gestures to Joe with his mug. "But you've -- let me tell you. The two-timing thing? Not as glamorous. Doesn't work out, ever. I know."

Joe looks down at his hand and remembers his ring. He says, "Oh, I'm not. This isn't that kind of situation. My brother just got married, but I'm not."

He realizes belatedly that he's not entirely sure whether Robert, whether Bobby, means his own ring or Joe's. It also then hits Joe that he obliviously tried to hit on a married man last night. This Monday morning sucks. It's probably the worst Monday morning he's had in recent history, because he's about 80% sure he felt up someone illegally, and it turns out that Bobby Junior is also completely nuts.

Robert says, "So, what is this, some kind -- oh, oh. It's a religious thing."

Joe says, "It's a personal thing."

They've grown accustomed to saying that to everybody, because it's easier than trying to explain themselves to people whom usually don't care to get it in the first place.

Robert nods, pouting. He says, "Then I definitely don't have anything to ask you now, huh?" and laughs with his head tipped to the side. "Fucking hell, you're adorable. You remind me of me." He pauses for a moment, sorting of grunting and rethinking. "I mean that in the good way."

"Thanks," Joe says. He's pretty sure that's the right answer.

"Look," Robert says, and then turns his head when Indio pokes his head outside again and calls his name.

Indio says, "Hey, where's the other one? It's not in the living room or anything?"

"Check the bedroom," Robert says. "There's the laptop and everything. I swear I had a whole project going."

"Right," Indio says, lingering. He raises his hand. "Later, Joe."

"Yeah," Joe says, trying to wave too. It's more of a loose flip of his arm though, abortive and pathetic.

Robert says, "Call him," to Indio, and then looks back to Joe. "Is that -- that still goes on with you, right? Or is it -- no, text him!"

"We just played video games," Joe says, lamely.

"Mm," Robert says and shrugs. "Well, that's wholesome, isn't it? Nothing wrong with doing that a few times a week."

---

Surprisingly, Indio does contact him again. He calls Joe and says, "Are you filming today?"

Joe says, "Wait. You want come hang out?"

"Is that not cool?" Indio asks, sounding wary.

"No, that's -- that's fine." Joe just isn't expecting it, after everything. "Come by. We're on set, yeah, but I'll text you the address."

"Alright. I'll be there in maybe an hour."

"Sure," Joe says, and he still can't believe that Indio even bothers.

He tells Kevin about it when he puts his phone away and goes back to catering to get more food.

"The young guy?" Kevin asks.

"He's, like, way taller than me, though," Joe says.

"That's not the same," Kevin says, as if Joe asked him to make sense. "You usually hang out with older people, don't you?"

Joe says, "Whatever. It's just hanging out. I'm not gonna hook up with him or anything."

---

So, they hook up again.

It's about a week after the first time, and Joe places his hands on Indio's hips, moves down to his ass, then comes back up quicker than he was planning. Joe hasn't actually made out with that many guys, because he hasn't really been willing to think too hard about what it means for the ring on his hand, whether the fact that he's kissing dudes is someone immediately more problematic than girls. Because the thing is, he doesn't think that makes any sense, since kissing is kissing, and he's still treating ladies likes ladies and behaving like a gentlemen, just like he promised. He even lets Indio lie on top, which is probably as gentlemanly as he gets.

Joe doesn't really know how his mother would feel about that being the most gentlemanly thing about him.

He pulls back from Indio and says, "Wait. How come you didn't tell me who your dad was?"

Indio stares at Joe blankly, and then twists his mouth up. "That's what's on your mind?"

"I'm just saying," Joe says. "You didn't even tell me your last name."

Indio rolls his eyes. He says, "People either get weirded out by him, or they care too much."

"Weirded out?" Joe says. The laugh that comes out feels sort of braying. "No -- no way."

"Shut up," Indio says. "Can we not talk about my dad?"

Joe nods quickly, feeling a little overeager. He says, "Yeah. Yeah, sure," and wonders if he should tell Indio about how he tried to flirt with his father.

No, that might be uncomfortable. That's probably something Joe should keep to himself, he decides, and closes his eyes when Indio ducks in again.

---

At the very least, Joe should properly apologize to Robert or something. He comes by the house in Brentwood to pick up Indio, although Joe hasn't even fully grasped why that's necessary. Indio has a driver's license, but there's something about how if they're going to end up together anyway, Joe should pick him up, because Indio's license is still provisional and his dad sticks to the guidelines of that pretty tough. "It's like a rule about driver's who start at 15, 16 only driving themselves," Indio had said, which was cruel, because Joe likes to not think about that part of Indio's reality quite so regularly, but hey, apparently nobody cares what Joe wants. Indio just likes to rub his age in Joe's face and create new, even more uncomfortable opportunities for him to have to stand around with Robert awkwardly.

Waiting in their living room, Joe decides to take the opportunity to sort some things out. He says, "Look, Robert -- Mr. Downey," and clears his throat.

"Pause, whoa, hold on," Robert says. He shakes his head, and he seems genuinely disappointed. "What are we doing here, Joe? We can't form a real relationship if you refuse to listen to my needs."

"I'm sorry?" Joe says, raising his eyebrows.

"It's Bobby," Robert says. He motions to the negative space between them. "What we have -- you and I? Indio? It's Bobby, really."

What they have. Joe's sort of tempted to point out that he and Indio don't have too much of anything just yet, paying attention to the way Robert's collar lies flat as he's bent in conspiratorially. It's amazing what dressing in normal clothes again can do for a person. But something tells Joe that that isn't what Robert means about forming a relationship.

"Bobby," Joe says.

Robert nods, touching his hand to Joe's arm. He says, "Doesn't that just feel better? I like the way it rolls off your tongue, too. Oh, say it again, Joe."

Joe presses his lips together, thinking, no. No way. He will not give in to doing anything with his mouth at all. Then Robert squeezes his shoulder a little, and Joe says, "Bobby?"

"Ugh," Robert says. "Beautiful. Memorize that."

"Leave him alone," Indio says, showing up just in time -- finally. Joe didn't think making people wait was something that happened in real life, and he definitely didn't think it happened with boys.

"Hi!" Joe says, way too loudly. He moves to stand in front of Indio, fixing his collar for no reason. "Arcade?"

Indio takes a moment, cluing in belatedly. "Ah. Yeah, for sure."

"Have fun," Robert says behind them. "Wear your seatbelt, use your turn signals, and don't, uh, flip off any cops for fun."

Joe spins around, startled, but Indio simply tugs him along and says, "Got it!"

---

The fun thing about hanging out with Indio, Joe learns, is that when he meets Indio's band mates, he gets to be the cool, older musician in Indio's life. While they're driving over to Lia's, Joe's worried about figuring out how in the world to behave in a room full of teenagers who don't already love him -- "Although you're not even that much older, and you have younger brothers," Indio points out -- but it turns out to be fine.

They play some songs while Joe sits around and drinks Coca-cola from a real bottle. The four of them have been practicing long enough that they sound really solid, and Joe says, "Man, this is awesome. Nick would probably want us to produce something of yours."

He feels so cool. He has to take another swig from his soda bottle, he feels so cool, and then Jasper says, "Don't you just do Disney stuff?"

Joe says, "Ouch," and thinks, well, Jasper's lucky Joe's not the kind of guy who'll stoop to reminding everybody of his resume. "We do a lot of stuff."

"They've produced for other people," Indio says. "Sounds pretty good."

Lia says, "We've been trying to get our parents to cave and help us put together our own space. I mean, we have some stuff, but not everything."

"They won't help?" Joe asks.

"Something about delayed gratification," Indio says. "Earning things. You heard my dad talking about my haircuts, man. He's kind of strange about his battles."

That's really not the only thing that makes Robert kind of strange. Joe has sort of started keeping a mental pro/con list. Pro: he's got to be the most suave dad in all of Hollywood or all of ever, Joe's still taking a census to confirm. Con: he has a collection of caricatures of himself that he calls his headshots and sometimes talks about things that happened in the 1920s like they're events he was present for. He's, like, fascinating. And insane. Fascinatingly insane. He has great hair though.

Instead of asking Indio what it's like to grow up with someone who thinks manicured lawns count as a personality flaw, Joe says, "Well, what kind of stuff don't you have? Nick might have some stuff he could part with."

Indio sort of smiles in a way that takes up his face, and Joe tries not to think about family resemblances too much.

---

Kevin says, "So, you're seeing this guy. But you have a crush on his dad?"

Nick says, "That's nasty."

Joe says, "I don't have a crush on his dad. His dad just happens to be Robert Downey, Jr. The whole return to stardom thing is, like. Plus he has all of this random knowledge about astronomy."

"You're into people who are into stars?" Kevin asks, both him and Nick looking at Joe like he's grown a third arm out of his throat.

"I mean, he's interesting," Joe says. "That's all."

"I didn't even know you were dating, uh, Indio," Nick says, rolling up the script in his hands and tapping it against his knees.

Joe doesn't actually know. He feels like calling it dating is unfair, since mostly what they do is make out and then sometimes Indio plays Joe songs, or he talks about how difficult it is to be in high school. Indio leads an amazingly normal life outside of the famous father who went to rehab and everybody knowing about it thing.

"We just like each other's company," Joe says, primly.

Kevin says, "Do you think Dad would flip out? About his parents?"

Joe doesn't want to think about parents' reactions to any of it. Not even Robert knows specifically what kind of games Joe likes to play, he doesn't think.

He says, "Indio was like a boy scout or something, anyway. I don't know. He's fine. His parents are fine."

"You said he had a band, right?" Nick asks. "Well. He's never jammed with us."

He's only been around Joe's brothers once or twice, surprisingly, but then again, Nick starts to play guitar with everyone even remotely musically inclined within the first hour of meeting them.

"He plays guitar pretty well," Joe says.

"Cool," Nick says, and then looks away for a minute, out at nothing. When he comes back, he thwaps at the arm of Joe's chair. "It's still nasty that you're into his dad."

"I'm not!" Joe insists.

"Okay, okay, we believe you," Kevin says, holding up his hands.

Nick laughs, getting up and mumbling something about more Diet Coke. Joe doesn't really get what's so funny.

He makes fart noises with his mouth at Nick as he goes, then pulls out his phone to text Indio about comic books.

---

Really, though, it isn't his fault that Robert is so captivating. Joe even ends up spending an evening in the Downey's backyard after filming. He lies in some ridiculous star shape with Indio, Robert, and Susan until she says she has some work to finish before the end of the night. So it's the three of them pinwheeled on the ground and looking at what few visible stars exist in an LA sky, and Robert talks about how he wants a planetarium of his own sometimes, and Joe wonders how anyone can be this excellent.

"You can always put those glowing stickers on your bedroom ceiling," Joe says.

Robert laughs. He says, "That's -- that's true. Is Michael's still in business?"

Joe thinks that he would love nothing more right now in this moment than to engage in an arts and crafts project with Bobby Junior. He rolls over on his side, and he says to Indio, "Is he serious?"

"Sometimes," Indio says, looking up from where he lies. Joe sort of wants to kiss him. He also sort of wants to flop out on the grass again and let Robert tell him some more about Orion's belt really being a metaphor for Orion's penis, because that was hilarious.

"Wait, tell me," Robert says, and he holds up a hand, making a ring with his thumb and forefinger as he looks upward. "You guys spend a lot of time together, these days. Lately. How do you feel about Guitar Hero? Do you play that one?"

Indio laughs then, and Joe swallows twice. Joe says, "Well..."

"It's another thing Dad here can't get behind," Indio says, cutting in.

Robert says, "Am I right, though? Or am I crazy?"

"Umm," Joe says.

"You play instruments; you get it," Robert says. "Learn how to play 'Sweet Home Alabama' for real instead of how to push buttons on a controller. Right?"

His fingers brush Joe's arm when he says that, the tips touching his skin and holding steady for a few confusing, amazing moments.

Joe says, "I don't play music games ever. I practice guitar every day."

---

So after a couple months, Joe has made out with Indio a few times, and he's used to stopping by the house to pick him up, and it's awesome. Indio even convinces Joe to make out with him in the car once, settling over Joe's lap and working his hips, trying to find friction. Joe touches his sides, hands under the shirt and rocking up against him, and it's awkward but perfect how Indio isn't afraid to bite his lip a little and try to make things interesting.

"You," Joe says, "are wow."

Indio chuckles against his mouth. He doesn't stop, which is probably the best part, and then after they've had enough for the evening, Joe takes Indio home, and Robert and Susan make breakfast crepes at eleven o'clock at night.

"Some people think powdered sugar is excessive, but I like a little flair," Robert says, sprinkling liberally with a twist in his arm that seems practiced.

"Delicious," Joe says. He's going to have to get Kevin to learn how to make this, and then invite him over. "Just. Wow."

He bumps his knee against Indio's, and Indio rolls his eyes at Joe, but when Joe persists, he coaxes a half-smile out of him.

Joe's life is fantastic. He feels so great about this situation.

---

He feels great until Indio sits with him behind the JONAS soundstage one day, and Joe asks if Robert wants more of the brownies Joe and his roommates baked but doesn't get a simple confirmation. Instead, Indio says, "I'm not sure if I'm up for this."

Joe thinks, oh, God, is this high school student breaking up with him? He says, "Are you breaking up with me?"

Indio's wearing jeans and a t-shirt with simple sneakers. He's always about three-times less dressed up than Joe, somehow, even if they're wearing the same things. Indio, at least, doesn't actually own a flatiron, Joe thinks. He likes that about him. Joe remembers when he bought his first flatiron. He also remembers the first time he decided to flat-iron his hair and feather it for no reason other than not being able to sleep, because Amelia stopped calling him back.

Dwelling on things makes Joe antsy, and he likes to keep himself busy to prevent talking too much or saying the wrong things in these situations.

Indio says, "It's just kind of weird."

"The Disney thing?" Joe says, looking around. Nobody even cares. "They don't mind. It's not as bad as people assume."

"No, it's the way that, uh," Indio starts. He cracks knuckles then turns his hand over, picking at the calluses on his fingers. "You're really into my dad, dude."

"I'm not," Joe says. "Seriously? We talk about pastries and stencil art."

Indio sighs, dropping his shoulders inward. It still sort of baffles Joe that this guy is taller than him. Indio says, "It's weird already when friends do it -- new people. You're this person I make out with. You can't be into my dad."

A high school student is definitely dumping Joe. What the hell. He doesn't think he deserves this.

He says, "Indio. Come on. I like hanging out with you."

It's true. One hundred percent fact. Joe enjoys talking about music with Indio, making up random tunes, and then when they play actual video games. Indio is the only other person Joe knows who, like him, still thinks the Zelda franchise is worthwhile. Those kinds of people need to stick together.

Joe says as much, and Indio shakes his head. He says, "You could be describing all the things you like doing with your brother."

"I don't make out with my brother," Joe says. And he really likes that part too. Hell, if Joe had known this was coming so soon, he might've let Indio stick a hand down his pants more than once.

Indio says, "That's one thing."

"I like you," Joe says. "We should keep hanging out. What do you want me to do?"

"You have to break up with my dad, dude," Indio says plainly.

"Done," Joe says.

Fine. He can do that.

---

It proves to be really freaking difficult to break the bad news to Robert, though, when he gets to Brentwood and Robert's making smoothies. Indio declines getting one of his own for the moment and says he's going to take a shower first. He knocks his hand against Joe's arm, catching his eyes before he leaves, and Joe sort of wants to bawl, because then Robert has this assortment of fruits laid out and he's humming Nat King Cole, and Joe feels like he's about to roll over a bunny with a tractor.

Robert says, "It's hard to find good acai berries, so I buy the juice. I don't have the patience like some people. I've got things to do." He rinses the blender pitcher and sets it on the base. "We've got banana, vanilla, soy milk --"

"Bobby," Joe interrupts, droll and forced. "We can't."

Pausing in his preparation, Robert says, "What? You don't like soy?"

"If I drink your smoothies, then Indio will think I like you better," Joe says. He tugs at the cap on his head and shrugs, hoping that he's done his best to communicate a heartfelt, ah, teenagers, what can you do?

"My acai berry does bring all the boys to the yard," Robert says, nodding apologetically. "But Indio understands the value of a good blend."

Joe slides his knuckles over the marble counter, pulling himself up onto one of the barstools. He says, "Hmm. So. It's more that he thinks I have a, uh, crush. On you?"

Robert starts pouring the acai juice into the blender, sets the container down, and then picks up the soymilk. He says, "Ahh," seriously and then counts out loud as he pours. Once it's finished, Robert stares at the blender critically. "Now, that's no good, is it?"

"I guess not."

"Yeah, we just ran out of soy milk," Robert clarifies. "I can't make another batch without it. We'll have to go to the store after." He looks up at Joe, leaning against the counter with his elbows on the surface and his chin in his hands. "Joe, did you fuck my son?"

"What?" Joe says, eyes shooting wide open. "I. You said you wouldn't ask that."

"It's this whole fatherhood shtick," Robert says, coming around the bar and touching Joe's shoulders. He kneads the muscles there. "Among men there's sometimes a code: tit for tat, what's my business is our business is our secret, but with Indio, well. It's a head-trip, let me tell you. Here's the fucking kicker, still, after sixteen years: I'm a parent. And he's my favorite person in the world, so sometimes the rules get chucked out of the window without notice. That's just how it goes, so. Basically, I lied."

Joe doesn't have the presence of mind to really try to pull that apart, so he sticks to what Robert said before and says, "I didn't. I promise."

"But he likes you?" Robert says, unexpectedly concise.

Joe says, "Bobby -- Mr. Downey."

"It's still Bobby, Joe. Relax," Robert says.

"Bobby," Joe says, giving it a second shot. "I like him too."

Robert pats Joe's shoulder and moves around to his side. He says, "See, that's sweet. That, young sir, is what you're supposed to say. I know; I have a lot of experience in what not to say."

Joe scoffs, not particularly convinced that he's somehow made everything right. He says, "I don't know," looking to Robert. "I think he's really kind of mad at me."

"He'll forgive you," Robert says, waving off Joe's concern. He knocks his knee against Joe's in a way Joe has definitely done to Indio before, craning in for secret sharing. "I know that one from experience too."

Joe laughs softly. He says, "He's a really awesome guy."

"Thank you," Robert says. "He doesn't get it from me."

"Are you kidding? You're great."

"Joey, baby, you spoil me." Robert touches his hand to his chest. He moves the hand back to Joe's shoulder, pinching him through the fabric of his shirt. His expression softens even more as he says, "But c'est la vie, mon amour. The sun is setting on you and I."

That makes Joe sit up straighter. Is this for real? Is this happening again?

"Are you dumping me?" he asks, the laugh getting tripped up inside of him. He lets out a really unattractive snort and thinks, yes. Yes, he's being dumped. "Because you were flirting with me?"

Robert rears his head back a little, then seems to suck on the inside of his jaw for a moment, contemplative. Joe doesn't know what's happening in his head, but something about Robert's expression changes. He frowns and then drops the look as quickly as it appears, settling on saying, "It's more that I'm setting you free. Let's say that." He holds up his hands. "Besides, what did I tell you about rings? I have a lot of promises these days. Or people are always promising what they can and won't do, but saying things is easier than -- I mean, me bullshitting came more naturally than drinking water. It's basically all this shit in my pocket, but for some -- for a lot of reasons, you keep patting your pants like you're afraid to drop them."

Joe shakes his head. He says smirks and says, "I never even had a chance."

He'd known that. They'd both known that, probably, but there's still a difference between assuming things at a party and then acknowledging them out loud. He feels the thread of humor in their exchange the same way he feels the weight of it -- 'serious frivolousness' is a way Joe had heard Robert describe himself once, and he thinks he gets that more and more. It's no big deal, if they don't want to make it one, but Indio isn't, actually, a consolation prize.

"I have one really nice watch now. I got it with Susan. But you -- very flattering, though," Robert says, holding out his arms in an exaggerated, showy gesture. "You've got spunk. Pizzazz. All those fun words they use when you're marketable and have a nice smile."

He lowers his arms again, and then leans in and smacks an uneven kiss to the side of Joe's face before reaching across the countertop to grab a banana like it's all part of the act. It feels a lot like a grandma kiss, as much as Robert can do that, cute and non-threatening. He says, more controlled now, "But, really, you're wonderful. I respect this. Stop by all the time." Robert holds out the fruit after he breaks the peel. "Potassium? Trust me, it helps."

"Yeah," Joe says, pulling off the tip, because he's not going to be the guy that turns down Robert. He also doesn't quite feel like bolting from embarrassment, so that's got to be an improvement. "Thanks."

---

When Joe carries two smoothies to Indio's room, he finds Indio fully dressed on his bed and staring at an open textbook. It's completely unfortunate that he's arrived too late for a private look, it seems, but then Indio turns his attention to Joe and says, "Hey," with a small smile. He doesn't seem upset, so that's got to count for something positive.

Joe holds out the glass in his left hand. "For you, young Padawan."

"Is that from Star Wars?" Indio asks, taking the smoothie. "You're into that?"

He moves over on the mattress, and Joe takes the opportunity to sit with him, crossing his legs and tasting his own smoothie. It's delicious.

"I'm almost too young to really care about Star Wars," Joe says. "Right on the cusp. I saw the first episodes before the original releases."

"I definitely don't care about Star Wars."

"Then let's never talk about it again," Joe says. He leans forward to see Indio's book. "And what's this? Biology? Banned. We also never get to talk about this, starting right now."

Joe settles back against the headboard of the bed, drinking and looking around Indio's bedroom. He's been in here before, of course, but it's never been quite like this. Joe has never gotten to hang out in Indio's room while his dad knew for sure that Joe enjoys playing tongue hockey with his son. It's like a milestone, or something. Joe is going to mark it in his calendar at some point, even, just so he doesn't forget. It'll be labeled, The Day I Didn't Get Arrested For Dating Indio Downey.

Indio's content to ditch the schoolbook too, the two of them drink in silence until he asks, "Did you help make these?"

"I just watched," Joe says. He took notes, though. He's going to steal the mixture for him and his roommates.

"So it went well?" Indio asks.

Joe says, "Mmm," swallows and cough. His gums feel kind of cold. "He kissed my cheek."

Indio drops his head back, huffing out a breath. Joe can't tell if it's amusement or exasperation. Either way, Indio says, "Has anyone ever told you that you're a crappy boyfriend, or whatever?"

"Oh," Joe says, dipping his finger into his cup and then licking it. "You'd be surprised. I also don't put out on the first date. Or, the, uh, the eighth one, usually."

"But everything in between is fine?"

"Ha!" Joe points at Indio, drinking more smoothie and then running his tongue over his top lip to get rid of any fruity mustache left behind. "I walked right into that one."

Indio says, "Couldn't resist," and he comes away from his glass with a little smoothie mustache too.

Joe watches him lick his lips, and he thinks, wow. What is this guy even bothering with him for?

He says, "So am I still dumped?" knocking his foot into Indio's leg. "Me and your dad called it quits. He was very bent up about it. I'm a lot of man to lose. I choose you."

"Like I'm a Pokémon."

"I love that you just made that reference," Joe says. He's going to kiss Indio in about thirty seconds for that. Joe turns to the side, draping his leg over Indio's, bumping their feet together. "I'm all adorable and irresistible. I smell nice, come on."

"Dude," Indio says, tilting his chin up and failing to suppress his laugh when Joe tries to tickle his stomach. Joe makes use of the moment by kissing Indio's jaw.

Joe inhales and pulls back abruptly. He stills his hand and he says, "I'm sorry, you know? I try not to be an ass to people. I was kind of dumb about this, about how you maybe felt."

Indio tilts his head to the side, catching Joe's eyes. He says, "Hmm, I think it's cool." He shrugs, pulling his knees up and then straightening them out again. "It sucks competing. I'm just over that."

Joe nods, ducking his head. If Kevin were here, he'd probably hit Joe upside the head for being dense. He has a tendency to do that, to be completely oblivious, and sometimes this is what it takes. Sometimes people just have to rub Joe's nose it, and then he gets it, and once he gets it, he tries to remember that it's important to be on the same page as everyone else

"Sorry. Again," Joe says.

Indio shrugs again, not speaking. His lips stretch some like the beginning of a smile. Joe seizes the opportunity, using his fingers again to coax out a burst of laughter.

"Stop!" Indio says.

Joe says, "Undump me," and presses his fingers down more. "Dude, I'm dying here."

"Okay! Okay," Indio says. "Undumped."

"Yes, thank you, okay," Joe says, pushing ever closer to coax Indio's chin down again, their mouths brushing.

---

Before he goes home, Joe takes a picture of himself and Indio. He sets it as the background on his cell phone, letting Indio watch him do so, because now this is official. This could only be more official if Joe had a Facebook and, thus, could change his relationship status.

As it is, Indio says, "I think I can live without it."

"Are you sure?" Joe asks. "Because I could see if that's possible on our music fan page or something. Although, then people might think you're dating all three of us. It could get awkward, and our fans are... passionate. With blowtorches. They're very passionate about blowtorches and using them to --"

"I get it," Indio says.

Joe makes him laugh, Indio closing his eyes and shifting his head where it lies on Joe's arm. He can already sort of feel the limb going numb, but Joe doesn't really mind yet. It's sort of nice. The fact that Indio even still wants to be there makes Joe feel good about this whole situation.

He doesn't linger after that, because he doesn't want to push Robert and Susan's graciousness. Joe says goodbye on the way out and tries not to think too hard about walking out in a way that makes him look both cool but respectable at the same time, because he's Indio's responsible, older boyfriend now. Joe’s probably a big doofus for wanting to make a good impression this far into it, as if he hasn't been here several times before. It’s still kind of important, though, he thinks, whatever.

He manages not to trip until he's outside, at least. It's all about the small victories.

This Particular Pleasure (Brendon/Spencer, NC-17)

gigantic — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 06:53:52 GMT

This Particular Pleasure
by Charli J
Brendon/Spencer. NC-17. 18,000 words.
Spencer tries re-definition and can't stop over-analyzing how new and young it always feels.

Note: Post-divorce fic that's not actually about the divorce (directly) but is another story about two dudes in a house. Thanks to insunshine and jadziadrgnrdr for their input and for not telling me to shut up. Any remaining mistakes are due to my failure.

Brendon has this problem sometimes, where he can't fuck unless there's music playing. He's not trying to be overly romantic or set a mood, he just can't deal with the silence. He'll have his legs around Spencer, bucking his hips up, ready for it, and then say, "Wait, shit, turn the channel. Turn the TV to that music hits station or something," right in the middle of everything.

"Are you kidding?" Spencer asks, even though he's done this enough times for him to know that, no, Brendon isn't. "You're so weird."

"I know," Brendon says. "Dude, you know me. Just turn the channel. Not country though. It'll fuck up my rhythm."

Brendon's the strangest person Spencer's ever had sex with; he's got the strangest quirks. It's not saying a whole lot, since Spencer's slept with three people, and Brendon's the third, so it isn't terribly difficult to earn the title for Spencer's most novel sexual experience, but he also figures it counts for something that Haley, at least, didn't really care about the sounds in the room.

"It's about my head space," Brendon had said the first time. "I don't know how to explain it."

He hadn't seemed too worried about what Spencer would think of the request, and he continues to be that way now. Sex in general doesn't seem to be a big deal to Brendon. At least, he's never talked about it with any seriousness.That has to be an indicator in itself, because Spencer doesn't have a million hang-ups of his own or anything, but when Brendon had laughed and first suggested that he give Spencer head, Spencer had honestly believed he'd been joking.

He found out otherwise when Brendon ended up on his knees while they were watching fucking Ghostbusters, of all things. Right then and there Spencer decided that if they ever played drinking games during movies again, it couldn't be with any more videos he associated with his childhood.

It's been a continuously enlightening few weeks since then. Like now, for example, when Spencer pauses to reach for the remote and flip the channel, Brendon opens up almost immediately as some alternative rock song filters into the room. The music thing. It really works.

"This isn't even sexy," Spencer says, but he touches Brendon's stomach and stretches out against him again anyway.

Brendon says, "Who cares? Are you going to let it stop you?"

"You almost let having the news on stop you," Spencer points out.

"That's different," Brendon says. He smirks. "There was an old dude on the screen. He was staring."

;;

On Sunday, after dinner but before they do the dishes, they make out on the couch. Brendon slides his hand under Spencer's shirt, dragging along Spencer's side, moving up to touch his nipple, and Spencer wonders if this is the kind of shit he missed out on in high school. He was never that kid, but there's something about this scene that makes him feel like this is how it could've been, necking in the den and afraid that Brendon's parents were going to come downstairs and find them.

He wonders if Brendon would have even been bold enough to make out with him back in high school. Probably not. He wonders why every time they hook up, he can't stop overanalyzing how new and young it always feels.

He and Brendon aren't polar opposites. They simply have had opposite experiences when it comes the circumstances surrounding their sex lives. Spencer has lived with the majority of the people he's slept with, whether in a relationship, or at least a pretty dedicated friendship situation. Spencer doesn't think either of them want anything serious, but the fact that he sees Brendon more than everyone else and still likes it might mean they're committed roommates. Brendon, on the other hand, hasn't even lived in the same state as most of the people he's slept with, excluding Shane, and now Spencer.

They're just different. Spencer's only ever been completely comfortable with one person thus far, but Brendon's bold enough even after only a few times with the same person to push up on his elbows and rock his hips against Spencer, eyebrows raised, suggestive.

Spencer knows a proposition's coming before Brendon opens his mouth.

"Fingers," Brendon says, lifting up some. "Yes? No?"

Spencer says, eyes widening, "Wait, you mean. Where? In my ass?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "Is that cool?"

He's smiling softly, lips twisted in a halfway grin that makes him look amused. Laughing. Brendon's laughing at him.

"Uh," Spencer says. They've messed around, and Spencer's fucked Brendon a few times now, but they've never switched it. "I've never, so. I don't know."

"Really?" Brendon asks, eyebrows shooting up. He pushes up on his arms some. "Spence, don't fuck with me. Really?"

Spencer frowns, and then laughs despite himself. He closes his eyes and wishes Brendon would just blow him or something. He says, "Shut up."

"Oh, you have to let me," Brendon says, more excited than Spencer would say is necessary. "Spencer. Shit, for real. We have to."

;;

Everybody Spencer knows well or speaks to with any sort of regularity does ask after Brendon now. He doesn't know what that counts for though, because it's also true that they live together, so Spencer sees it as common courtesy. Half the time that they're out, when Brendon gets off the phone with someone, he says, "Oh, Shane said what's up," or switches it to whomever might have been talking to him. Sometimes it's things like, "Mason says hi, and he's sending you those Manilow CDs," and Spencer wonders if people just assume they're always around one another.

"Your brother hates me, doesn't he?" Spencer says, even though Mason has told Spencer to his face that he thinks Spencer's cooler than homemade Flavor-Aid ice cube popsicles. Brendon's whole family shares the same brand of slightly cheesy humor.

"Dude," Brendon says. "Don't act like you didn't ask for them. My brother loves you enough to package with care."

"I don't want to hear about your brother's package," Spencer says.

Brendon says, "Your mom."

"Is cool as fuck!" Spencer shouts.

Laughing, Brendon says, "Damn Skippy, not Jiffy. Jif. You know what I mean."

"Now I want some PB and J." Spencer nodes sagely.

"Let's go home," Brendon says. "When we get back to the house, I'll make them."

"Cool." Spencer's certainly more than okay with that. His phone buzzes, and when he checks it, it's a text from Haley. They talk back and forth a bit, and five messages in, she asks how Brendon is.

same old Brendon, Spencer writes and thinks about how that's not entirely accurate, because Brendon is still the same, as a guy, but a lot of things between them, surrounding them, in relation to him and Spencer have shifted. For one, Spencer has spent quite a bit more time with his dick in Brendon's ass, but he's not really sold on the idea of sending that text back.

He and Haley are still friends but they aren't friends like Brendon and Shane, because Spencer's pretty certain that Regan even knows Brendon and Shane were fucking during their off period, but the three of them are still as close as ever. Spencer doesn't really understand how Brendon constantly manages to be so lucky with people. He wonders if it's plausible that that was something Ryan taught him while he busy acting like a fourth period health teacher for Brendon, because he's always managed the same thing.

Haley writes back, tell him I say hi!

Spencer has the best intentions, but then he forgets, because Brendon starts telling him a story about Pete, and when they get home, Brendon makes sandwiches and ends up lying in bed with Spencer while they watch television. When they go to sleep that night, the fact that they're in the same bed without having done anything is just a hazard of the evening, but Spencer keeps thinking about the distance between them on the bed, how it's less than a foot, and then smaller when he wakes up in the middle of the night.

;;

...And that, Spencer assumes a day later, is how Brendon must do it. He must have already succumbed to Brendon's talents for confounding people through earnestness and cutting the crusts off his peanut butter sandwiches. It's that kind of stuff that prevents Spencer from thinking about the fact that Brendon's already slept with way too many of their mutual friends before him.

He's got his mouth on Brendon's neck, teeth grazing the skin just enough to make Brendon keen. Brendon says, "Fuck, fuck, god," and pushes the pads of his fingers into Spencer's skin, flexing.

His enthusiasm is something else Spencer hasn't gotten a handle on. Brendon is energetic and his brain moves thirty miles a minute, but he's present and focused, always responding to Spencer like he's being touched exactly the way he hoped for, just waiting for someone to get it right. Maybe he learned it from watching porn.

Spencer wonders who else has gotten this. He says -- blurts, "Have you fucked Zack?"

"What?" Brendon asks, breathless. He looks shocked and then laughs. "I should elbow you in the face for that." Spencer slides his hand up Brendon's thigh in lieu of an intelligent response. "No. No, I haven't."

"Right," Spencer says and accepts belatedly that it doesn't actually make a difference in this moment.

;;

"You're about a hundred times better at this house and home stuff than me," Brendon says after Spencer suggests they test the smoke detectors. It isn't true, but it makes Spencer think of them in categories and juxtapositions while he's squirting cheese on Ritz crackers.

Brendon thinks Spencer's better at maintaining a home, and Spencer knows Brendon's done a wider variety of craziness in bed, which isn't even fair, since Spencer's almost positive everything Brendon first learned about sex, seriously, Ryan told him. They once had a conversation about how, even though Brendon went to public school, his parents never signed the permission forms for Sex Ed week in school, and Ryan took it upon himself to introduce Brendon to the internet and free porn.

There was a practical application period too, Spencer knows. He ignored most of it, especially once it started to drag on and stopped seeming like either of them were only having fun, but it did happen. He tries not to think about the idea that maybe he's reaping the benefits of it now.

Spencer says, "I'm following your lead, man. You were talking about the security system the other day."

"I had this nightmare about someone sneaking into the house," Brendon says, taking one of Spencer's crackers and making pleased noises around the crunch.

Spencer says, "The one from before? I didn't know you had recurring dreams, by the way."

"It's not like they're happening every other day. Only sometimes," Brendon says. "Anyway, yeah. It made me a little paranoid."

"We can call to make sure everything's updated then," Spencer says.

Spencer also still wants to get the deck weather-proofed. Los Angeles doesn't have the most difficult weather he's ever experienced, of course, but they come through dropping their soaking wet stuff from the ocean often enough that Spencer thinks about it. Having it done will be good for when it does rain or something, too. He and Brendon talked about it before tour, forever ago now, but Brendon had said it was a matter of the doing.

"We need to take the time," Brendon says. "It's one of those things, man. People talk and talk and then never actually do it. We just have to make some calls."

Brendon always says 'we' and 'us' and 'back home' without ever adding the 'to my place'. He's included Spencer since they first started throwing around the idea of having him move in for real. Brendon had said, "It'll be fucking perfect. You can move your bed up here, or we'll buy a new one. And a frame. Oh, shit, we probably have to buy a new flat screen too, because I think the one we have is Shane's, actually."

When Brendon makes the decision to share, he does it completely -- has done it. With food, his drinks, his clothes on tour minus the underwear, his family during the holidays, and his house, he opens it up and lets whomever asks roam free. "Mi casa es su casa" is a phrase Brendon has actually said in Spencer's presence, and since Spencer's moved in, Brendon's treated it like it's theirs -- fifty-fifty. Spencer's name isn't on the house, but he does pay his share now, and Brendon doesn't treat him like a landlord or something, like he's renting a room. He extends it, asking Spencer his opinion on things, including him in the maintenance decisions. Before Haley, Spencer lived with his parents, and so this is probably the closest thing to a regular roommate situation he's ever had, and he's not even sure it's the same thing.

"Nosotros casa es su casa," Brendon says when Regan and Shane come by and eat dinner with them one night.

Shane says, "Things change quick, huh? You're all settled in."

"It's been like six months? Seven months!" Brendon says. "Quit whining."

"I think it's 'nuestra,'" Spencer says, gnawing on his lip as he thinks about it. "Nuestra casa es su casa."

Brendon looks at him and says, "Really?" He thinks about it again and shrugs. "Wait, you're right. The point -- point: you can do what you want."

;;

They go surfing with Pete. Brendon's trying to catch one more wave -- "Just one, I promise, maybe two, then we can eat." -- while Spencer's dragging his board onto the beach. Pete sits down on the sand beside him, and he says, "This dude doesn't know when to say when."

"He's addicted," Spencer says. "And watch, he'll be freezing when he gets out because the sun's going down, then complain about it."

Pete laughs and lies back on the sand. He covers his face with his hands for a moment and then squints up. Turning his face to the side, he says, "We'll just tell him to suck it up."

"I think I have a jacket in the car. I brought it for me, but I probably won't need it," Spencer says. "He can use it."

Snorting, amused, Pete says, "Okay," and smiles. "You let him do that."

Spencer rolls his shoulder and stretches out some, ignoring it. He says, "Alright, alright, Wentz. Where are we eating?"

Pete's in the mood for Chinese, and Brendon doesn't particularly care when he gets out. Spencer's right about him being cold. Brendon says he just wants some dry clothes, letting his teeth chatter a little dramatically. He's done that since Spencer can remember, letting his jaw wobble and click, and Pete laughs.

He says, "Spencer said you'd be freezing."

"It was worth it!" Brendon says, rummaging through the stuff in the trunk of Pete's car. He pulls out a hoodie and holds it out, investigating. "Spence, is this yours? Can I use it?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, and he watches Brendon get a shirt on and put on the hoodie once he's toweled off. Pete cuffs him on the head, still laughing.

He says, "You're fucking shivering. That's adorable."

"Suck my dick," Brendon says, gritting his teeth, but it doesn't take much for it to become a grin. Pete and Brendon always smile at each other with all their teeth, and Spencer watches the lines of the shoulders in relation to one another and wonders if he's let something about them slip by during the years where he didn't think to pay attention.

Proximity does it to him now, makes him watch enough to be concerned. Spencer isn't worried about other people so much as he's never had to consider whether or not he's part of a list before.

At dinner, they talk about Three's Company reruns, buying new gloves for biking, and how Brendon's been entertaining thoughts of spandex against everybody's better judgment. Pete uses his powers for evil and says he'll join in if Brendon goes through with it, and Brendon says, "Oh! Pete, okay. Let me go to the bathroom, and then we'll set it up. This is happening."

While he's gone, Spencer says, "What are you starting? I have to live with that."

"Like you won't be wearing it too," Pete says. Spencer shakes his head, and Pete laughs. "It's nothing but bad news from here on out. First its spandex, then you lose complete control of your household. Trouble in paradise for the happy couple."

"All our children the products of a broken home," Spencer says.

Pete says, "If it helps, I'll vouch for your character in the custody battle. 'He bought the dogs all the best bedazzled jackets.'"

"Oh, wow, I appreciate it," Spencer says, wryly, but he chuckles and pushes his hair out of his face.

Pete plays with the straw in his drink, stirring it some. He says, "So, it's a household, huh?"

He's so vague that Spencer knows exactly what he's talking about. He doesn't really feel like making it easy though, especially if he's about to find out about the time Pete and Brendon sucked face in a public bathroom or had sex in a hotel room or whatever. He says, "We are two dudes, living in the same place."

"Sounds ideal. Nice benefits to being two," Pete says, because Spencer forgot that quickly that Pete can be a big dick too. He's smirking around his straw.

Spencer puts his elbows on the table, hunching forward. He says, "Yeah, I guess." After a moment, he lifts his elbow again and realizes he's put it right in a small pool of condensation. "It's something to get used to. I don't really know what it is."

"I'm the king of awkward, inauspicious beginnings," Pete says. "Look how I turned out."

"Thanks," Spencer says, because that's completely not reassuring, just based on the way Pete smiles about it. He knows mischief when he sees it. "I'm not used to this part. I think that's what it is. The not really knowing."

"Have you asked him?" Pete says, taking his straw out of his glass, licking it, and dropping it back in his cup. "In my time as an adult -- so the last two years -- I've heard that asking, man, it works sometimes."

"Right." There's a thought. Yeah, Spencer thinks. Asking. Yeah, no.

;;

During the first week of February, Brendon buys Sarah a card to mail out in time for Valentine's Day. Spencer checks out the candy aisle while he makes his selection, two away from Brendon, and he looks at the peanut butter cups and the Cadbury chocolate bars with almonds and tries to decide on which he wants more. If he gets the cups, they can share more than if Spencer grabs a couple of small bars.

"Got it," Brendon says, and he holds up the card. He's got a light green envelope for it too. "It's kind of funny."

Spencer really likes Sarah, and as he reads the card, he thinks she'll enjoy it. It seems right up her alley, from what he knows about her sense of humor, and Brendon looks pleased when Spencer chuckles and gives him a thumbs up.

"Nice," he says.

"Right? I thought so," Brendon says and sets it down in the grocery basket he's carrying around.

Brendon and Sarah have been stuck in a state of inactivity for a few months, Spencer's pretty sure, but Brendon still talks about her often enough that Spencer knows they're still friends, maybe still interested. He hadn't been the most well-versed person in the rules of their relationship before, but they used to at least make an effort to see one another once a month. He hasn't seen Sarah in a while, and the only time Brendon's left Southern California recently has been to visit his parents for the birthday party they threw his younger cousin.

"I should get one for Haley," Spencer says, and Brendon's eyes come up again.

The smile that crosses his mouth comes slowly, but then he says, "Yeah. Yeah, do you want me to pick it? I'm kind of good at it, as you know."

Spencer cocks his elbow out, bumping into Brendon. He shakes his head, the corner of his lips quirked, and he says, "I think I got it."

"Sure?" Brendon says. "Because I can help."

Despite the insistence, Spencer picks out the card, while Brendon stands at the end of the aisle and reads all the cards for baby's first birthday just because. A few of them even come with audio, and Spencer even gets distracted himself, tuning in to one made to sound like the voiceover for a movie trailer with fake audio censors. Baby's first word is bleeped out.

"How do they allow something like this?" Brendon says, but he's laughing, and because of him, it takes Spencer way longer than it should.

They mail the envelopes out together, and seven days later, they go to a special Sunday happy hour at a Thai place down the street from the house. Holiday or no, there's nothing better than cheap skewers and cheap beers. Brendon hums along with half the songs that come on over the speakers, and most of them aren't even love songs, so Brendon pushing his nose against Spencer's neck as they stumble-walk back down to their street is a bonus but not indicative of anything.

"Fuck," Brendon says. "I'm almost drunk."

"Those Palominos were strong, man," Spencer says, touching the nape of Brendon's neck and then dropping down to his shoulder.

Brendon says, "Yeah."

He manages to let them in the front door but drops his keys on the floor on the other side, wrapping his arms around Spencer's neck. Spencer kisses him, and he's grateful that Brendon's as pliant and vocal as ever when Spencer pushes up his t-shirt and slips to his knees.

;;

Bogart takes it upon himself to empty the contents of his stomach on the kitchen floor on Wednesday and Thursday, and Brendon says, "Fuck. He might not be sick, right? Should I nix going to Vegas this weekend?"

"No," Spencer says, once they've cleaned up the mess. "It's your brother's birthday shindig. Go. I can take care of it, if there's an issue."

It takes a little more coaxing, because Brendon says he doesn't want to make his dog Spencer's responsibility, but Spencer insists. He really doesn't mind. So, Brendon goes to Nevada for the weekend, while Spencer hangs around and tracks drums for two songs. When he gets home that night, Bogart's gotten sick on the tile again, and that's how he finds himself calling Shane in the early evening and asking about his vet.

"I can meet you there, if you want," Shane says on the phone.

Spencer says, "I've got it. I haven't had a chance to eat though, if you want to grab something. You and Regan."

"Pick something up and bring it by here with Bogart. Dylan and Indie'll probably be into it."

"Alright," Spencer says.

The vet asks Spencer a bunch of questions about Bogart's eating habits and how he spends his time. He says that it's always easiest to try to determine what the issue might be if he has a sample, which grosses Spencer out, but after some more questions and Spencer trying to describe what he's seen, the doctor says it's probably dietary indiscretion.

"Monitor him for the next couple of days," he says. "Make sure that if he goes into your backyard, he's not trying to eat a bunch of leaves and grass. There may be some weeds or something that he's picking at."

Spencer waits until he's out of the offices with Bogart to call Brendon and tell him what's happened. Brendon frets and asks whether there was blood, because he's coming back right away if Bogart's choking up his intestines or something, but Spencer says, "Dude, it's cool. He's just eating stuff he isn't supposed to have. Leaves or something. I'm gonna watch him closer."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Man, alright. He hasn't been sick before, you know."

"It's fine," Spencer promises, and Brendon seems to believe it after a minute, so Spencer changes the subject and says he's going to visit Shane. He's taking Bogart with him.

"Dude, without me? I'm gonna be all jealous and shit now, thanks." Brendon's laughing though.

When they get off the phone, Spencer makes a mental note to take some pictures of the puppies for Brendon, because that's the kind of pointless stuff they both appreciate.

He forgets until he gets to Shane's that there's a possibility for things to feel uncomfortable. The thought sneaks into his sentences after a long delay, because Shane asks Spencer when Bogart's stomach started acting up, and Spencer acknowledges two seconds before he's about to speak that he can't say that he and Brendon first noticed after they had sex in the shower. It had been particularly traumatizing, because Spencer almost stepped in it, and Brendon had found Spencer's horror hilarious until he stopped to worry about his dog.

Spencer tells him the latter part and skips the lead-up while they stand around, waiting for Regan to get back from the corner store with wine. Spencer says, "I almost put my foot right in it the other day. It could have been a tragedy."

Because Spencer likes and respects Shane, he hasn't said anything to Shane about how he's fucking his ex-boyfriend. If that's even what Brendon is to him. He's not sure of how titles worked with them. What Spencer knows for sure is that there were points where Regan wasn't fully in the picture, and Shane and Brendon were living together and showing up late everywhere, and Spencer never watched any unmarked tapes when Shane was still living in the house because of a comment Brendon made about how he'd surprised himself in major ways thanks to just putting shit in and hitting play all willy-nilly.

They weren't messing around by the time Spencer started crashing at the house whenever he was in LA, but sitting in with them still felt intrusive the first few times without Ryan and Jon also taking up space, so Spencer's still unsure of how to treat recent developments around Shane. He also can't tell if Brendon's told him anything. The way Shane constantly hangs out with them, joking and laughing like everything's tops suggests that maybe he hasn't heard, but Shane's relationship with Brendon is the most functional of any of the relationships Spencer's witnessed second-hand. He might know, and they might just be well-adjusted enough to stay cool about it.

Still, Spencer doesn't have immediate plans to say anything himself. It's not his place. He'll respond truthfully if asked, however. That much he knows. He is an adult after all.

Laughing, Shane says, "Sucks," and picks through the containers of food. Spencer's picked up Italian, pastas and breads because that's what he drove past first. "He looks okay now."

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Brendon was worried."

Shane asks, "When does he come back? Sunday?"

"Monday morning." He's driving in and heading right to the studio for work. "We've still got more recording, you know. Hey, are you coming through?"

"If you want me to," Shane says. He picks at some garlic bread. "Mm -- what are you guys doing for St. Paddy's? We should have a party."

"I don't have plans," Spencer says, sliding his finger back and forth on the counter. "I don't know about Brendon."

Shane furrows his brow and swallows. "You're not hanging together?"

"It's a possibility," Spencer says. "We haven't talked about it, is what I mean. He could want to do something else. We don't keep tabs on each other all the time."

"Mm," Shane says, still picking at the food. He looks at Spencer again and shakes his head, dusting his hands off. "Well, if you want to, you should come over here."

"That could be a good time," Spencer says and looks around when he hears the door open and Regan calls out to them about Merlot.

;;

Brendon's cranky when he gets back from Vegas. He stretches his arms up and exhales a lot, not sighing, but he moves in small ways, enough to indicate his restlessness. Spencer doesn't mind it. He has experience with younger siblings and several years of being in tight quarters with his band and crew under his belt, including Brendon. Ignoring someone and giving them their space isn't a hardship for him, but he was more glad about Brendon coming back when he thought it didn't mean having to deal with the dude feeling grumpy.

"Did Bogart get his last walk?" Brendon asks, coming out of his room and kneeling on the floor next to his dog.

Spencer says, "Not yet."

Exhaling through his nose, Brendon says, "Alright."

His jaw works methodically, but he doesn't speak again. Spencer thinks he might me grinding his teeth, a habit Spencer knows Brendon's talked about having as a child that only resurfaces again occasionally.

Spencer says, "I can come with you."

"No, don't get up," Brendon says, and Spencer rolls his eyes.

He lets Brendon walk out alone, turning his attention back to the television. There isn't anything on, so he flips channels and lands on Seinfeld episodes. He's in the kitchen getting a beer when Brendon returns, getting a doggy treat for Bogart and letting him run off into the living room.

"Want one?" Spencer asks, holding up his Corona.

Brendon turns around, sniffing suddenly. He says, "Dude, is that the trash? Has that been in here all day?"

"You're in a complaining mood," Spencer says.

"It smells in here. That's not justified?"

Spencer takes out the trash and comes back. Brendon's moving dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. He puts a new trash bag in the can, and Spencer says, "Rough day at home?"

"No," Brendon says. He shrugs to himself, and then the movement extends itself as he shimmies out of his jacket. Brendon walks out into the living room and tosses it on the couch. Spencer follows, grabbing his beer again and stepping close enough to let his knuckles bump against the small of Brendon's back.

Turning around, Brendon reaches for the beer and takes it without asking. Spencer lets him drink. When Brendon lowers his arm, staring, he licks his lips and steps closer, rocking up on his feet to move in for a kiss. Spencer's right hand finds Brendon's side, and he tilts his head, obliging Brendon. The kiss starts out soft but escalates. Their tongues brush, and Spencer feels his senses heighten. He takes the beer back from Brendon and sets it aside, dedicating himself this new prospect.

His hands are sliding just under the waist of Brendon's pants as he asks, "You good?"

Brendon groans, giving no clear indication either way. He keeps kissing Spencer, pressing closer, up onto his toes. He's a solid weight, relying on Spencer enough for Spencer to feel like he's really working some, keeping Brendon's steady.

"Brendon -- "

"I want to fuck," Brendon says, voice gruff. "Let me fuck you."

Spencer's dick is sure interested in that idea. He's already half-hard, stepping back gradually to lead Brendon toward the hall. Whatever Brendon lacks in conversation, he makes up for in physical insistence now, and Spencer thinks he can understand this.

Talking isn't always the answer. They discard more clothing every few paces.

;;

In the morning, Brendon makes eggs. He puts tomato and mushrooms in them too, and Spencer scrubs a hand over his face and wonders what the hell even happened.

"Are you an alien?" he says when Brendon sits two plates on the counter for them. They taste even better than they look.

"My name is Klaatu," Brendon says, deadpan, but it doesn't stick. He smirks down at his plate and stabs at the tomatoes.

"You're Keanu Reeves?" Spencer asks. Brendon snorts and shakes his head. Spencer watches him eat, observing as Bogart sniffs around the floor and Brendon drops down to give him some egg. The quiet is different from the night before, fraught with tension. "You're in a better mood."

"It was a long ride yesterday," Brendon says, explaining. "I don't know. Today's better."

Nodding, Spencer decides not to dwell. He considers inquiring further for a moment, but Brendon's business is Brendon's business. If he wanted to say more, Spencer might not be able to get him to shut up. Brendon isn't starved for conversation, but the way he makes himself comfortable around people is by running his mouth.

"Hey, well, Shane was telling me he wanted to have a party --"

"-- Oh, yeah," Brendon says. "He called me on the road and told me about it. You're not gonna go?"

"What?" Spencer says. He'd never said that.

Brendon says, "Shane said you said something about having something else."

"I meant just in case," Spencer says. He takes another bite of his food, chews, and swallows before speaking more. "I didn't know your plans, or anything."

It feels fucking stupid to say, because a big part of the reason Shane's been around for as long as he has, become decent friends with most of them, is because he and Brendon took to one another so well. Coordinating it shouldn't be a huge deal, but Spencer doesn't want to assume things about Brendon's interests, and he doesn't want to rule out anything for himself. He's not about to ask Brendon to the party like they need to go as dates either, however, which means Spencer stands around the kitchen floundering about a conversation he had semi-randomly.

"I mean," he says. "I'll probably go."

"Yeah." Brendon clears his throat. He drops another piece of egg for Bogart and looks at Spencer carefully before dropping his head back to his own food. "I always see Shane sooner or later."

Spencer says, "Right, right."

"Yeah," Brendon says. "But, yeah. The point is I heard."

"Cool," Spencer says. Then that's that.

;;

With Haley, Spencer met her at a show, and he'd been less nervous to ask her out than he thought he'd be, and after that first time, everything else seemed even easier.

With Brendon, half the reason Spencer doesn't consider asking him about their pattern for hooking up is because Brendon points at people while they're out and says, "Dude. I think that girl just gave me the wink. It could be my cue."

"Who, in real life, gives someone the wink?" Spencer asks.

Brendon laughs, the sounds a little lost under the music and commotion. He says, "She did. She definitely did. I'm gonna get another drink at the bar. Do you want?"

"No," Spencer says, tapping the side of his beer. "I think I'm set."

"Alright," Brendon says, sliding out of the booth. He tugs at his t-shirt, situating himself and then looks back. "You sure?"

Spencer shrugs, nodding. Brendon taps the top of his chair says, "Okay," before walking off toward the bar. Spencer watches him go, because it's not like he has anything else to do. He finishes his drink and pulls out his phone to check his emails and fuck around with his apps. He takes a picture of his glass and sings along with the Shakira remix under his breath, surprising himself, because he hadn't even realized he knew the words to this single.

Eventually, he does need another drink, or he needs to go home. Brendon's still at the bar, talking to the girl. If Spencer gets another drink, he'll have to worry about waiting around again to let that drink wear off, and instead he opts to walk to the bar and pat Brendon's back.

"Hey, I think I might head out," he says, and Brendon looks around.

"Oh," he says, "yeah, um," and he gestures to the girl. "Spence, this is... Janine, right? Janine. Janine, this is Spencer."

"Hey," she says, lifting a hand.

Spencer returns the small wave and says to Brendon, "So, if. I don't know if you're --"

"I can catch a cab," Brendon says evenly, and then he smiles a moment later. "If that's cool."

It's not like Spencer's going to say no. He has no right to say no or anything, and he doesn't really care either way. He says, "Yeah, sure. I'll catch you later then."

;;

He stops to bum a cigarette from a stranger outside, saying, "Excuse me, you wouldn't have another one, would you?"

"Sure. They're Marlboro 10s," the guy says, and Spencer doesn't even care.

He doesn't smoke often, not the way Brendon and Ryan took to it, but some nights it's exactly what he needs. Spencer gives his thanks, also borrows the man's lighter, and then takes a drag, immediately satisfied. The taste comes in bitter but perfect, everything he'd anticipated, and Spencer tries to recall exactly how far down he parked the car.

Brendon's got an amazing memory for that kind of stuff, always the one to recall where the car is, where he put the keys, and all the other important details people forget because they're doing eight things at once. Spencer would just call Brendon and ask -- it would be easier had Brendon simply come with him -- but he's otherwise occupied. That's fine.

Spencer kills the cigarette, finds the car himself, and drives home. Bogart is lying on his bed in the corner of the living room when he gets there. He has another in Brendon's bedroom, but he always flops down in the living room to wait for them to come back. Spencer pets him, and Bogart wakes for a moment, but he doesn't really move. He stays when Spencer walks away, going to bed.

He doesn't know how long he's out before he hears movement in the house. Spencer blinks a few times, twisting on the bed at the same time that someone's coming into his room and settling on the mattress.

"Brendon," he mutters, and Brendon makes a low, perfunctory noise, sliding in.

He says, "Honey, I'm home," and closes the space between them. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Spencer takes a breath. His mind takes a while to catch up, piecing the evening together. He thinks about the bar and Brendon and the girl he met, and when Brendon's close enough, Spencer smells cigarettes.

"Dude," Spencer says as Brendon reaches for his side. "You didn't even take off your clothes. Did you just get in?"

"Yeah."

Spencer catches a glimpse of his digital clock, trying to acclimate himself to 3AM, all dark and smelling like stale bar excitement. When Brendon begins to shimmy out of his shirt, Spencer thinks about Janine.

He says, "Brendon," again, exhaling. "I'm trying to sleep."

"Then close your eyes," he says and giggles. "Okay, I'm wasted."

Spencer groans, annoyed. He tilts his head up and away when Brendon rolls in, pressing his smile against his shoulder, still chuckling, and then kisses it. Brendon moves up and Spencer sighs, touching Brendon's arm. He halts him.

"Brendon," he says. It hasn't even been a solid few hours, probably, since he finished with the girl he met.

Brendon says, "Spencer," in the same tone. "We're sleeping."

The fact that he pushes his hand across Spencer's stomach doesn't particularly do anything to support that theory. Spencer feels hot and increasingly irritable, slipping away and out of the bed.

"What?" Brendon asks, the word half-formed and a little disoriented. "Where are you going?"

"Bathroom," Spencer says, but he leaves and goes into Brendon's room instead, closing his eyes once he flops on the bed.

Young and new, young and new. Spencer takes a breath and debates with himself about getting up and shutting the bedroom door.

He turns over and tries to sleep.

;;

He wakes earlier than he expects to the next morning, walks Bogart, and then heads out for coffee way before Brendon gets out of bed. His bed. Spencer's a little surprised that Brendon didn't follow him at all the night before, wondering why Spencer hadn't ever resurfaced from the bathroom. It's better that way, because Spencer got a good night's sleep, and Brendon was able to sleep off the booze and the night, and now they can go into the studio with clear heads.

By the same token, that means that the problem with trying to give one another space is that he and Brendon are eventually going to find themselves in the same place today, whether they want to or not. Spencer buys him his usual from Starbucks anyway.

It's probably cooled down a lot by the time Brendon gets to the studio, wearing sunglasses and rubbing a hand over his hair. He tosses his jacket onto the couch in the control room and sets his bag. Spencer looks up from speaking with Jon Feldman and says, "Your macchiato's on that table."

Brendon turns around, grabbing it. "Thanks," he says, but there's no real fanfare to it, short and simple. Spencer isn't necessarily sure if he's waiting for a scene, but he's surprised at how his body relaxes fifteen minutes into having Brendon there without exchanging words about the bar.

When everything else is bullshit, then write a fucking song. That's been Spencer's motto since Brent said it a few months after they'd started playing together. He, Ryan, and Spencer had sat around Spencer's grandparents' house, complaining about homework and teachers and picking colleges, and after a while, they'd all been restless and frustrated, and nothing they played that day was especially worthwhile, but it felt good to do it. The phrase has outlasted his stay more than twice over now, but Brent had been right about the sentiment.

Working in the studio isn't stressful, but the phrase crosses Spencer's mind more than once, mainly because he and Brendon don't say a whole lot to each other outside of talking about the music. By the time they call it quits for the day, Spencer's exhausted, and after he stretches his arms out and says, "I could go for a meal and a full-body massage," he realizes it's the most significant thing he's said to Brendon all day that didn't have to do with progressions and song arrangements.

"Yeah," Brendon says, yawning for emphasis.

His shirt rises slightly when he reaches above his head, flexing his fingers, and Spencer notices the way it doesn't pull quite far enough to expose skin. Brendon flops them back to his side, a hollow smacking sound echoing around them in the parking lot, and Spencer mimics the lazy smile Brendon takes on at the sound.

Nobody ever told him not-dating his bandmate was going to be so fucking tempting all the time.

"We can make one of those happen for certain," Spencer says, refocusing himself.

They stop at California Pizza Kitchen, but they order food for take-out instead of hanging around. It isn't sushi, but their jambalaya does their appetites justice on its own, usually, anyway. Spencer hands the bag to Brendon as they slip into the car, Spencer starting the ignition and looking over his shoulder before he reverses.

Brendon peeks into the bag and pulls out the bread that came with their meal. He opens the plastic baggie and starts to eat a piece, saying, "I'm tired, man, but I think it's holdover from yesterday. I was sloppy last night."

"Heh," Spencer says and feels like a tool. He keeps his eyes on the road. "You took a cab?"

Nodding, Brendon says, "Yeah," and chews methodically. When he swallows, he looks over to Spencer. "Did I bother you? I kind of -- I mean, I woke up in your bed with my shirt kind of --"

He makes a flipping motion with his hand, twisting his wrist. Spencer doesn't really know what he's trying to indicate. Spencer says, "You were noisy, but --"

"I tried to kiss you," Brendon says, voice not entirely readable, like it's dawning on him or like he's just letting himself trust that that's what happened.

Spencer says, "It was whatever."

"But you," Brendon says and huffs. "You were in my bed. You left early."

"You had just come back from hooking up with that girl," Spencer says, chuckling reflexively. Of all the knee-jerk reactions, Spencer wishes that that hadn't been the one his body reached for in this moment.

"I didn't fuck her," Brendon says, biting off another piece of bread. His words sound fuzzy.

"It wouldn't matter either way." Spencer looks into his rearview, motioning for a car to speed around him before he changes lanes on the street.

Brendon looks confused. "Except I woke up with no shirt on in your bed by myself. Did you run away?"

"You were drunk."

"You got mad," Brendon says, raising his eyebrows. Spencer doesn't understand how he's the person who gets to be shocked here, and then he curses under his breath and changes the radio station. "Spence."

"Let it go, dude," Spencer says.

Brendon shifts around in his seat, not allowing a comfortable silence to settle in at first. He keeps making small preparatory noises, as if he wants to speak again. Nothing comes. Eventually, Spencer ignores it and watches the lines of the road disappear quickly.

;;

Music. They record another song and sit in while the engineer assists on the rough mixes of two previous tracks. The record's coming along. Spencer can't tell what the final product will be yet, only just getting a sense of its shape, but he's happy with the parts so far.

Brendon keeps talking about song order, saying, "It could be cool if it goes from high-energy and down, fading out. I keep thinking of candles. Or, you know what, this schizophrenic level thing could work too."

"Is schizophrenic good, though?" Spencer asks.

"If it's done right," Brendon says. "We can feel it out. Test the lines."

He makes some sort of incongruous spirit fingers motion to accompany the statement. Spencer chuckles and says, "Okay," thankful for this kind of conversation, because it breaks up the silence that comes when they try to do anything else lately.

In the house, they watch TV and laugh at some of the same jokes, and then sigh and keep watching in silence. It's fucking weird. It's strange as hell, because that isn't how they work, and then Spencer huffs and slumps down in his chair for thinking about routines and their habits in relation to one another at all.

Brendon gets a phone call in the middle of Malcolm in the Middle reruns, and Spencer can tell by the way he says. 'dude' about ten more times than usual that he must be speaking to Pete. Bogart sniffs around Spencer's feet and then hops up on the couch with him. Spencer scratches behind his ear and pets his head, watching Frankie Muniz break the fourth wall, and he picks up the remote to flip to something different just as Brendon hangs up his cell.

"Pete invited us over to eat with him," Brendon says, stretching his arms out. He stands and slides his phone into his pocket, looking down at Spencer.

Spencer considers it. He's kind of in the mood for dinner, but going in the kitchen and making a sandwich is just as easy. He says, "I don't know. I might stay here."

"Hm," Brendon says, and he cocks his head to the side, looking at Bogart. "What about you, man? You staying too?"

Bogart's ears perk up, but he doesn't move at all. Brendon bends down to pet him, and Spencer's hyperaware of the proximity of Brendon's hand to his crotch, but then it's gone again in a moment. Spencer blinks and clears his head.

Brendon says, "You two are cute," and then smiles, the corners of his mouth lifting so far that it looks goofy, but it settles into something natural eventually, long enough for Spencer to recognize that he's staring, and then Brendon turns away.

"Okay," he says. "I'm going out."

"Alright," Spencer says.

"Don't wait up," Brendon says over his shoulder, grinning -- half-joking, and Spencer wonders as he leaves if Ashlee's going for food too.

;;

While he's gone, Spencer has a nightcap. He drinks half a bottle of shitty white wine on his own, because he and Brendon don't really know the first thing about wine and always buy at random. It tastes bad, but it gets the job done, encouraging Spencer to pick up a controller and play Rockband for two hours, then text Haley once he's beaten his own record for about ten songs. He writes that they should hang out soon. He'll come to Chicago again. It'll be fine.

He forgets he's sent anything until he gets a message fifteen minutes later that says, whatre you doing up? if you come, we can go to great america :)

Spencer smiles at his phone, wondering why they broke up, because Haley's fucking great, and he's definitely going to Chicago to visit. Haley's working and she's taking online college courses, and one night class, and then Spencer remembers that that was the whole thing, the different career paths, coupled with the fact that, well, he's twenty-two, and neither of them have a desire to get married just yet. Fuck, man.

It's probably time for bed, if Spencer's already on the road to moping. He's never buying this shitty wine again. It's giving him a headache.

He turns off the television and the gaming system, and he has Bogart follow along with him when he goes to bed. He's still awake when Brendon gets in, staring at the ceiling and thinking about how much he hates that so many houses in Southern California have popcorn ceilings. He holds his breath a little, when Brendon walks past, and then sighs loudly because he realizes how fucking dumb and how fucking drunk he is. Brendon doesn't even come into his bedroom, but Bogart gets up, hops off Spencer's bed and leaves.

Spencer pulls his blankets over his head and thinks about drum notation until he falls asleep.

next

Compressed Air (Ryan/Alex, PG)

gigantic — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 17:07:00 GMT

Compressed Air
by Charli J
Ryan/Alex Greenwald. PG. 4400 words.
Sometimes Ryan just needs someone to believe that he knows what he's doing.
Warnings: Drug use (including cocaine). Drunk-driving.

Ryan has a moment of blackness and then he realizes he's hit a bus bench and pole. The officers that help him out make sure he doesn't need medical assistance. There's an ambulance there and everything, but Ryan's fine, really, he's shaken, but he's okay, and then they turn on him and ask him to take a field test.

It's one of the more embarrassing and frustrating moments of his life. He thinks his cellphone is still in the front seat of the car.

"Can you hear me? Sir," an officer says. Ryan can't remember his name or focus on his uniform long enough to see if there's a tag there.

"No," Ryan says. "I mean, yes, but I'd rather not."

When they ask him for his hands, he holds them out and really hopes he can get this over with quickly.

--

It isn't quick. They get him to the station and do the preliminary screening. Ryan's sort of glad he's left his weed at home, for once, while they're taking his mug shot. He gets a chance to make a phone call, and all of his family is in Vegas. It doesn't matter. He would only call his grandparents, honestly, because there's no way he's calling his mom. None. He thinks about Pete and dials Alex's number.

Alex sounds pretty worried on the phone. Ryan explains what's happened the best he can, and Alex can't seem to listen quietly, saying, "Fuck. Shit, fuck," in this high voice Ryan doesn't usually hear him use. "Are you okay? Ross, man, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Come get me, please. Come get me. This place is making me nauseous."

He wears normal pants and a plain shirt to get Ryan, which Ryan doesn't think to hope or be thankful for until he gets there. The cops have been giving him weird looks the whole time, saying things like, "You don't know how lucky..." and asking him what he was thinking, and the fluorescent lights give Ryan a headache. He's been there for hours and hours by the time Alex arrives and the bail's been posted. Alex has his hair in a messy ponytail and crosses his arms while Ryan gets his shit and shuffles out.

In the light of the day, Ryan really starts to feel his hangover. Alex puts an arm around his shoulder, and Ryan says, "Do you have water in your car?"

"No," he says. "We can stop at a 7-11 though."

Never has that convenience store sounded so much like heaven as it does right now. Ryan wants water and a bed, and he's grateful when he gets both of those things, Alex carting his sickly ass home and not making too much fun.

--

They hide out in Ryan's home for two days, drinking tea, because Alex says it's probably a good idea to be on better behavior now.

"Ugh," Ryan says. All he wants is a drink to forget about his awful night at the police station. He's talked to his lawyer already, and the conversation only makes Ryan wish he hadn't gotten a California license so quickly, because then they couldn't have confiscated it right away.

Alex says, "Aren't you glad you didn't go in on a Friday?"

Ryan says, "I'm a hardened criminal."

"Prison makes you horny?" Alex asks, and Ryan laughs.

They smoke weed instead of doing lines, and Alex hugs Ryan's head and tells him he's stupid, but he loves him anyway, because he's a mean theremin player and he gives good head.

Ryan says, "I don't own a theremin."

Alex says, "The theremin of your heart," and they laugh. God. Alex makes everything feel better.

--

Other people aren't as amused. Driving under the influence -- Ryan appreciates the sophistication of the phrase -- can be disappointing, he knows, but he hadn't even felt that bad when he left Lily's house and he was just going like a couple miles down to a party at Michael's. It had been a fluke accident, really. He feels somewhat chagrined, but Ryan's also sure he's done more horrifying things.

He talks to Spencer about it briefly, who says, in summation, "That was dumb."

"Yeah," Ryan says. He's paying for it now, but Alex also keeps reminding Ryan that it could've been a lot worse, which is true too.

"How've you been? How are you?" Spencer asks. Ryan shrugs at his feet and thinks back through the week. He's had rougher days.

"Alright," he says and touches a hand to his stomach. "Kind of hungry."

"Bet you don't have anything but Corn Pops in your kitchen," Spencer says.

"Bet you it's Cheerios." Ryan had a bowl before he went to sleep last night. He's not that bad off. Jon's always suggesting they go shopping and shit. Ryan's addiction to eating out doesn't actually reflect the state of his cabinets.

It's nice to hear Spencer's voice, but Ryan starts to get a little antsy after several minutes. When Spencer can't find anything nice to say, he doesn't say anything at all, and Ryan's kind of got enough going on right now. He says, "So, I'm gonna go," and Spencer makes an assenting noise.

"Don't get arrested anymore," Spencer says. He doesn't laugh or anything, but Ryan's fairly positive it's meant to be lighthearted.

He says, "Yeah, yeah. Later."

--

Handcuffs are kind of irritating. Ryan thinks about it when he's telling Alex that he talked to Spencer. He says, "Consider it. I wouldn't get arrested again just for that."

"Mmm," Alex says wisely. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

Ryan frowns a little. "And some people use those things for sex."

Alex sits up and clamps his hands over Ryan's ankles. He says, "Would you rather I use silk scarves?"

"I'm delicate," Ryan says.

"Lies. I fucked you on your knees."

"I had rugburn for days."

"Oh, that's right," Alex says, and he kisses Ryan's knees, even though they're pale now. He turns around and grabs a bandana from the floor, then scrambles up to touch Ryan's wrists and tie it to his. It takes forever. Alex has to use his teeth.

Ryan shakes their arms when he can, and he says, "Do you have anymore pot?"

"Yeah," Alex says. "Let's fuck like this."

"Smoke me out first," Ryan says and Alex nods, singing an impromptu ditty about smoke rings and stacks and signals. Ryan smiles.

--

Ryan doesn't know what everyone's so worried about. He eats, he gets enough sleep (usually), and he works on new music. He's got this all under control; so what if he likes to unwind after he's done?

Jon understands. He's upset about the DUI, because it means Ryan gets his license suspended and he asks Jon to cart him around.

"I can't fucking believe you hit a pole," Jon says.

Ryan says, "I know. At least it wasn't a person."

"That's not even the point," Jon says. He flips through the radio stations for a while and then just turns it off after finding nothing but commercials. "I should get an iPod thing."

"You won't need to drive me around forever," Ryan says.

Jon says, "Got that right. You should stay home more."

"Are you putting me on punishment?" Ryan asks, slipping sunglasses onto his face and reclining his seat. "You can't do that."

"Fuck," Jon says, and when Ryan looks over at him, Jon's not even paying attention. He's looking at his hand. "I think I just shocked myself."

"That's good luck."

Jon glances over, snorting. He says, "Where'd you hear that?"

He sounds skeptical, but Ryan even knows the origin story for that superstition. Alex told it to him, and then rubbed his hands along the carpet back and forth to touch Ryan's stomach and declare he was passing along the Midas touch.

"Now everything you touch will turn to gold," Alex had said and pretended to examine Ryan's skin. "Yep. Yep, I can tell it worked."

Ryan still likes the idea. He pretends he can see something special happening when he plays guitar in the studio.

Jon's still looking at Ryan like he's waiting for an answer, so Ryan shrugs. He says, "It is," insisting. "Trust me."

Jon doesn't look like he's convinced. That's okay, Ryan thinks. Not everybody gets it.

--

He hears that Keltie might be in Los Angeles, and he doesn't try to call her. He can't imagine she'd be polite at all, if she's heard. The last time Ryan talked to her at all was after she sent him a message to wish him happy birthday, and he'd replied with a thank you. He wants to preserve that. Brendon had called to pass along his well wishes, which was kind of nice, but Ryan had still found himself sort of wishing he'd let it go to voicemail instead of answering.

It's a trait that Ryan figures Brendon picked up from his parents -- the ability to make everything sound like a guilt trip spoken through a smile. Ryan spent a lot of time infatuated with Brendon's voice and his hands and how fucking earnest he was about getting off second, but it always felt like the good came with baggage, and Ryan had enough of his own to carry.

So he never really calls Brendon and he doesn't call Keltie. Alex can't come back out to Los Angeles for another two weeks, so Ryan writes him a song about pigs rolling in their own shit and falling in love with each other's stench. He sings it into Alex's voicemail.

Three hours later, Alex calls him back and says, "You're fucking disgusting. Let's buy a chicken coop together."

"And start a business?"

"I found me some golden geese today. I done got inspired," Alex says and tells him about how he wrote the business plan on napkins. "Come to New York. We need to strategize."

Ryan doesn't really have the time, but he appreciates the request. He says, "You come out here. I have to stay for a while, but you should come back."

--

He gets community service. He gets the five days of community service, and he has to go to first offender school, and he has to pay a fine, and they don't give him his license back. They tell him it's going to be a while before he gets it back, and Ryan imagines that Jon isn't going to be very happy about that.

Ryan has a criminal record now. He has a mugshot, and it looks awful. He looks haggard and sloppy, and it's the most disheartening picture of his life. They could have told him he had a cowlick.

He takes Jon's advice belatedly and stays inside. Ryan writes three songs, and then he does some lines, because he thinks better when he's more alert, and he wants to figure out ways to get around now that he can't drive himself. After twenty minutes he has a handful of good ideas: public transportation, cabs, a bike, roller skates, hiring a driver, buying a horse, buying a hovercraft, learning to fly using the strength of his own two arms with maybe some sheets attached. He types out the list on his iPhone and then emails it to Alex.

Alex writes back, don't forget teleportation!!! i'll show you how next week. call you tonight?

Ryan's gone back to trying to work on the bridge of a song, picking out a melody and humming to figure out what fits best. He's determined to finish early now and have enough, so that he can lounge and talk to Alex without having unfinished work nagging at his brain.

When the sun sets, Ryan sets down his guitar and smokes a bowl so he can eat something. On the phone, Alex says that he's booked his flight for coming back Los Angeles, and Ryan thinks that this is the first time that things have started to look up.

--

Before the Honda Civic Tour, Ryan had heard some Phantom Planet -- everybody knows "California" -- but he'd never listened closely. Sometimes it's hard to really understand or appreciate a person unless they're right there in front of you, and during his first conversation with Alex, Ryan made a really random and unnecessary Faulkner reference and Alex had actually laughed.

Later that same day, Alex came back from a Burger King trip with his bandmates and put a paper bag on Ryan's head, one that matched his own, and he'd said, "Join me in my campaign to make sure that all Burger Kings are always stocked with paper crowns."

"Is this a protest?" Ryan had asked, adjusting his paper bag hat.

"It's a call to arms!" Alex had declared.

Ryan has always been taken with people who live loudly. Big mouths and brights smiles. He likes people who stand out in a crowd, because Ryan's always felt that hugeness in himself, but he's never really shouted anything from rooftops just because he could do it. Not alone.

Alex has. Alex does. Some nights he does things like use empty beer bottles and cans to make up instruments he names after Sesame Street and Muppets characters and then tells Ryan the only way this shit is gonna work, the only way to sing along with someone playing with an Animal Beaker is to scream. He says this over and over, until Ryan gets riled up and shouts, and then it gets easier after that. Ryan keeps on going until Alex calls the finale and then kisses Ryan's head.

"There's nothing like you," Alex says. "You're gorgeous. You're the cherry on top."

"What makes up the rest of the sundae?" Ryan asks, laughing.

Alex tapes Ryan's shoulder and kisses his face again. He says, "That's irrelevance. Be my year-round Valentine."

"Okay," Ryan says.

That sounds like something he might be interested in perpetuating. He likes himself better when he's with Alex, feels goofy and creative and competent, because Alex listens to the stuff Ryan writes and says, "Shit, you are a king among lemmings." Sometimes Ryan just needs someone to believe that he knows what he's doing.

--

Picking up other people's trash sucks. Ryan spends a day on a beach, another day cleaning up buses, and at the end of each day full of public service, he washes his hands for a full ten minutes. On his way home, he sees a man drop an empty chip bag on the ground and has to refrain from making his cab pull over to tell him about all the hard work people do to keep this state clean.

Jon tells him he sounds kind of like he's lost it when Ryan gets back to his house and rants about how little people seem to care. He says, "How much pot did you smoke today?"

"None!" Ryan says. He really hasn't. Sometimes he thinks that Jon considers him that friend. He's that guy in Jon's life who's perpetually fucked up and that's the way he qualifies Ryan to people that don't know him, but Ryan's not that bad. He hadn't done coke in like a week when he was arrested, and it didn't even turn up in his screening.

Chuckling, Jon says, "I'm kidding, man. Let's eat something and then practice, if you're still up for it."

They get in two hours. Ryan's hands and arms start to hurt, strangely, and he gets more and more tired. They have some shows coming up, but Ryan has to call it an early night. He's exhausted. Cleaning up other people's messes takes it right out of him.

"Reconvene first thing tomorrow?" he says after he tells Jon he's going to crash.

"Isn't Alex coming in again in the morning?" Jon asks, picking up his beer from where it sits atop his bass amp.

Ryan says, "Indeed. That is truth." He shrugs and sets his guitar aside, momentarily thwarted when the strap gets caught under the collar of his shirt. "I'll get up though."

--

In the morning, Ryan wakes because a whole person collapses onto his stomach. He grunts, growling, "No! What?" and thinks briefly of Brendon as he blinks several times to make sense of his bedroom. Alex is there.

"Rise and shine, wine and dine," Alex says, pushing back and lifting the blanket to crawl under with Ryan.

Ryan says, "How did you get here from the airport?" rubbing his face and yawning.

"We forgot to plan it," Alex says. "I took the flyaway and then a cab."

"Do you want me to pay you back?" Ryan asks, turning to face him. He smiles, lips closed and Alex touches his nose and then his cheek and exhales.

He says, "No," and, "I brought you a present. It's not a tarantula."

"Oh, good," Ryan says. He doesn't ask what it really is though, just slides close and settles in, closing his eyes.

Alex says, "Don't you have to practice. Jon let me in; he told me to get you on your feet."

Groaning, Ryan says, "A little later. Half an hour more. You're here."

--

Rehearsal happens. It takes Ryan a few tries, but he makes it out of bed thanks to encouragement from Alex. (He's also the reason Ryan gets pulled back down to the mattress several times, but Ryan likes the way Alex kisses his neck, so that's immaterial.) He and Jon work through the songs and make sure they're polished.

The first show in the area's on a Friday. The place is packed. Ryan stands on stage and tugs at the collar of his shirt, too hot in the space. Alex gets him a beer and set it on the edge of the stage. He comes up for his guitar solo, and Ryan gets the audience to clap along. To his left, Jon's playing barefoot, sweating and focused, and Ryan's so pleased that he doesn't even notice Brendon and Spencer until after the set wraps.

They're hiding out by the sound board, nearly tucked away in the same nook as the engineer. Spencer watches Ryan approach, holding a drink in his hand and still maintaining his conversation with Brendon. Ryan walks up and waves, and Brendon doesn't turn around until Ryan's standing right at his side.

He smiles brightly, saying, "Hey!" in a way Ryan can't describe as anything else but an exclamation. "Great set. You look great up there."

"Thanks," Ryan says, letting Brendon move in for the hug. Ryan pats his back, and Brendon shrugs his shoulder as he steps aside.

"Where'd Jon disappear to so fast?" Brendon asks.

Ryan motions behind with with no real direction. He says, "Somewhere. Packing, probably."

"I want to say hi to him too." It takes little more than that to announce his exit, and Brendon walks away. Spencer watches him go, and Ryan glances over his shoulder as well to see Brendon push his way through the crowd.

Looking at Spencer, Ryan says, "You didn't tell me you were coming."

"I texted you a few days ago."

Ryan doesn't remember that. He's been distracted a lot lately, though, so it's more likely that he somehow didn't notice than it is that Spencer's mistaken. Ryan says, "Is it just you guys?"

"Dallon's here too," Spencer says. He take a drink from his cup. "He says he never sees Alex anymore or something. Darren gave him orders to prove life."

Spencer smirks. It's this sort of noncommittal half-grin. He scratches his hair and drinks more. Ryan looks over his shoulder again, and he can't spot Alex, but Ryan would bet money that, wherever he's gone, Alex is holding a drink of his own and laughing.

"Alex is alright," Ryan says. He sees the guy in good spirits constantly. They're both making music and having fun. They couldn't be better. "I see him all the time. Darren should ask me."

"I'll let him know for next time," Spencer says.

Ryan says, "Yeah," and tucks a hand in his jeans pocket. He wishes they were nearer to the bar so that he could get another beer of his own. Alex stole his halfway through their last song. He jerks his head in the direction where Brendon walked. "I'm surprised about that one."

The last time Ryan had any prolonged interaction with Brendon, they'd had lunch on Santa Monica during the hottest point in the day. Brendon asked how had been doing, and Ryan had just said, "Good. Fine, good, and you look good, too," and wondered if he'd left the new pipe he bought with Alex.

Brendon had said he'd been thinking about Ryan, hedging and stabbing at his food, like Ryan wouldn't pick up on what that meant. Ryan had said, "You really don't have to, you know. If thinking about me is gonna make you pout like I stole something from you." He'd told Brendon that he didn't need that kind of negativity, and Brendon had accused Ryan of trying to turn everything around all the time. It hadn't gone well. They'd had much better encounters, certainly.

Spencer says, "He likes your record too."

Ryan considers it a consolation and knows not to ask for better. He says, "Thanks for coming."

"Yeah. You should let us know where you play more," Spencer says. He reaches out to nudge Ryan's arm. "How's everything else?"

The odds that he's referring to Ryan's criminality are pretty high, so Ryan says, "Probation. No license. And I have to go to these classes."

"Like traffic school?"

"Like don't it again, because next time we'll set your bail at twenty-thousand," Ryan clarifies. That's pretty much the conclusion of every class he's gone to thus far. If you can't inspire true emotional remorse, then appealing to wallets is a surefire way. It's spoken to Ryan. He tells Alex and Jon about the classes when they pick him up afterward.

Spencer says, with no qualms, "You're learning something?"

And Ryan says, "Yeah." From now own, he's going to wait until he gets home. "You want to see the mugshot? I'm thinking about turning it into my Christmas cards. Alex is going to Photoshop his face in with mine. The penultimate display of humility."

"Ha," Spencer says. He seems less entertained than Alex had been when they came up with the idea. "It's probably also a good idea to just slow down."

"Mm," Ryan says.

He hears Spencer, but he's also unmotivated to keep pushing the conversation. His body feels more and more tired. Ryan feels like he's spinning in and out different orbits lately, unsure of how to touch bases the way he's supposed to make a connection. In his head, he imagines it as riding through fog in bumper cars and he can't see anybody's headlights except his own reflecting back at him. He thinks about telling Spencer, but he's not really sure if it would make enough sense out loud.

Alex finds them a few minutes later. He pats Ryan hard on the back and says, "Look what I found you! Your favorite." He passes off a UFO White with an orange slice.

"Where'd you find the fruit?"

"Magic," Alex says, and then, "One of the houses around the corner had an orange tree. I cut it with my pocket knife. It had to be perfect."

"That's dedication," Spencer says, and Alex chuckles, saying that he ate the other three-quarters himself.

Ryan says, "Thank you," and the edges get muddled in the commotion of the room, but Alex nods.

When they leave, they ride in the same car.

--

Ryan doesn't think he's that hard to understand. He can be stubborn, but what it comes to do is essentially unchanging. He likes genuine artists, good music, and good conversation. He likes sex. He likes people that make him feel good about himself. Who doesn't like those things?

"The Amish? Wasn't Kate Amish?" Alex asks. "Ask her."

He's not looking at Ryan, messing around at the foot of the bed. Ryan's worked up and ready, and now they can't find a condom. Initially, the point had been to come in and unwind. Ryan's so ready he keep curling his toes and sighing dramatically.

Alex says, "Man, fuck. This is like a graveyard of wrappers and no survivors. At the end of the world, latex doesn't keep the cockroaches company."

Ryan says, "What?" because he's still hard, and Alex is picking at shit on the floor again.

Alex says, "Condoms!"

He's flipping his hand around like that'll make it clearer, and Ryan says, "You don't have any?"

"I could maybe find you a glove. We can cut one of the fingers." Alex make a snipping motion with his fingers.

Ryan says, "God. God," imagining sizing his dick that way. He's the middle finger. Even if he isn't, he's cutting that one anyway.

He laughs to himself and Alex looks back, saying, "You're laughing at my ass?"

"Nope," Ryan says. "Yes. I mean, never. Come back up here."

"I'm excavating!" Alex yells.

"I'm hard!" Ryan throws back, equally as loud, and Alex snaps his head around, saying, "You win."

His elbow digs into Ryan's ribs when he settles nearer. Ryan makes an "oof" sound but touches Alex's side anyway. Alex kisses him, biting Ryan's lip and stretching it because he can. Letting go, he pecks Ryan one more time on the mouth and wraps a hand around his cock, stroking.

"Pause," Ryan says. "Intermission." Alex pulls back, looking at him him. His fingers flex against Ryan's torso. Flattening them, Alex pushes his free palm across Ryan's stomach, hovering over him in the most awkward, inconvenient position as Ryan asks, "Are you okay?"

Closing one eye, Alex says, "Ay ay, Captain. Why? You're coming down already?"

Ryan isn't. He's still floating. He doesn't even need a bump, but he thought he'd check. He says, "I'm peachy keen."

"I like my keens the best when they're peachy," Alex says. Ryan raises his head to nudge his nose against Alex's adam's apple, and he makes an ugly snorting laugh sound that Ryan loves. "Are you okay?"

Ryan's one hundred percent and counting. He's on probation, and he can't drive anywhere, but he'd rather smile than complain. Ryan nods but doesn't speak, instead re-dedicating himself to appreciating that Alex is naked and little sweaty. His hair smells like smoke. Ryan tangles his fingers in it, inhales, and puts everything else out of his mind. He's amazing. He's perfect.

older machines, pg

gigantic — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 08:25:17 GMT

older machines
by Charli J
(Brendon/Ryan, Brendon/Spencer). PG. 2,400 words.
For once, they talk.

Brendon wants to smoke a cigarette once their attentions have begun to drift off. It's hot in his house, so Ryan follows him outside, rubbing his hand over the back of his head and then fanning his face. It's not nearly as hot outside, which Ryan doesn't get, falling into step with Brendon even though he hadn't mentioned that he planned to tag along. Brendon doesn't even comment on it though, simply pauses a second when he realizes and makes sure they're together.

"Why don't you smoke in the house?" Ryan asks.

"Shane doesn't like having the smell inside." Brendon shrugs. "It's better not to; he's right."

"Hm," Ryan says. He doesn't actually care. Brendon hasn't ever smoked in his place, and Ryan's never thought to ask, because it doesn't matter. He's reaching for conversation starters, he realizes, and clears his throat.

After walking a few paces, Brendon says, "Oh, I meant to play you guys this other thing. I had this melody on my mind yesterday while I was out."

Ryan says, "Play it when we get back or something," even though he's feeling more and more unmotivated now that they're out of the house.

The atmosphere is nicer out here. He's not entirely sure if that's because of the breeze or if he's relieved to be out of the stilted pseudo-practice room they have now. Everybody's in the process of relocating and figuring out how to be Los Angeles transplants. Brendon has guitars, a bass, and a drum set of his own already, but Ryan's brought over one of his, too, and mostly they've spent the last couple days sitting around and playing riffs that don't really match up, don't really become anything. It's still early in the process. They're always scatterbrained when they start. It stills get frustrating though, had worn on Ryan more than usual tonight, to have ideas and not figure out how they start fit into a bigger picture. Eventually Spencer had said, "Well, Brendon was telling -- we had this idea that --" and Ryan got up to use the bathroom, because he had to pee, and also it was still fucking bizarre to hear Spencer talk about what he and Brendon ever did together.

"I played it for Spencer," Brendon says. "He says he likes it."

Ryan shifts his weight, cracking the knuckles in one hand idly. He says, "I have to hear it."

"Yeah," Brendon says. He throws a glance Ryan's way. The cigarette follows shortly thereafter, offering it up, but Ryan holds up his hand.

"No, thanks," he says even though the smell of it is making him crave one of his own. He can -- he'll just wait until he can buy a new pack of his own.

Brendon says, "Okay," breaking it up into two syllables but not elaborating. "So you just wanted to stand around and watch me smoke?"

"I'm getting fresh air," Ryan says.

"Hm." Brendon fiddles with the edge of his t-shirt picking at a frayed thread and exhaling. "I thought you wanted you talk to me."

"Well," Ryan says. Mostly he'd just seen an opportunity. It's not like he's afraid of what Spencer could say, but if anything has to be said at all, Ryan's much more familiar with discussing shit like this with Brendon, even though they haven't actually spent an abundance of time having real conversations about their relationship before now.

Four weeks ago, Spencer had come to Ryan's house to watch Hitchcock movies. They'd never taken the time to sit down and really just watch Rope or Sabotage all the way through, so Spencer brought over takeout and Ryan had three random bottles of wine that he didn't remember buying. It was during the intermission between movies while Ryan changed the DVDs that Spencer stopped in the middle of recounting Brendon's random and ridiculous mission to buy aviator sunglasses for no reason. He'd changed tracks and said, "Look, not telling you seems like I'm hiding something, so you should know. Me and Brendon have been seeing each other more."

It was a stupid way to phrase it, Ryan thought, since Spencer and Brendon hung out all the time post-tour, but Ryan had known what he meant. Spencer sounding like he was trying to phrase anything in the first place had given it away clearly enough.

They haven't talked about it too much since, because Ryan asked Spencer what he was thinking and Spencer told Ryan he was overreacting. And, considering the situation, Ryan probably could have arranged to stay somewhere else while he waited to move into his new place in Thousand Oaks, but Brendon had already agreed by that point, and since he hadn't called to tell Ryan there was suddenly some reason Ryan couldn't stay with him after all, it was just easier to leave it.

Anyway. This is fine.

"So, Spencer showed me the pictures of the place," Brendon says, conversationally. "It looks good."

Ryan looks up and says, "Yeah," slapping his fingers against his thigh lightly. "You should come see it."

He can tell by the way that Brendon says, "Yeah," exhaling as the sound fades that he's not committed to it. Ryan doesn't care.

He says, "Or whatever."

Brendon looks around. "What does that mean?"

Nothing. Ryan knows it's weird, but he also knows there's nothing to say that he hasn't already sort of said once. He shrugs. "Nothing."

"Spencer told me," Brendon says, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out. He breathes out through his nose and then alternates, and Ryan watches the smoke rush out. "That you got pissed."

"I wasn't out there just, like, um. Losing my shit," Ryan says. That's not how it was at all.

"Oh, okay," Brendon says, calm, but Ryan recognizes the inflection in the response, because Brendon picked it up from him and Spencer.

"But you don't have any intention of understanding what it might be like for me," Ryan says. Brendon narrows his eyes. He's different from everyone else Ryan knows, though, craning his head in as he presses his lips together. The clue is in the slope of his neck or something. Brendon's really looking.

The first time they ever did anything, Brendon had asked a lot of questions, sitting half-naked on the bed in his apartment with a hand wrapped around Ryan's dick. He'd said, "Like this? Is that okay?" and sort of bit on his tongue, concentrated and amused, although Ryan couldn't really figure out what exactly was so funny. Nothing, probably. Brendon was like that. He'd said, "Should I touch your -- your balls, too?" and Ryan just nodded, saying, "Yeah. That's good," and pretended to have a little more experience than he technically did. It's wasn't like Brendon would be able to tell the difference.

Afterward -- after Ryan had come and Brendon had come, his boxer shorts still around his ankles, he'd said, "You're kind of bigger than me," sitting up and openly looking at their naked bodies. It hadn't even been a joke; Brendon was making a serious observation, but Ryan's breath hitched, and he laughed, one or two quick punches of air that prompted Brendon to smirk slowly, uncertain but still joining in on the moment.

It's not a memory that comes up between them, but Ryan thinks about it sometimes. He thinks about stupid shit, like the way Brendon talked too much even back then and how he was the kind of kid that didn't think to just take his underwear all the way off.

Ryan says, "I didn't give you a hard time when you and Shane did your whole," and he lifts his hands, gesturing vaguely. "It's just better when you're upfront."

"You think I had people not tell you?" Brendon asks, pushing his glasses up on his nose, and Ryan can't tell if he's being facetious.

"Well," Ryan says. He thought so. The longer Brendon looks at him, the more he's confused about where the thread of the conversation has even led them.

Brendon opens his mouth, like he's going to speak but then hesitates, shaking his head. He says, "Okay." Scratching his head, he turns to look at Ryan, still conspicuously silent despite how obvious it is from the way he's shifting back and forth that he has something to say.

"I'm not going to ask you about it, Brendon, so if you want so speak, it's up to you to --"

"I don't," Brendon says. He stops immediately, a switch flipped off. His spine is straight, and he watches Ryan evenly, lifting one shoulder and dropping it.

Whatever. Ryan doesn't have the fucking time for any tantrum Brendon might be ready to throw at him for spelling things out plainly.

"Alright," Ryan says. "Forget it."

"It's not about you," Brendon says, the words pitching high right at the end, almost like he's asking. Brendon holds his hand out, lets it hover in the air, hesitating, and then he finds the words again. "And I wouldn't do that."

He glances over his shoulder, toward the house. Ryan follows his line of sight and rolls his eyes, thankful a second later that he's not looking at Brendon as he does that. He says, "You want him here."

"No," Brendon says, a short chuckle startled out of him. "I can still have a conversation with you without needing Spencer here."

Ryan's pretty sure he took Brendon's virginity. There was a period after the first time they ever messed around where Brendon made out with other people, and he hasn't told Ryan all of the details, so he doesn't know for sure, but he's got a decent hunch. He lets everybody think it was Audrey, and Ryan doesn't know if it's because she really was the first girl or because it was her. He's doesn't think Brendon's ever told anyone about the two of them, about right before Brendon graduated, even though Ryan told Spencer halfway through recording, because he and Brendon got into a three stupid arguments in one day, and Ryan had no doubt that part of it was because things had gotten a little weird. So, Spencer knows. He wonders if Brendon's given him his perspective on it.

Ryan drags the heel of his foot across the ground, watching the groove it makes in the barren patch of dirt near the curb. He says, "I guess I don't get it," speaking slowly. He tries to work through the last couple months in his head and still hits the same wall.

"I don't know," Brendon says. "Unless, you're saying -- I'm not about to walk you through each day from then to now."

The smile he adopts is faint. He's trying to make it a joke, but Ryan says, "Did you kiss him first?"

"That's not --" Brendon says and cuts the thought there. "What the fuck?"

"You practically live together," Ryan says. "He has drawers here. What else am I supposed to focus on, if not the fucking details?"

"It just makes it weird," Brendon says.

"Because you're dating," Ryan reminds him. It's already sufficiently weird, Ryan would argue. They've decided to do whatever it is they're doing, and Spencer's supposed to be his best friend, and Ryan was fucking Brendon at least sporadically up until two months ago. And now Spencer's living here.

Ryan has spent a lot of time writing with Jon, both on tour and since, and he's spent time around other people, but in the meantime, he'd never thought that Brendon and Spencer were getting up to more than ultimate video game battles. His mistake.

Brendon says, "Fuck. Jesus -- fuck, do you want a drawer? You're moving into your place in like a week, but if you want a fucking drawer -- "

"Don't be a dick about it," Ryan says.

"Yeah, I'd have to do a lot better to catch up with you right now." He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and takes out another to smoke. He pats his other pockets and curses under his breath. "Shit," he says. "I think I left my lighter in the house."

He seems more frustrated about it than he needs to be. Brendon pats his pockets again, searching, and when he still comes up empty-handed, he doesn't even put the cigarette back, just flicks it away.

"Brendon," Ryan says.

"I'm going back inside," Brendon says flatly and starts walking. He doesn't pause this time, and Ryan moves even slower because of it, since there's no way he's about to rush if Brendon's going to be a child.

He lags behind several paces, watching the line of Brendon's shoulders and the way his arms sway a bit as he walks. Brendon's wearing flip-flops, smacking on the pavement. Ryan could let him go, could just let him be annoyed for the rest of the night and ignore the whole thing, but as Brendon reaches his porch, Ryan says his name again.

"Brendon," he says, with more strength than before. Brendon stops and looks over his shoulder.

He says, "What?"

He isn't frowning, but Ryan notices the faint crease around his mouth, like he's half a second away from doing so. Ryan meets him on the porch, knocking the toe of his shoe against the step. Until recently, it hadn't taken so much effort to get Brendon to have sex with him, much less just talk to Ryan. In the last few weeks though, he's found himself entertaining pathetic ideas about ignoring how hard it was to talk to Brendon because they were just better at fucking. He doesn't believe that so much, though. They were pretty good friends first.

Brendon's still looking at him expectantly, so Ryan says, "Can I use your car? I want to buy myself a new pack."

"You could have smoked one of mine," Brendon says, turning fully.

"I want Parliaments," he says.

Brendon takes a breath and lets it out just as quickly, shoulder bouncing. He says, "Well, here," and reaches for the carabiner on his belt loop with the house keys hooked on it as well.

"Thanks," Ryan says and takes a step back. He looks up as he scratches his below. "Need anything?"

Shaking his head, Brendon says, "No, I'm good," and knocks his hand against the post on the porch, "But thank you."

"Yeah," Ryan says. There's a lull then, and Brendon moves his shoulders, uneasy, so Ryan takes another step back and stops waiting for Brendon to, who knows, offer him a drawer again or something. "I'll be back in a minute then."

"Okay."

Brendon lingers as Ryan heads toward the curb, and Ryan almost turns to ask him if he's sure, but when he looks back as he opens the driver's door, Brendon's inside already. And he's fine. He says he's fine, so Ryan takes his car and drives a couple blocks down.

Inhabiting (Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto)

gigantic — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 09:18:49 GMT

Inhabiting
by Charli J
Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto. 6,500 words.
In which Chris isn't completely unaware of the implications.

Thanks to stereomer and insunshine for staying up late.

;;

Chris would say he and Zach have been friends and co-workers for a good year now. Upwards of a year. They've been varying degrees of close for several months, and it's not until very late into things that Chris really discovers that the guy owns way less scarves than Chris thought someone like Zach would own. He doesn't mean to imply that he's thought that Zach was a hipster this whole time, but it's more than slightly shocking, his puny collection of scarves.

"I do not -- I have never even worn glasses with the lenses pushed out," Zach says. "That offends me. I actually need them for when I read."

"And that's valid," Chris says, although it sounds like Zach is making his own assumptions about what qualifies as a Silver Lake hipster, but Chris isn't going to say anything. He doesn't want to get too far away from the point of this conversation. "I need a scarf though. My neck is cold."

"You have a closet. It's at your own house," Zach says. "Have you checked there?"

"No reds," Chris says. "Remind me to go to JC Penny or something."

"Why?" Half of Zach's mouth quirks up in an awkward slant, confused and disgusted.

Chris picks out a striped scarf that doesn't really do the trick, but he cares less and less with each second. He says, "Fine, then take me to American Apparel."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," Zach says, but Chris still feels vindicated.

;;

They've gotten really good at it. Zach does his part by having about a hundred pet peeves, and Chris pretends to be the guy who inhabits all of them. They build each other up and then cut one another down just as quickly, but it works out that it's all for shits and giggles. As much as Zach likes to pretend that being Chris's friend is a hard job sometimes, Zach is also the same guy who will come over and eat all of his avocados without asking nowadays. He takes advantage of the fact that Chris usually forgets to lock his patio door.

Chris says, "Are you at least making guacamole? I have tortilla chips, dude. And I like dip. Make something the household can share."

"Mm. Nachos would be good for dinner," Zach says, looking down at the avocados in his hand.

From the looks of it, Chris is willing to bet that several other food items from his own fridge will play a big role in this dinner. As long as Zach makes it in his kitchen and shares, though, Chris doesn't exactly mind.

"We could really both win here." He gestures to the fridge again. "There are grape tomatoes in there too."

"Your house is like a treasure chest of delicious," Zach says, opening the refrigerator door to search through the shelves and drawers more.

Chris leans against the counter, watching Zach move. He grabs a bag of chips, reaching behind himself, and munches freely. He says, "Does this mean I'll finally get invited to one of your backyard dinners?"

"You've eaten with me. My brother made crepes, remember?"

"Yeah, but I haven't been invited back since," Chris says. "You've got me feeling like I had bad manners or something."

Zach winces, glancing back to Chris as he says, "You do put your elbows on the table when you eat. I hadn't planned on bringing it up."

"Is that all?" Chris says, tossing his head back. Zach turns back and around and bends over to open a drawer, rudely giving Chris an eyeful of ass in the middle of their conversation. "So hard to please, you Quintos."

"We have standards."

"I make an intimidating soufflé," Chris says, wiping crumbs on the front of his t-shirt. The bag crackles as he rolls it closed and sets it aside again.

Surfacing from the fridge with green pepper, cheese, and tomatoes this time, Zach says, "Now, see? I like a man that's useful. You should open with that, when you meet people."

"I'll write that down immediately," Chris says, sucking on his teeth. He's got bits of chip stuck in them.

;;

A phone interviewer asks him a handful of questions about Star Trek, and then his upcoming projects. Chris talks quickly about the play and some other casting opportunities. He ties off the conversation neatly, saying, "And, of course -- they've already announced the sequel for this movie. I'm looking forward to working with the cast again, with Zach," like it isn't already likely that he'll see Zach every other day from now until shooting starts again.

To Zach, he broaches the subject in a different way. Chris says, "I was thinking about it earlier: it's a good thing we're close. Otherwise, living in the same neighborhood would've been hard."

"A travesty," Zach says, holding his hand over his mouth to cough. Chris raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't hear a word buried in there. It seems genuine. Extending his hand, he pats Zach on the back.

"Am I still driving you to the airport?" Chris asks.

"Yes," Zach says, mildly panicked. "Did you forget? I've mentioned it to you every other day for the past week."

"No, I remember. I remember." Chris pulls out his phone to look at the to-do list for the weekend.

;;

Chris may not know Zach's calendar like the back of his hand, but they do at least exchange text messages with some frequency, despite Zach still working hard down in Mexico. Supposedly. One day, Chris wakes up to one on his cell that reads: Check out Dexter Douglas, nerd computer ace...

Chris brushes his teeth and reads the text message three times. When he gets a real moment, after his shower, he types in how much do international texts cost? and sends it.

It isn't too long before Zach replies: This was a sing-along, and you missed the point. Freakazoid theme?

Oh. Chris had thought Zach was making a reference to somebody Chris forgot he knows. Random lyrics to cartoon theme songs must mean he's bored today though. Chris gets on the internet to look up the lyrics and is kind of surprised to learn that Steven Spielberg was involved in that cartoon, until he looks up clips on Youtube and becomes really surprised. Instead of saying any of that to Zach, however, he just sends along the next couple lines in the song.

Zach sends back a smiley face, except he's too bourgeois for a simple colon and half parenthetical. He's that guy who uses the equal sign for the eyes for absolutely no reason.

When Zach calls him later, Chris says, "You're a douchebag."

"Why? I didn't do anything," Zach says. Chris can imagine him sitting cross-legged on a chair, brow furrowed. "Have you walked my dog?"

"Wait, I have to do that every day?"

"Don't exploit my paranoia," Zach says. "I'm trusting you. It would be incumbent upon you to make sure that everything is taken care --"

Chris talks over Zach a little to say, "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Everything's perfect. You use that phrase a lot, by the way. 'Incumbent upon.'"

"No, I don't," Zach says, and he lets out this disbelieving huff. "Do I?"

"You do." Chris nods at his hand. He's sure. "When do you come back again?"

He doesn't want to seem like he's rushing Zach or anything. He doesn't mind taking care of his dog and cat. It's just that with the final rehearsals for Farragut North, Chris keeps forgetting other dates and times. Zach fills him in again, and Chris hums into the receiver.

He says, "Do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, I'm fine," Zach says. "But thanks."

;;

As it turns out, since Chris isn't the one to pick Zach up, he's just standing around at home when Zach gets back. Zach comes over to get his dog, and he says, "Do you know if somebody came into my house and doused it in bleach while I was gone?"

Chris bites on the corner of his lip, cracking the bones in one hand. He says, "Mmm, so. I was trying to make this pasta sauce in your place. I made kind of a mess. It shouldn't still smell like that."

"Did you use a whole gallon?"

"I didn't want there to be stains," Chris says. He opens his arms wide and angles toward Noah. "Hey, awesome, your dog is alive and healthy. Check it out. And your cat is around here too."

It's a pretty handy distraction. Zach kneels to pet his dog, making some affectionate noises and scratching at his coat, but he doesn't stay down there for too long. When he stands up, he tucks his hands in his pockets.

"I have a date tonight," he says.

Chris rears his head back, surprised. He picks up the ball Noah chews on. There's been a lot of dog slobber on it, really, and Chris would be more grossed out, but it's dry for the moment. He tosses it and watches the dog scurry across the room to fetch it and shake it in his mouth.

Wiping his palms on his pants for good measure, Chris says, "Already? You work fast."

"Ehh," Zach says, lifting a shoulder and dropping it. "It's something casual. I don't know. He's an acquaintance, and I said we could grab a bite when I got back into town."

"Nice," Chris says.

He first found out Zach was gay during a conversation about people who were too stubborn to try something new. It had started out because Zach mentioned that his grandma had been taking the exact same route during her afternoon walk for twelve years, and then veered off. Zoe mentioned that it was worse in relationships, and Zach said, "Like the last guy I dated -- not a swallower. Even after being together for several months; just wouldn't try it," and Chris pumped his fist in the air and said, "Spitters are quitters!" mostly because he'd had a shameful amount of peach schnapps and vodka, and, also, it was the truth.

Zach had high-fived him, saying, "Exactly," and then eyed Chris for a long moment before chuckling. "You're completely wasted."

"Later," Chris had said, "I'd appreciate it if you pretended I was drinking bourbon or something else impressive," and tried not to wonder if Zach admonishing his ex also indicated certain habits of Zach's own.

It's something that comes up in passing now, but Zach never really talks about his personal relationships at great length. He says, "I guess. I was about to ask if I could leave Noah and Harold here for a little longer. Unless you have somewhere to go."

"That's fine," Chris says.

And it is. He hasn't been doing much but drinking beer and watching marathons of random television programs. Days off -- real days off -- are sort of strange, but he doesn't get much time to enjoy being bored lately, so he doesn't want to complain about it. Zach also leaves his leftovers with Chris when he comes to really grab his dog after his date, and that doesn't suck either. He loves Italian.

;;

Zach comes with him to the dress rehearsal for Farragut, because they have dinner plans of their own afterward. Chris isn't one hundred percent sure it's cool, except Zach can look intimidating when he needs, so nobody bothers saying anything. He has an expression in his Rolodex that makes people think he's judging them silently, that they aren't even worth two quarters and pog, but Chris has been around Zach long enough now that he knows that that's also the same face Zach gets when he's trying to figure out if he's worn his hoodie too many days in a row without looking like someone who's unsure about that kind of thing.

It's a useful deterrent when it's necessary, but after Chris finishes up his day, he moves to sit in the chair next to Zach and leans in to sniff his shoulder. He asks, "How many days has it been?"

"Like a week," Zach says. "That's borderline repulsive, isn't it?"

"It doesn't smell bad," Chris says.

Zach tilts his head from one side to the other, still contemplating all of the facts. He purses his lips. "I think my other favorite one is already in the hamper at home."

"Screw it," Chris says, throwing in a dismissive wave for good measure. He tugs on the string for the hood once, playfully, and then pats Zach's back. "You look great. You smell like a million bucks."

Zach narrows his eyes. "That's odd. I haven't slept on my pile of money this week."

Chris laughs, tugging at Zach's elbow. It's important to get out of dodge before someone has something else they want to have a fifteen-minute discussion about. He really likes his co-stars for this play, but his mind is hard set on dinner at the moment.

They eat at a restaurant in Pasadena for the hell of it, and because Chris knows it's one of Zach's favorites. Waiters bring out a small cake halfway through the meal, and Chris claps along with their happy birthday song. Zach's mouth is half-opened the whole time like he's waiting for the punch line, but when they finish he blows out the candle and smiles from ear to ear.

"My birthday was over a week ago," he says, pulling the candle out of the center and setting it on a napkin.

Chris says, "I wasn't in Mexico," and shrugs. "The meal's on me, by the way, if you hadn't guessed."

"That's sweet," Zach says.

Lifting his shoulders, Chris says, "I know. It's why my grandmother loves me." Zach doesn't laugh exactly, but his mouth does this interesting sort of ripple that Chris is going to take as a compliment.

"So, I'm your wild night out," Zach says, swiping his finger along the side of the cake and licking his finger. "No raging parties."

"Does anyone still call them raging parties?" Chris asks seriously. He uses his fork to grab a piece of the cake and tastes. It's sweeter than he anticipated. He wipes his mouth with his napkin. "Even you know that."

"Obviously, I want to know if you're going to a rager, not whatever kind of get-togethers people are into these days," Zach says, like that makes complete sense. Chris laughs and drinks his water.

He says, "It's just porn and Nick at Nite reruns for me."

It's a joke, but it's also the kind of thing he's actually done before too. Contrary to how lonely it may seem, Chris will stand by his belief that it's a fine cap to any evening, good or bad.

"Romantic," Zach says.

"I like to treat myself right."

Zach snorts. "I'm going to have to come over to at least keep you company, aren't I?"

He does just that too, but they end up watching True Lies on TBS and no porn at all, unless you count Jamie Curtis doing a strip tease in her black underwear. As beautiful as she is, it isn't quite the same, and he turns his head to make a joke to Zach about how fucking PG-13 they've turned out, only to find that Zach's folded his arms and used them to pillow his head, knocked out cold.

;;

One thing the whole exchange does remind Chris to do, though, is to actually buy new porn. He hasn't in a while, and although he could probably order shit online, Chris still likes walking into adult shops and browsing the wall. He's not above reading titles out loud and considering them thoughtfully like he's contemplating the blurb for Night at the Museum instead of Slave Boys from Beyond Infinity.

It's probably lucky that he hasn't ever watched porn with Zach, mostly because he doesn't know how much Zach is into big breasts or girls that are unshaven. The things you don't ask in polite conversation, Chris thinks, amused at himself.

He's watched the spectrum of it: girls with girls, straight couples, guy on their knees for other guys. Since he was young, Chris has always thought that cultivating eclectic tastes was an important character trait, but he has no clue about where Zach's lines lie. His offer to come over even with the promise of porn and syndicated TV might have just been him assuming Chris was speaking in jest, and he doesn't appreciate that the porn capital of the world is just a good half-hour drive from their neighborhood at all.

No, Zach probably watches it.

Chris pulls out his cell phone and holds down a number. When Zach answers, Chris says, "Hey, you never told me how your date went the other night."

"Oh. Oh, with Greg?" Zach exhales. It's nothing over-dramatic, but Chris can picture him thinking back and weighing the pros and cons. "Not bad. We're going out again."

"Hey, hey." Chris sets down the DVD he's holding and picks up some novelty mints on a shelf nearby. They're shaped like penises. He shakes the container and sets them down too. "That's a good sign."

"Maybe," Zach says. "I feel like I'm caught in that awkward stasis. The interim period." He makes a humming noise and clears his throat. "What made you think of that?"

"I don't know," Chris says. "I'm kind of out and wandering, and it dawned on me that I didn't actually ask when you picked up Noah. Anyway, I'm in this adult shop right now. What do you think: fisting or double penetration?"

"You're buying gay porno?"

"Don't think less of me for it, but the one time I ever actually watched a guy get fisted, I almost passed out," Chris says, moving his fingers over that video and picking up the one that promises it's the lead's first time taking two at once. "You're probably in it for the plot though."

Zach huffs, just one, quick puff of air. "You've got me. I need to believe the motivation behind one person telling another, 'On your knees and suck it. Ahh, good boy.'"

"What kind of horrible domination is that?" Chris laughs and moves to yet another DVD. "Hey, here's some fantasy porn for you. Rapunzel, but instead of a princess, there's this twink."

"It's like it's waiting for me," Zach says, flat.

Chris smiles to himself, saying, "Hey, hey, don't worry. I'm gonna buy it for you. I've got your best interests in mind."

;;

Morning runs usually happen at seven. Needless to say, Chris is both startled and incoherent when Zach shows up at five-thirty a couple days later. He doesn't kick him in the stomach, but it's not for lack of trying. Zach swats at his ankle, and says, "No, come on. Get up," continuing a conversation he started on his own, because Chris had been too busy having a heart attack.

"How'd you get into my house?"

"Patio. You know," Zach says, still hovering over Chris, wide-awake as if it isn't the crack of dawn.

Chris says, "The sun is barely up."

"Early bird catches the worm," Zach says, patting Chris's hip through his blankets. Chris groans.

"I hate worms," he says, but he lets himself roll sideways and topple out of bed anyway.

A stubbed toe, several curse words, a truncated morning routine, and half a mile later, Chris finally finds out that he's awake before God intended on a day off, because Zach is the worst post-fuck ever. Chris makes him repeat himself and still feels sort of baffled.

"You left the guy in your shower?"

"I told him I was going for a run," Zach says.

"But you left him in the shower," Chris reiterates. "And you're just hoping this guy'll, what, be gone when you get back?"

Zach shrugs. The movement looks crazy when he's running, and Chris sort of wrinkles his nose as Zach says, "He has work or something, some obligation. Greg can see his way out. It's not a huge tragedy."

"You chickened out of the morning after," Chris says plainly.

"I'm not great at the whole routine: kissing, touching, and cooing at someone I had a decent but not amazing time with," Zach says. He rolls his eyes. "It feels fake."

"Harsh," Chris says, and for some reason, Paula Abdul pops into his head. "You're a cold-hearted snake..."

Laughing despite himself, Zach says, "You're going to give me shit about this all day."

"Shouldn't have woken me up," Chris says, stretching his arms, and then picking his legs up a little more. Today is a great day for running.

;;

While Chris doesn't have as big an issue with ducking out on his overnight fun, he does have the more classic problem of not knowing how to call someone back in a timely fashion. Audrina's a fun girl, and she's got a great sense of humor, and Chris doesn't really know why he keeps forgetting to hit 'send' when he sees her number in his contacts.

He spends his lunch hour at rehearsal using his mobile browser to try to figure out the best bouquet of flowers, but they kind of feel equally overdone to him. He doesn't want to seem like he's sucking up immediately.

He calls Zach and says, "Hey, so, which flowers would say, 'I like you, and I'm sorry I haven't called,' without implying that I'm going to call anytime soon?"

"You could just say that," Zach says.

"No flowers at all then, is what you're telling me." He's probably right, Chris knows, but it's throwing a major wrench in his plans. "What about a very regretful coffee drink? Can you get that across in a latte?"

He smiles on his end as Zach chuckles at him, saying, "You're worse than I am."

"I don't think so. About the same, possibly."

Zach asks, "Are you still working?"

"Yeah, but I have a break," Chris says, sitting back and putting his feet on the bench. "You?"

"I'm at home. In my bedroom, actually, if you're looking for a more specific description," Zach says. "If you're trying to picture it."

"Ohh, yeah, what are you wearing?" Chris asks, pitching his voice a little lower. He can't really hold it there though, staring out at a couple of his castmates across the way as he presses his lips together and smirks.

Zach says, "Khakis and a t-shirt. A trucker hat. I just got back from walking with Noah. I got another sound bath. It's hot outside today, for a change; I'm kind of sweaty."

Chris snorts, unable to hold back his mirth. "Sexy."

"And to top it off, I was thinking about going to yoga before I showered," Zach says, starting to let the words slide together like he's really saying some worthwhile.

"Weh-hell," Chris says. "Now we're really spicing things up." He imagines Zach in his yoga pants he likes to wear, positioned like a pretzel on his mat. He's tried to get Chris into it, but Chris doesn't have the patience. "What are you doing after?"

Zach says, "Nothing yet. You want to do something for dinner?"

"Yeah, sure." Chris clears his throat and checks his watch. He'll have to get back to work soon. "You pick the place and text it to me. I'll meet you there when I'm done here at, like, seven."

;;

His sister likes to call and say, "How're you and your gay boyfriend?"

"Kat, I told you," Chris says in return. "Just because we're dating, doesn't mean we're gay."

"Chris, I've said it a thousand times," she throws back, as quick as ever. "The penis doesn't even have to make it in for it to be pretty gay."

"Don't. Don't say penis." He waves his hand for emphasis even though she can't see him.

She laughs as he's unlocking his car and gets behind the wheel. Sobering, Katherine asks after Zach seriously, and Chris tells her that he's fine. He's addicted to chocolate truffles at a place around the corner lately and keeps talking about how he wants to see Wynton Marsalis play with the Lincoln Center Orchestra in October. He also wants to go on a hot air balloon ride before the summer ends, if he gets some time, so Chris has been looking into that a little bit. There's a place in Palmdale that looks worthwhile.

Chris isn't unaware of the speculation. They've had to sit through enough questions about a 'bromance' in the past few months that he knows all about the in-joking and tongue-in-cheek rumors. Chris doesn't really mind one way or the other, but if he is in a relationship, he's never been with anybody who puts out so little.

He and Zach do spend plenty of time together, however. They go to EdgeFest mid-July, because Zach really liked a couple of the plays put on the year before.

"I didn't even know this was here," Chris says.

Zach says, "You have to subscribe to a lot of random Los Angeles newsletters to perfect this kind of local awareness."

"I see." Chris nods. "Noted."

They have a nice time. One of the performances lays on the anarchist propaganda thicker than Chris is expecting, and then also features a character with an accent that reminds him of the days he spent as a Tremor brother. Chris has never been that grungy before or since, which was a lot of the appeal of playing someone like Darwin. He wonders how Kevin Durand is doing lately. They haven't seen each other in a while.

They get drinks as soon as the entertainment wraps, because there's really only one way to deal with anarchy. Zach has less than Chris so that he can play designated driver, and Chris appreciates it until he's more drunk than he meant to be. Walking home feels like a chore, and he sits outside in Zach's car for a good five minutes before Zach comes back out and opens the passenger door.

"I'm assuming you're just going to crash-land here then?"

"Wait," Chris says, picturing himself melting out of the passenger seat with Zach's help. That's probably not how it really looks. "This isn't my bedroom?"

"Whoops-a-daisy." Zach drapes one of Chris's arm over his shoulder. Chris can walk on own his for the most part, but he's sleepy. He gets caught up in listening to Zach hum on the way from the car to his room, a smooth stream of sound until he curses, forgetting, and starts over.

"Moonlight Sonata," Chris says around the same time that he's flopping back onto a mattress.

Zach claps his hands together, which is cruel and unfair to Chris's sensibilities, and he says, "Ladies and gentleman, a true scholar."

"Faaaack." It's the best speech Chris can think of in the moment.

He has to toe off his own shoes, to top things off, but Zach pulls up the covers and turns out the light.

;;

"My hands smell like sawdust," he says as he's toasting wheat bread the next morning.

Zach throws an arm up and snaps his fingers. He says, "That's what I forgot. You also molested that two-by-four at the bar."

"I told myself I'd stop doing that," Chris says, frowning and shaking out his fingers. Seriously. He washed his hands with Zach's eucalyptus whatever the fuck. What's the problem?

"I wasn't jealous," Zach says. "Don't worry."

One of the pieces of toast pops up too high and falls over into the sink. Chris holds it up like it might have something to say for itself, blows on it a little and sets it on his plate. The other he lays down for Zach and spreads jam on it.

"As long as I have you," Chris says. He slides Zach's plate in front of him. "A thank you gesture."

"Yeah, yeah," Zach says, setting aside his newspaper. He always starts with the arts section first and then works around it. "As long as you don't start making out with particle board next."

Chris swallows a mouthful of waffles. "Don't worry; I'm moving on to metals."

"Oh, well," Zach says. "Now that's okay."

;;

Since Farragut opened, Zach's seen the production twice, and he's picked Chris up afterward more times than that. He's been around enough that one of the make-up girls has taken to asking after him too, and it takes Chris over a month to realize that she thinks they live together.

"But we couldn't live together," Chris says to Zach in his car, as they're leaving Geffen. "You get everything drenched in water when you shower and then leave wet underwear on the floor."

"That happened one time, and we found out I had a leak in my tub." Zach looks over his shoulder as he's changing lanes to read the freeway on-ramp. "Stop passing out in my bed after you have too much to drink, and you won't have to tolerate my wet underwear."

"I almost slipped," Chris says. "It was a scarring experience. I had just woken up."

"You lived," Zach says, milking the sarcasm, but then when his cell phone rings, his earpiece is in the cupholder, and he needs Chris's help to fit his ear while he's driving. Chris snickers at him, ignoring the way Zach swats at his hands once he's set-up, like he isn't grateful.

"It's Zoe," Chris says, glancing at Zach's phone just before he answers. "Tell her I said hi."

Zach does. They set off on whatever weird code they've picked up since the beginning of the month. Chris hadn't thought about it until he noticed that they only do it around him, and now he's about eighty percent sure Zach's planning something for his birthday, even though they made plans to drink in the sun and check out Sunset Junction.

He would tell Zach and Zoe that they don't have to do anything, but he's fairly positive that would ruin the part where he's not supposed to know they're in cahoots. His mother's in on it too, he's thinking, because she usually doesn't ask him about his schedule for certain weeks in quite so much detail.

It's a sweet thing to do, anyway.

;;

"What if I am a hipster?" Zach confesses, coming back to their area of the bar and shouting over the speakers. It makes no sense that the music is still this loud between acts.

Chris leans in to talk back, switching his beer to the opposite hand. "Where'd that come from? Are the big kids picking on you?"

"Casablanca is one of my favorite movies," Zach says, cupping his hand close to his mouth. "Vampire Weekend's album really was part of my top ten last year."

Looking down at the glass in Zach's hand, Chris asks, "Is this your fourth one of those?"

"Huh?" Zach asks, and Chris laughs.

He pats Zach's cheek twice, pinching it. He says, "You're cute. You can sleep in my bed for a change."

He likes being the responsible one. Zach usually goes above and beyond by letting Chris take the left side of his bed, because he promises it's more comfortable than the couch. Chris can finally one-up him by giving him pajamas. He has SpongeBob sleep bottoms that he got as a gag gift last year, but they're surprisingly soft, and it takes Zach a minute to figure out where each leg goes. He stands upright and holds his hand up, pausing once they're on correctly.

Nodding solemnly, Zach says, "Okay. This isn't an ironic choice of clothing."

"Are you kidding? Duh, it isn't," Chris asks, tugging Zach forward so he can lie down. "That cartoon is a riot."

;;

The really funny thing is that Chris gets a phone call from Katherine's husband while they're out buying Zach hangover food in the morning. He becomes an uncle on Sunday morning. They're both wearing yesterday's outfits when Chris gets to meet the baby, and Zach trips over seven sentences when Katherine asks if he wants to hold him too.

"Just say yes," Chris says eventually.

"I really didn't anticipate holding a newborn this early in the day," Zach says, but he even takes off his sunglasses to do it, in spite of how bright the florescent lights are.

The baby drools on Zach's shirt, and Chris says, "It's just like you last night."

"Can I make a trade?" Zach asks, looking up at Katherine. "I like this kid much better than the model I have."

;;

Perhaps there's some unspoken rule: once two grown men have spent time fawning over a newborn together, there's really no reason to make a big deal out any other firsts.

Zach holds on to Chris's wrist as they get into the hot air balloon, slipping his thumb back and forth over the rounded bone.

"Are you afraid of heights?"

"There's a chance," Zach says. He doesn't let go.

Chris feels like they should celebrate the occasion once they're on the ground again. He drives by the dollar store and buys a t-shirt, markers, and some iron-on letters so that he can make a commemorative t-shirt. 'I flew and didn't even piss on myself' is what Chris is thinking. Maybe an exclamation point to add flair.

"I'm a fan of green and blue," Zach says.

The leftover colors end up on a pair of cheap boxer shorts Zach gives Chris at his surprise birthday party. All of Chris's friends are there, and the boxers end up on his head at the behest of a bunch of people drinking tequila. When he walks by, people can read 'Cap'n Fine' across the ass. There's a cut-out of his face taped over the crotch, and Chris promises Zach he'll wear them every day on set and tell any new crew about how Zach is his most dedicated fan.

"Hey," Zach says. "Careful. You still want to get cake, don't you?"

"Does that have a picture of Simon in a banana hammock?"

"What." Zach's face gets stuck halfway between a smile and a sneeze or something. "I learn something else new and disturbing about you every second."

"Me?" Chris says, chuckling pathetically, because he can't think of a comeback. "You."

The cake doesn't have a picture of Simon, but Karl does make sure that Chris imprints his face on it. It's a good thing Chris was in the market for a frosting facemask today. Zach pulls him aside and hands him a towel, swiping his finger over Chris's cheek and popping it in his mouth.

"Cheesecake-flavored," Zach says.

Angling his face close, Chris points to his chin and says, "Well there's plenty more where that came from. Take as much as you want."

Zach laughs but he goes for more, using his thumb this time. "You like red velvet cake, right?"

"Love it," Chris says. He starts to wipe the frosting from his skin and pauses to hold out his fist. Zach bumps it. "Thanks."

"My pleasure." He makes use of his pinky on his third move to get frosting. "This is good stuff."

"Is it?" Chris asks. Before Zach can take the cream himself, Chris turns and grits his teeth, edging some off. It's easier when he just licks, so he gives up the ghost, and he's smacking his lips together when he raises his eyes to actually look at Zach again. "Sweeter than I thought."

"Yeah." Zach sounds a little distracted as he says it. He drops his hand, which is lucky, since that's the same moment Chris rocks forward on the balls of his feet. He doesn't imagine that he's going for anything until he's there. He doesn't think about the fact that he's kissing Zach until it dawns on him that it's something they haven't done before. All Chris tastes is sugar.

;;

Zach lets Chris touch him after Chris has spent the evening as a cake-faced, 29-year-old man with custom-decorated boxers on his head.

He's kind of a catch. He means to make a joke about having questionable taste in men, but he's taken all the crap off by the time they reach Zach's house, and then Zach finds Chris's fly, so he forgets what he'd wanted to say.

;;

Anal sex, Chris learns, is really fucking inconvenient.

He doesn't want to seem ungrateful. Zach had been kind enough to oblige him, and he had even taken care not to be too rough, but Chris's ass is kind of suffering afterward regardless, and he would really love to get a drink of juice or something, if only moving didn't feel like the oddest thing in the world.

Zach is still asleep with his face half-buried in his pillow. Chris scoots in close to make sure he isn't accidentally smothering himself to death, and then psyches himself up to leave behind the blankets in favor of food.

He's too lazy to figure out which jeans are his, so he makes pancakes naked. Zach comes in as Chris is flipping one of the last, stopping to say, "Uhhh," like he expected Chris to have on some clothes.

"Morning," Chris says. "Orange juice or milk?"

"Hi," Zach says. He sniffs, rubbing a hand over his face, and he blinks. "Orange juice."

"You got it."

Chris stacks four pancakes each and then splits the three eggs he made between them as well. He starts to regret this whole no-pants thing when he sits down and feels his skin sticking to the lacquered wood immediately.

Zach says, "Thanks," and claps his hands together before he digs into his plate.

"I hope I don't get splinters in my ass," Chris says, and Zach snorts.

He laughs harder than he needs to. He says, "It's not real wood," and proceeds to cut his pancakes into tiny squares. He chews on a bite for what seems like a full minute and then swallows. Chris has eaten most of his eggs in that time, and Zach grinds his teeth together after he drinks his juice. "I thought maybe you'd gone for a run."

Well, shit, Chris thinks. He should've put cheese in his eggs. He says, "Why?" looking up. "I don't jog with whoever. Running is a sensitive business. I've got a routine I like."

"Yeah," Zach says. He wipes his mouth and taps his fork against the edge of his plate. Chris can feel him thinking. "There's about a metric ton of red velvet cake left."

"No kidding," Chris says. That's right. They did bring that with them. Chris is pretty sure it's still in Zach's car, if it's not already a big mess of goo. "Fuck, man. Lunch."

"I know."

There isn't much else to add on to that. They eat quietly, except when Chris scoots his chair out to get more syrup and his toes bump Zach's on the slide back. "Sorry," Chris says, and Zach shrugs. It's not a big deal. Chris leaves his foot where it is.

On Our Worst Behavior (Brendon Urie/Asher Roth)

gigantic — Mon, 18 May 2009 07:17:20 GMT

Okay, this is Asher Roth. And this is Asher Roth as well. But, like, this is also Asher Roth? And after a series of random Youtube videos and blog articles I looked at when I read that he'd be on some of the Blink 182 dates this summer, I went from thinking he was mostly a douchenugget to thinking he was actually not entirely terrible. And then insunshine pretty much challenged me, and so now there's this, because we all know I can't resist random shit. The title is almost a Keri Hilson lyric.

On Our Worst Behavior
by Charli J.
Brendon Urie/Asher Roth. Adult. 4,000 words.
This is a tour hook-up.

;;

Brendon isn't sure how last minute it is, but he doesn't hear about Chester French dropping the Pennsylvania dates until they're in Boston.

"Wait," he says to DA, passing his glass pipe back. It's an orange and green salamander. It's pretty much the cutest fucking pipe Brendon's seen in months, and it packs a decent bowl, and now it's leaving for like a week. "David-Andrew. Don't bullshit me."

"We'll be back in Omaha. I think," DA says, scratching his head and then wiping his hand on his pants pocket. He looks around and finds Max, saying, "Right? Nebraska."

"What the fuck?" Brendon says. Somebody should have told him. He's so left out all the time.

Max kicks his feet up, draping them over the arm of the couch in the dressing room backstage. He says, "You won't even notice! Back in a flash. Eat a Philly cheese steak, down a Chicago hot dog, and we'll be back before you know. That rapper is filling in -- Asher."

"Man," Brendon says. "Can we at least pack one more, then? I should find Spencer and bring him here."

"Sure," DA says, pulling out his Ziplock bag and breaking up the goods with his fingers. Brendon should definitely find Spencer, but what he ends up doing is sitting on the floor and watching DA work, thinking about how good a cheesesteak would be now that he's thinking about it.

Fuck, he's pretty sure they're not even going to Philly.

;;

All Brendon knows about Asher Roth is that he loves college. That, and also that Brendon's not even allowed to sing that song anymore, because he sang it for a week straight a couple months ago until Ryan threatened him. He'd sworn to do creative things with his vocal cords if he didn't stop and reminded Brendon that the closest he'd been to college was fucking Audrey in Jac's friend's dorm room once, although, honestly, that had been an awesome fucking night, so Brendon doesn't even get how that was supposed to be a stab. But since he does like his vocal chords though, Brendon declared a moratorium. He wonders if things might be different now that this Asher dude is actually on tour with them.

It's easy to figure out who he is among the tour faces, because Brendon's been staring at everyone else for a week straight already.

It also helps that Asher actually goes around and introduces himself to everybody, and when Brendon shakes his hand, he says, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you are way more soft-spoken than I thought you would be."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Asher says with a faint smile, "only if you promise not to think a little less of me when I tell you I'm kinda hung-over right now. Maybe --"

"-- that could have something to do with it," Brendon says. He's more than a little familiar with hangovers that set you back a few hours. "Your secret's safe with me."

;;

It turns out that his hangover isn't without reason. Asher has friends and family that show up later in the day, people coming to see the show and wish him a happy one.

Brendon runs into him again by one of the big rigs, walking with Jon. Asher's standing with a couple people, and a girl gives him a hug and says, "Happy birthday, Ash. You're getting old, dude."

"Whoa, you didn't say it was your birthday," Brendon says, stopping on the skateboard he's been pushing along.

"Yeah, yeah," Asher says, looking past his friend for a second and nodding. "Welcome to being twenty-four, I guess. Suddenly I can't pack 'em in like I could three years ago." He nudges the girl's shoulder and gestures to Brendon and Jon. "Yo, these are a couple guys from the tour. Brendon and -- Jon, right? They're in Panic at the Disco. Guys, these are a couple of my friends from home, Dave and Liz."

"Nice to meet you," Jon says, and they wave and shake hands in greeting. Stepping back, Brendon says, "That's cool. You got people coming out for your birthday at least."

"Well, yeah," Asher says. "I mean, it's only, what, like a two-hour drive? They just came up from Morrisville, man. Hershey is a hop, skip, and a jump --"

"Or you're from around here?" Jon asks.

"PA-born and raised," Asher says. "Why do you think I'm hung-over? I'm struggling right now."

Laughing, Brendon says, "Then it really sucks if you can hold your liquor anymore. Can't party with all the people that are gonna come to see you tonight."

"Can't drink, can't smoke," his friend Dave says.

"Man, fuck you, I can smoke." Asher steps back, grinning at the concrete. "Bucky came through last night when I got into town and handed me a fucking, like, good health eighth as soon as he saw me. I can smoke weed all day."

Eyebrows raised, Brendon says, "Now that might be a real friend," and he looks to Jon, who nods solemnly in agreement.

"You guys blaze?" Asher asks. He thumbs towards the tour buses, saying, "I rolled a couple Phillies this morning. They're on my bus. I was gonna have a sit down with these guys right now."

"Is that an invitation?" Brendon asks.

Jon says, "Because he really doesn't need to be asked twice," and Asher just grins.

;;

An hour later, Brendon and Jon find Zack and Ryan, and Jon announces that, "Brendon's already using the new guy for weed."

"No, I'm not. It was a happy discovery. Coincidence," and he turns around and elbows Jon a little, saying, "You benefited."

Ryan looks at them, stilling his hands on the acoustic guitar in his lap. He motions to Brendon and says, "Come here?" Brendon leans down and lets Ryan squint at him. "You need eye drops."

"I'm not worried," Brendon says, although when he stands up, his stomach growls. He is concerned with how fucking hungry he is suddenly. "Is there a fast food place nearby? I think I need a value meal."

"No, but there are chips in the next room," Zack says.

Those don't sound nearly as appetizing as some greasy fries, but Brendon goes to get a huge bag of Doritos anyway. As he walks back into the room with everyone else, he says, "It's his birthday, too. A bunch of his friends are around. I think they're having a party."

"Who?" Ryan says.

"Asher."

"That's where you're going after the show?"

Brendon says, "No, I was saying just in case you wanted to make it a group adventure." He pops a chip into his mouth. "It's a party."

"So we can watch you make out with the new guy for weed?" Zack asks.

"I'm not," Brendon says. He isn't. "I don't do that. Anyway, he already smoked me out."

;;

Truthfully, though, truthfully. Brendon doesn't hook up with people for drugs. He likes pot and he likes kissing, and sometimes these things are conveniently wrapped up in the same package. The peanut gallery can stop making up lies about him any day now. Offering him a couple joints is not a free pass to make out and cop a feel.

(Except for that one time, with Travis, but that was also because they smoked pot and then had a conversation about how pot actually does make them horny sometimes, and really, Brendon's always been a problem solver at heart. At least, he'd like to think so. Travis sure had been.)

Which Brendon says to Asher, once he's had three beers and shared three joints among a few people during the time it takes to move from backstage to Asher's bus. Brendon says, "I'm just saying that I object to the implication that I'm that kid. Making deals. Sex trades."

"What?" Asher says, laughing as he hands Brendon another bottle of UFO.

"I don't know," Brendon says. "I forgot what I was talking about."

Asher shakes his his head. He says, "Dude. My aunt? I have this aunt that lives up near Poughkeepsie, and she used to be like, 'Asher. When you meet somebody, don't open your legs right away. A real lady can hold a dime between her knees.' And I'd be like, 'Aunt Pat, I'm a little boy.' She bought me a skirt for my birthday once."

"Maybe it was a kilt," Brendon says.

"It was teal, and it was a skirt, man." Asher reaches out to nab the beer he just handed off. He takes a swig and then passes it back. Brendon looks at the bottle and then back up, but Asher just shrugs. "I love my aunt. She's crazy as hell, but I love that lady."

"But have you kept your virtue?" Brendon asks. "Would she be proud?"

Asher winces and says, "Well. Maybe not so much these days. I've dropped the dime a few times," and Brendon chuckles, knocking down more of his beer.

"Well, I'm a lady," Brendon says, eying Asher and pointing a finger at him.

"My aunt would appreciate that."

Brendon shakes his head, saying, "Although my shirt tends to come off when I'm drunk. And I've had a few. So watch out."

"Noted," Asher says. "I promise to draw obscene shit on your chest."

;;

So it really isn't a surprise when Brendon ends up wearing his shirt like a headband and walking around with a picture of a stick figure man fucking a stick figure horse on his stomach. Or, well, it's a brand new surprise to him every time he walks by a reflective surface, because he keeps forgetting that's what it is.

They get to the hotel, and Brendon runs into Ryan, who says, "Do you know there's a bestiality scene on your stomach?"

Brendon looks down and says, "Yeah. Oh, yeah. We spent a while trying to decide between this or a dolphin."

He smiles wide, and it feels nice. It's nice outside. In general, Brendon's feeling really good, and Asher mentioned something about packing a gravity bong. The night could get better still.

"Your taste in new friends..." Ryan says, like he's joking, except it's Ryan, so it comes off like he's judging Brendon to his face.

"I mean, I do hang out with you," Brendon says, throwing one right back, and Ryan shrugs his shoulders and cracks his knuckles.

Ryan asks, changing tracks, "Are you coming back tonight?"

"Don't know yet," Brendon says, which is pretty true. The night is still young. He saw two girls make out, and he's kind of hoping Asher has the kind of friends that like jumping on bandwagons.

He really only comes back to make sure his things get stuffed into his room, and then Brendon changes t-shirts again and goes to find the suite Asher's in. A lot of people have gone home, but when he walks into the room, Asher says, "Hey, Brendon," and motions him over. He nudges Brendon's shoulder and says, "Hit this."

It's a great way to enter a room, in Brendon's opinion. He takes the hit, inhaling and trying to hold in smoke, but he's pretty gone already. His focus is lacking.

"You put on another shirt," Asher says, patting Brendon's back as he makes the observation.

"Yeah," Brendon says, tugging on his collar. "We'll see how long this one lasts."

;;

By three in the morning, Brendon ends up sitting on the floor in the corner next to Asher while he sings the verses of "All Star" with a hand in the air. The rest of the people in the room -- just four others beside Brendon now -- pick up the chorus, and Brendon harmonizes where he can.

As someone else takes the second verse, Brendon leans over and says, "You just lost so much credibility by knowing the words to that song."

"Why?" Asher says, already grinning as he speaks. He squints when he laughs. "Dude, the uncool shit I could serenade you with. Don't get me started."

"Oh, no, now I'm interested," Brendon says. "Please tell me there's some random New Kids On The Block you're about to bring out."

Asher says, "Trust me, I got the right stuff," which makes Brendon roll his eyes as he falls back, giggling. Asher just lifts his chin, dedicated to his goofiness. "That's like -- what the fuck is there to do after class but blaze and end up in some stupid sing-along?"

"I guess," Brendon says. Although, truth be told, that sounds a lot like the way his days go now. Work. A joint. Playing some songs on guitar and singing. "What did you even study in college?"

"I wanted to be a teacher, man."

"You're not serious," Brendon says, giving Asher a sidelong glance.

Asher says, "As a heart attack," but he smiles again. "You don't believe me? I wanted to help the kids."

Brendon shakes is head. "No bullshit? Honest truth."

"Yes," Asher says, tipping sideways to bump his shoulder into Brendon's. "I was an elementary education major."

"I believe that children are our future," Brendon sings, and then he hums the rest of the line, because he doesn't know the lyrics.

Scoffing, Asher says, "Now who's letting their embarrassing blitzed playlist come out?"

;;

The mildly embarrassing part of the night occurs when Brendon ends up passing out in Asher's room because he's too wasted to make it back to his own. He tries to stand up to go to the bathroom, slips, falls, and decides he was pretty ready for bed anyway. On the plus side, however, Brendon doesn't try to make out with anybody, and especially not to bribe them out of booze and pot. He is going to take his dime and shove it all in Ryan's face in the morning.

"Urie," he hears, and that's when he realizes he's using someone's shoe as a pillow on the floor. "Brendon, hey."

"Huh," Brendon says, shifting. It's Asher.

He says, "Dude, come up here at least," and Brendon likes the idea of having a pillow, so he doesn't waste time moving.

;;

In the morning, his mouth tastes like skunk ass. Brendon slips out of bed, feeling his way to the bathroom because he need to rinse, not to mention his bladder feels like it's about to stage a mutiny against his body.

He takes a leak, splashes water on his face, and then he gargles with warm water until he feels a little less like roadkill. It works, although he's still exhausted when he stumbles back into the room, crawling onto the bed again and lying down beside the person there -- Asher? Asher, definitely -- and burrowing in for more sleep.

Asher's one of those people that gravitates towards heat, it seems like. He curls closer to Brendon, groaning as he's disturbed for a minute. He says, "What's up?" groggy and muffled.

"Had to pee," Brendon explains and Asher just huffs in his sleep, groping blindly for Brendon's shirt, tugging at the fabric over his stomach and sliding fingers around to his side.

"Mm," Asher says, which could be ascent. It could also be nothing. Brendon's still sort of hazy on the moment himself, not feeling like he was hours ago exactly, but definitely still nearing a full come down instead of already being there.

Brendon asks, "What time is it?"

"Don't know," Asher whispers, and he lifts his head, but the curtains are closed, Brendon already knows. Checking for daylight isn't going to work well enough.

"Where's my phone?" Brendon says. He reaches down, over Asher's hand and feels inside his pocket. Luckily, his phone is still there and hasn't fallen out somewhere. Brendon turns his head to look at the screen as he holds it up. "9:30."

"We've got a little time. Could catch a few more."

"Yeah." Brendon slips his phone back in his pocket as he says, "Happy Birthday."

Asher's lips quirk, gradually pulling into a sleepy smile. He says, "Thanks. You're a couple days late though."

"I didn't know you on your birthday, and I don't think I said it yesterday." Brendon stretches one arm above his head, yawning. This bed is pretty comfortable. Hotels can be hit or miss, but he's slept well so far. "How was party number two? Still feel old?"

"Nah," Asher says, chuckling. "I'm good. How about you? You were -- man. You were a trip."

"I might feel it later," Brendon says, smirking too.

Asher says, "If I recall, you preemptively shot me down."

"Really?" Brendon asks. "Oh, man, I -- I barely remember talking about that? Why did I talk about that?"

"You were on about your friends," Asher says. He's still touching Brendon's side, methodically swiping his fingers back and forth. Brendon isn't sure when they cleared the hem of his shirt, but he can definitely feel skin against skin right now. "You made it clear, though, that you were off limits."

Brendon laughs, saying, "That's too bad. I, fuck. I cockblocked myself with everybody in the room last night with that, probably."

"Yeah, man," Asher say, still amused himself. "I mean, if the birthday boy can't get no love --"

"Which is just a fucking shame," Brendon says, and he bends his knee, bumping it into Asher's legs lightly.

He can feel it coming. Much to the surprise of his bandmates, Brendon can actually read social cues, he just ignores a lot of them. This one, though, this is one he's always interested in receiving, attentive as Asher slips his hand further back. He touches Brendon's spine, pulling him in, and Brendon covers the gap between their heads a moment later. It's a real simple connection -- two steps to making out on top of the blankets. The kiss is just lips at first, gentler than Brendon might have anticipated, but it's early for them, considering.

Asher hums into it just barely. One low, dragging moan precedes him mumbling, "Mn, c'mere," and rolling onto his back.

Brendon follows, draping his leg over Asher's own. He rocks to the side, pushing up on his hands for balance, and that's really how Brendon ends up straddling someone at 9:30 in the morning on a Thursday. Asher really appreciates it, if the way he touches Brendon's thigh is any indication, fingers flexing as he raises his head to chase Brendon's mouth and bring him back down.

His other hand rests on Brendon's hip. Asher slides his up, pushing up Brendon's shirt and rubbing across the small of Brendon's back. It's not too much or too little, all just this side of sweet almost, and Brendon doesn't think about whether or not he wants to up the ante until he grinds down once. He's settled kind of high on Asher and shifts back to really drive the point home, sliding his tongue into Asher's mouth as he rolls his hips, feeling Asher's dick through their pants. It's not a perfect move, but it gets a point across.

"Damn," Asher says, and Brendon laughs softly.

He thinks he likes working this dude up. He thinks he wants to blow him.

"I've got a good idea," Brendon says, breaking the kiss.

Asher looks down as Brendon starts to shift. He says, "What?" dazed and curious, and it doesn't really take an extended amount of time for him to catch on. A big clue is probably the way Brendon's face is level with his cock as Brendon undoes Asher's pants. "Oh, that's a great idea."

He makes Brendon laugh again, and there's a little more force behind this one. Asher helps Brendon pull his pants and underwear down by lifting up, and he's half-hard when Brendon gets a look. He's got a pretty nice dick, really, and Brendon smoothes the flat of his palm along the skin before wrapping his fingers around Asher and jerking him off.

"Fuck," Asher mutters. When Brendon looks up, he's got the corner of his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, propped up on his elbows, waiting. Ready for it.

Sometimes, when Brendon can tell he's with someone who's anxious for him, he shows off; he does his best to make that person squirm. He's not really in that mood now, lucky for Asher. He drops down to take the head in his mouth, pushing down to halfway and pulling back again. Asher sighs through his nose, careful and quiet, and Brendon tries to remember that last time he went here with a guy, but he figures it's kind of been a while. He's been with Sarah a lot lately, and Asher is definitely not her, long fingers touching Brendon's shoulder and moving up, touching his head tentatively.

The room is silent except for the noise they create. Asher's low groans and sighs, the rustle of bedsheets and clothing, and the wet sounds of Brendon's mouth. He's kind of into it, mostly for the way it makes the scene undeniable: early in the day, Brendon has a mouthful of cock and a dude who can't help writhing. It's quite possible that Brendon is Asher's favorite person in the world right now. He'd be willing to bet on it even, just judging from the way Asher bucks up a couple times and makes Brendon pin him down at the hip.

"Oh," Asher breathes. "Yeah, yeah." He fingers tug a little, but Brendon doesn't mind. He stops to take a breath and then drops down again, and Asher mutters his name. Brendon likes giving head. He forgets until he's between someone's legs again, some girl or some guy, but he likes feeling the way Asher's thighs flex involuntarily when he moves his hand down, just bobbing his head. He likes the sounds and the feel of Asher's hard dick against his tongue.

He can sort of tell when Asher starts to get close from the way he has an even harder time being still. It still catches him off-guard when Asher comes, but it's not too bad. He doesn't swallow but he keeps his mouth on Asher's dick, holding the come, and he makes a quick detour to the bathroom sink to spit and rinse before he comes back to find Asher with his hand over his dick, eyes closed, saying, "Shit, man. What the fuck."

"Good?"

"Good morning and happy birthday to me," Asher says, and he doesn't waste time when Brendon flops back on the bed, reaching for Brendon's zipper. "You want?"

"Yes, please," Brendon says, moving his arms out of the way. He lets Asher kiss him as he gets a hand into Brendon's jeans and fists his cock.

It's really not a bad introduction to the day at all. Brendon's come gets on his stomach, and he just uses the sheets to wipe off, because that's part of the reason hotels exist, he figures. It's nothing these sheets haven't lived through before, which is kind of a gross thought, although in the moment Brendon just sort of smirks to himself.

The best part is that Asher says, "Still got a couple hours," in the next moment, so Brendon just rolls towards him and settles in again, tucking away his dick and letting his eyes fall shut.

;;

The third time Brendon wakes up, he actually makes an effort to go to his own room. Or, okay, Asher kisses him a few times, something lazy and appreciative. He says, "I'll catch up with you later, man," and Brendon's okay with that.

He says, "Later," and then ducks out. He scratches his head as he walks the hallways. His own band is staying a floor up, and Brendon takes the stairs in hopes that it'll wake him up more.

Ryan's awake when he gets back to their room, and Brendon hadn't felt like he was doing a walk of shame, but Ryan eyes him like he's waiting for Brendon to have a story to tell.

"Morning," Brendon says, pretending to tip his hat.

Ryan says, "Hello," and keeps looking at Brendon like he's waiting for something, expecting things, more like. Brendon's pretty used to that from Ryan though. He's got a few years of experience with it. He used to think Ryan was looking at him like he wanted something, but they've been there and done that, and it ended in Ryan getting a girlfriend, so now Brendon figures that's just Ryan's face.

It's kind of weird to deal with it this early though, when Brendon's head feels like it's full of cotton after a night with Asher. And that's a happy thought, at least, a good night of booze, bud, and a blowjob reprise. Brendon yawns, smiling, and Ryan notices.

"Good day?" he asks.

Brendon says, "So far," and then, after a thought, "hold on, I have to go brush the taste come from my mouth," which makes Ryan scrunch up his face. Brendon laughs and feels triumphant.

He's having a great day, and it's not even his birthday. Other people's birthdays, he decides, are just as good holidays.

Now, if only he could find a place to get a Philly cheese steak before they leave this state. Maybe Asher knows.

"Does anyone else watch Degrassi and drink every time it goes there?"

gigantic — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 16:50:08 GMT

For Rihanna's new music video, somebody clearly said, "Okay, imagine a high fashion photoshoot in the desert , right? But with motion -- slow motion. Rihanna and Justin Timberlake in slow motion! And also we'll imply that they're fucking, and it'll be gold." Then, voila! It happened and it was gold. The music video for "Rehab" made me realize that I was sorely missing Rihanna/Justin in my life, and now it is here, and now I am happy.

In fandom shenanigans, airgiodslv has a post up asking folks to rec five-to-ten of their favorite bandom fics, and I like recs! Woooo, recs. It's been especially helpful for me because I'm a little behind the times thanks to, well, life, and so I've been compiling a list of things missed. If you're interested in these festivities, then I totally encourage you to throw in some of the stories you love.

Here are ten stories that I've loved a lot:

Make My Troubles Rhyme by giddygeek
You know how there's always that one story you read and then think, fuck, I wish I could've written that? Eh? Well, man, this story is that for me. It blows me away every single time I reread it. The idea, the pacing, the ways it spins out. It's all so well done to me, and each time I read the scene where Pete talks to his reflection and hopes the alternate version of him is graduating too, I just have to bite my knuckles and live in how fucking perfect that moment feels.

The Scene is Dead by synchronik
What I enjoyed most about this story was the way the outcome felt inevitable and still so completely tragic. And somehow the real terror of it crept up on me slowly, in this way where I'd recall parts hours later and finally fully realize just how intense scenes like Frank on the phone with Bob after leaving that parking lot truly were.

Held and Holding by sinsense
A kinky romcom! A kinky romcom about Dan and Jepha! Okay, so this might be kind of cheating, because it was written for me in particular, but, like, when I think of great Used characterization, I think of Sinsense. Her Jepha is so AWESOME, and I love the way we clearly see Dan discover things about himself even though the story is so tightly focused on Jeph's headspace.

I Am A Camera by iridescentglow
Still the sexiest story in bandom to this day. Still! It's been two years and it hasn't been outdone. Period. In general, Nicola always managed to write things that just really struck a chord with me. My favorite line ever written about Pete Wentz and life on tour in fic comes from her story Paper Hearts: It's hard to be sentimental about objects when everything you own gets stuffed into a trailer that's hooked to your tour bus. It's also hard when you're sentimental about Pete Wentz, who has spent most of the last five years becoming a caricature of feeling and expression.

or whatever you call it by provetheworst
No one's style is quite like Chex's. You may or may not know that I am extreeeeemely fond of Pete/Joe, and I'm not 100% certain that this was the first Pete/Joe I ever read, but it is the Pete/Joe reference fic of my heart forever and ever. Pete's a douche -- is both the tagline of the fic and also true in the fic, and yet it's still pretty clear why Joe is drawn to him. They've got this great rhythm to their friendship. I love it in real life, and I've always dug it in this fic.

Hum Along with the TV by stereomer
Okay, let's be honest: I'm a big supporter of stereomer in general. I was gonna put Slurring the Rhythms here and then the guardian one, and then, like, a bunch of other ones, so I just decided to go with the very first thing I ever read by her. It's a short, AU, Brendon/Ryan thing, but classic stereomer in that there's this really great element of humor and attention to detail. And it's kind of funny although this is an AU, this sort of feels like Brendon the way he's written a lot if fic now. Brendon Urie = destined to be his generation's Duchovny??? STEREOMER = A GOOD WRITER AND A PSYCHIC, PERHAPS???

You Know by joyfulseeker
Joyfulseeker is another one of my favorite writers in this fandom, and this one is short, but it's also the CUTEST fic in the world, goodness. Twenty kisses! Pete/Patrick, man, it's good for the soul.

and set this cruise control for crash by cyclogenesis
This story left me pretty speechless when I read it, and it still gets me now. Just, fuck, Ryan is so manipulative here, and it hurts so good. I feel the same way about proteinscollide's This Feeling From My Bones, left fascinated by the way they take idea of knowing someone for forever and twist it a little, showing how sometimes that just makes everything a little harder.

Read My Mind by jzbell
I love stories that use a majority of bandom! I LOVE THEM. I especially love funny stories that use a majority of bandom, and this one has been one of my favorites for so long. I love the connections, and Pete and Patrick's friendship, and THE NINJAS IN GABE'S BUSHES. Lololol it cracks me up just thinking about it. Telepathy fic is best.

Other duties as assigned by wearemany
This feels like a moment out of real life to me, right down to the way Pete tries to disclaim his own advice by taking a shot at himself. Wearemany does that a lot in her fic. She's so good at creating scenarios that easily take shape in my head, and as I get sucked in I feel more like I'm seeing it happen rather than just reading.

Lessons, or a Series of (Un)fortunate Events in the Life of Andrew Hurley by eleanor_lavish
El is so good at writing longing between characters, and this one is a perfect example. It made me love the idea of Any/Patrick even before Andy proved to everyone that he was actually the gayest member of Fall Out Boy. Also? The sex is fucking hot.

Learned Your Name Without Words by ficbyzee
Frank and Bob hook up, and Bob never remembers it. The execution of this impresses me. Zee comes up with these ideas that should feel a little off-the-wall or risky for other authors, but she's made of magic or something, because then she'll churn the story out, and all I can do is sit back and go, "Ohhhh, of COURSE."

Aaaand, okay, that's actually 12 stories instead of 10. Also, like, only one of them is from this year? Whatever, dudes, whatever. I think the post also asks writers to name a favorite fic of their own, so after stroking my chin a bit, I think I have to say that right now it's Token.

It's one of the most absurd things I've ever written, but every time I think back on it, I'm still made really happy. It was also the most fun I've had writing, and there was lots of Joe! You know how I feel about Joe. <3

Incidentally, you know what I rarely talk about here anymore? Television. I'm only up to date on Heroes and Supernatural, both of which have been awesome in mostly ridiculous ways. I even watched Heroes while it aired this week, and realized that I want all the Sylar/Elle in the world. ALL OF IT. I had no idea that I wanted Sylar/Elle before the show sort of threw it in everybody's faces last week with the flashbacks, but oh man, I like it. Kristin Bell's name is listed as a Special Guest Star, so I'm hesitant to get invested, but I won't mind at all if they continue to explore whatever volatile shenanigans those two have going on.

I'm still pretty intrigued by Sylar's transformation in general, vehement dislike for phrase "the hunger" aside. I also thought they could have done some interesting things with Peter after he took Sylar's power, but then they... turned Peter into a normal dude. And, I'm sorry, without his powers or Nathan onscreen to be vaguely inappropriate with, all I get to focus on is how Milo Ventimiglia is kind of a bad actor and also scroll "they're dating they're dating they're dating" through my head during his scene with Hayden. I don't know why I find them to such an awkward match-up, but man. Awwwwwkwarrrrd.

Story-wise, though, if I find Peter so incredibly boring without his powers, I'm wondering how I'll feel about the eclipse stuff next week. Hmmm. We'll see what happens, I guess.

In the meantime, I'm going to catch up on Entourage this season, and then watch the latest episode of One Tree Hill. I hear CMM wrote it? Dude, I lost the thread of that show forever ago, but when CMM is gracing broadcast viewers with his fictional masterpieces, I just can't say no.

If Loving Was Easy (Patrick/Bert, PG13)

gigantic — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 15:26:41 GMT

A few months ago, eleanor_lavish and I were talking about how Patrick/Bert would be AWESOME, right? And she had some great ideas, but when I insisted that she write it, she got all nervous about posting Patrick/Bert of all things, so I came up with an amazing plan to write something really ridiculous and post it first, so that she would, like, feel compelled to write her idea that was actually awesome. (If I write this pairing really badly! Then El can write it really goodly! Etc etc.) Plus there was this picture, which isn't actually them, but looks enough like them that I've wanted them together for a significant amount of time, okay?

... Except then I wrote something and forgot about it? So, yeah. This is just some nonsense from a while back.

If Loving Was Easy
by Charli J
Patrick/Bert. PG-13. 3,000 words. Title from a This Providence song.
It's really a simple case of logic that's led him here.

;;

So, Pete gets married. It has nothing to do with Patrick sleeping with Bert McCracken, but Pete stands in the middle of his living room a few weeks later anyway, right as Patrick's about to leave, and says, "It's because I got married, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" Patrick asks, scanning the floor for his other shoe. He just had it. How does this kind of thing always manage to happen when he needs to be running out the door?

"I just told -- That guy. Bert. Mikey sent me an email -- "

"How the hell does he -- oh, I found it," Patrick says, crouching down to pull the shoe from under the couch. It's gotten wedged near the leg somehow. He huffs when he snatches it out, exhaling roughly, but when he looks up to address Pete fully, Pete's got a hand on his side, eyeing Patrick like he's waiting for an explanation. Patrick looks down and focuses on his shoving his foot in his sneaker, instead.

Pete says, "You can't avoid me. I'm still standing here."

Patrick dedicates all of his attention to carefully loosening the laces on his shoes, and then pulling them tight again. He says, finally, "Okay, I don't even see how this is any of -- "

"I can't believe you're serious right now!" Pete says, eyes wide. "I thought Mikey was shitting me."

"How does Mikey know?" Patrick says, standing up.

Pete shakes his head and roll his eyes, saying, "He heard from Bob who heard from Jeph or Brian or whoever the fuck, and one of them apparently got it from the horse's motherfucking mouth, and seriously. You're just trying to fuck with me, right?"

Patrick says, "I wasn't even going to tell you."

Pete stops, eyes narrowed. "Wait, why not?"

"Pete," Patrick says, grabbing his jacket. He opens the front door. "It's none of your business."

;;

Los Angeles -- Los Angeles county, that is -- it's a big place. Unless people run in incestuous circles, it isn't really all that likely that a guy has to worry about running into some guy his best friend's ex-whatever's brother pissed off three years ago. Maybe at an industry function or some music festival, but Patrick is pretty sure The Used have played the same festivals as them since that year, and even during those he's never really run into those guys.

So there really, really is no reason that Patrick should have run into Bert McCracken in a grocery store in West Hollywood, but honest-to-God, that's how it started.

;;

For whatever reason, Patrick tries to be a courteous guy. Generally. He's had some less than stellar moments, but for the most part, he tries to be considerate. If he's going to get drunk and have sex with a friend's ex, for instance, he's still going to find a piece of paper and leave his number just to be polite.

Bert calls him a week later. The number isn't saved in his phone, but he recognizes the Valencia area code, and apparently that's enough to make him answer. "Hello?"

"I just found your phone number," Bert says. "This isn't even an LA number. I thought you lived in Hollywood."

"It's Chicago," Patrick says, rolling up the window in the car to cut down the wind. "I left the number on your coffee table."

"Should've stapled it to my head then," Bert says and coughs. "Anyway, I think you left your underwear here. I missed you, so I jerked off in them."

An awkward burst of laughter punches from Patrick before he can help it. Why the fuck did he drink so much beer the other night? He says, "Yeah, I, uh. I don't think I left anything there."

"Oh, shit. Then somebody's gonna be mad," Bert says, and Patrick doesn't know if he's supposed to be able to tell if Bert's kidding or if he's completely serious. "You could stick your fingers in my ass again, though. That was fun."

"Yeah, actually I'm on my way -- "

"The door's unlocked," Bert says, and the line goes quiet. Patrick asks after the silence a couple times, and then curses into at his steering wheel.

It takes him almost an hour to finish his errand and then head north.

;;

The next time Patrick talks to Pete, he opens with, "I think my baby is a squid."

Patrick counts it as an improvement over their last conversation, because at least this time they aren't talking about the results of his own sex life. And it's Pete, so Patrick's first response is to ask, "How do you know?"

"Ashlee had the ultrasound done today, and now we're sitting in a restaurant," Pete says. "She's in the bathroom right now, and I swear to God -- what if my kid is a squid?"

"Not that I've seen an, uhm, an overabundance of sonograms, man, but don't most people's kids look like squid?" Patrick asks. "Doesn't your kid still technically have gills at this stage?"

"I don't know. I forget when all that shit changes right now, but dude, you know how, when you're a kid, sometimes you get mad at your parents and you start thinking, fuck, I bet I was adopted? I bet my real parents were awesome and would let me stay up watch cable all night?" Pete says, and his voice sounds a little hushed. "I keep thinking, holy shit, what if I'm actually part squid? You remember that baby in Men in Black with the tentacles that puked all over Will Smith? What if that's my kid?"

Patrick doesn't laugh too hard. He keeps it together enough to sound serious as he says, "Well, I wasn't going to bring it up, but there was this one thing. I came across these papers that time I helped your mom clean some stuff out of your basement..."

"Don't even fucking play, Stump."

" -- your mom asked me not to say anything until the time was right, but I guess now's -- "

"Hey, how was fucking Bert McCraken?" Pete asks.

"-- a good -- that's not fair," Patrick says. "Don't try to make this about me."

Pete chuckles and says, "Dude, you did it. Don't you know they used to call him 'cauliflower dick'? Didn't you participate in that?"

"No," Patrick says. He doesn't like that somehow he's the one on the spot now. "I think I'm gonna, um. You know what, I have to go -- "

"You're lying to me because you don't want to talk about -- oh, fuck, Patrick, did you put your mouth on that?"

"Enjoy lunch, Pete," Patrick says, and he ends the call.

;;

For the record, nobody blew anybody the first time.

Patrick has always maintained that he can't hold a room's attention as well some other people he knows. He still can't quite walk into any place and be Pete, who practically demands that people pay attention in various ways, some more obnoxious than others. Sometimes, even when he's standoffish and trying to blend in, he manages to get all eyes on what he's doing, especially now. Patrick still doesn't think he manages that kind of response in crowds, but he's not really shy either. Small talk doesn't make him uncomfortable. He can hold his own at parties, and yet once he got to the barbecue, Patrick had continuously found himself gravitating toward Bert, because Bert was the only person he had known at least somewhat.

It's a simple case of logic, really: Patrick plus unlikely circumstances where Bert represented Patrick's closest friend plus drinking a nice portion of the beer he'd helped cart over...

What he remembers for sure is that the sun had already set by the time Bert came out on the back patio again to find a lighter. Patrick was propped up in a corner, staring at the label on his longneck and wondering how he'd make it home wasted. Bert had cursed, hollering into the house in demand of something to light fucking weed with, fuck, and then he held up his Ziplock bag and shook it above Patrick's head.

"You probably don't smoke," Bert had said.

"Uh," Patrick said, sitting up against the wall. "No, sorry."

Bert seemed to have moved on already, digging in his hoodie pocket. He waved his hand, grunted, and then said, "Oh, fuck my ass, I think I left my --" Pushing open the sliding door again, Bert called out, "Is my piece on the counter? No, on the -- hey, K. K! Is it -- alright, no, fuck it , I'll --"

Patrick had reached out and knocked his knuckles against Bert's ankle, saying, "Oh, hey, I can -- if you have papers I can roll, though."

Bert's speech cut off when he turned back to Patrick. He said, "I can roll," and then stared at Patrick for a moment. Turning back to the house, he tapped on the glass and said, "You, hey. Are there papers? Didn't I have some goddamn papers? Oh, right there, hand me those."

He hadn't opened the glass all the way, instead shoving his arm through the narrow opening and pulling it back. Bert closed the door completely before sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of Patrick, and he handed over the weed and papers.

It had been a while since Patrick had to roll anything. He hadn't actually smoked in a while, but it was probably one of those skills you learned from hanging out with various people day in and day out and never really lost. Not like it was particularly difficult, but there was also a certain technique. Joe had always been borderline meticulous about his blunts.

"It's not a Christmas present," Bert said, giggling. "What the fuck are you doing? Who taught you this?"

"Our guitarist -- Joe," Patrick said. He smiled, taking a moment to stretch out his fingers because they felt like they were stumbling over one another with so much drink in him. "He has a method."

"Fuck your method," Bert had insisted, but he had still grinned in the darkness and taken then joint where Patrick finished. They still didn't have a lighter, so they grabbed a candle off the patio table and lit it with that, some fruity wax scent mixing with the initial burn of paper and then marijuana.

Bert had blown smoke in Patrick's face. Patrick coughed reflexively and wrinkled his nose.

"Why are you here?" Bert had asked.

Patrick snorted, pulling up his hat and adjusting it. Maybe if he just threw up, he'd feel sober enough to leave. "You invited me."

Bert laughed again, the sound coming faster. It felt like mocking, but he held out his joint, so Patrick waved it off. He was so done trying to make sense of anything for the night.

Bert said, "Fucking pathetic," and somehow that had been the prelude to Bert's mouth on his. Patrick had really, truly been drunk. Too drunk or just drunk enough, and he couldn't tell if he actually thought making out on a stranger's patio was a good idea, but it still led to Bert climbing over Patrick's knees and letting him slip his fingers in Patrick's pants anyway.

;;

Pete says -- Patrick's learning that Pete always has something to say, but Pete says, "You like 'em grimey, I know. I keep forgetting."

Which isn't even true. He kissed Dirty one time, and it happened to be during one of those moments where Pete came barging into a room. He's never let Patrick forget about it, and ever since, he's been convinced that he knows things about Patrick's type.

"I don't like grimey dudes," Patrick says.

"You like Bert," Pete says. "You've probably liked Bert a few times now."

"Still not your business."

Pete scrunches his face up, and then his eyes bug out briefly as he really lets it sink in. "Oh, Patrick, really? Dude, I can tell you stories about him, okay? Mikey told me about back in the day, with Gerard and Bert -- "

"--I don't want to know," Patrick cuts in, and he tries to cover his ears when Pete keeps talking.

Pete's saying, "Which, hey, I didn't even know people tried that kind of shit in real life. Maybe he's grown out of it though. You probably know, you've let him touch it --"

Patrick interjects, saying, "So, I went into a department store the other day, but it turns out they don't sell onesies to accommodate tentacles."

Pete stops and stands in the middle of the walkway, mouth wide. He frowns and says, "That's fucking low. Now you're just being mean."

;;

In retrospect, Patrick's fairly certain that Bert didn't even recognize who he was until several seconds into their initial exchange. By that time, they had already been knee-deep in awkward but mostly cordial conversation, probably because Bert had thought he was a fan, and then when Patrick remembered that the last time they'd really crossed paths Bert had been manic and Bert remembered he had little respect for at least a key fourth of Patrick's band, well. It was too late.

Bert had handed Patrick a case of beer, saying, "Hey, hold that," in the middle of Patrick explaining why he was in the store. "I think we're gonna need more than one of these."

Patrick had looked down at the alcohol and asked, chuckling lightly, "Big plans for the afternoon?"

"Nope, just me," Bert said, straightening up again. He pressed his lips together, stretching them and freezing in a smile that made Patrick shift eventually and wonder if he'd just accidentally been an asshole, until Bert said, "Nah, my buddy's grilling at his house. The people need refreshment."

"Oh! Oh, yeah," Patrick had said, laughing again from relief this time. He really wanted to get out of the aisle. He was only wearing a t-shirt and the chill from the open coolers was giving him goosebumps. The fact that the conversation was making him feel weird hadn't helped. "It's a good day for that."

"Yeah, hey, if you're gonna stand around anyway, do you mind grabbing another one of these for me?" Bert asked. "Forgot a cart, you know?"

And Patrick was a nice guy, a polite guy, so he did. For some reason, he did, and later he ended up at the stupid party, and he never figured out if Bert really knew who he was right away.

;;

They don't fight about anything, because they're not a couple. They especially don't fight about Pete. Instead Patrick may mention that Pete won't get off his case lately or that they were at each other's throats a little in pre-production, and Bert always says the same thing. He always says, "Fuck him," all nonchalant and honest, and Patrick takes a moment to breathe and says, "Don't say that."

It's an improvement though. Some kind of half-assed stalemate where Bert will never pretend to like Pete, but he admires the way Patrick hates Bert a little for it, every time he reminds Patrick. The only time they ever really got into it, Bert had squeezed his eyes shut and giggled when Patrick was ready to hit him in the face for saying that Pete was the most see-through person he'd ever met. "Fucking hack," Bert had finished, and Patrick wanted to shake Bert, must have been bright red after going back and forth for several minutes, and when Patrick was too upset to speak anymore, Bert kissed Patrick's knuckles, smiled, and got down on his knees.

"You want to -- now?" Patrick said, incredulous, but it turned out that loyalty turned Bert on.

;;

"How's your boyfriend?" Joe asks, and Pete laughs to the right of him. Patrick reaches across Joe's body and manages to punch Pete right below the pocket of his jeans.

"Ow!" Pete says. "What the fuck? The hip?"

"You deserved it," Andy says, drumming out a rhythm on a pad as he warms up. He doesn't raise his eyes to them.

Joe looks around to watch Pete rub at his bruised hip and asks, "So, wait, you aren't hanging out with Bert?"

;;

Hanging out is a good way to put it. Patrick prefers that even though it's not entirely accurate. The thing is he sleeps with Bert more times can he can count on two hands, which has to indicate something, but Patrick isn't really ready for whatever word might be the most appropriate. By the same token, he's also spent enough time around Bert now that when Bert licks a long stripe along Patrick's cheek and then bites the flesh, Patrick knows it means hello and doesn't even flinch. He knows that when Bert blows raspberries against his naked stomach it means Bert's being romantic. He knows that when Bert tries to stick his tongue in Patrick's ear it means he's glad Patrick's there.

Pete pokes at the hickey on the back of Patrick's neck one afternoon, surveying the evidence. It takes three attempts at flapping behind himself for Patrick to get him to stop, and as he backs away, Pete mockingly says, "Careful, dude. Next thing you know, it's those three words and a big wedding."

"Whatever," Patrick says, ignoring it. "Can we play this song again?"

;;

Bert had told Patrick he loved him two weeks after they first started sleeping together, and it had just taken three months for Patrick to realize it was the only thing he was straightforward about.

;;

"Patrick," Bert had announced, still sitting on Patrick's lap. Patrick had forgotten how Bert got onto his lap just that fast, but there he had been, saying, "Patrick Stump."

"Mhm," Patrick said. "There used to be an 'h' in there, too. It was a 'ph'."

"Patrick Stumph," Bert had tried again, emphasizing the 'f' sound. "In case I don't remember this in the morning, let me say that you," and he jabbed his finger in to Patrick's shoulder. "You roll a good joint. You're good at that."

"I appreciate it."

"I'm impressed," Bert had said, and then he wrinkled his nose like he was catching a scent of something, trying to figure it out but he just jerked his hips forward. "And horny. It's the pot," he said, then squeezed Patrick's shoulders. "You're someone I'd fuck."

"Ha. Um, thanks," Patrick had said, feeling lazy. It was probably Bert's version of a sweet gesture, but Patrick had thought to himself that was no way he was going home with Bert.

Of course not.

Living The Dream (Dirty/Jonas Brothers)

gigantic — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 20:34:39 GMT

THIS IS FOR ficbyzee, BECAUSE SHE WANTED IT.

Living The Dream
by Charli J
Dirty/The Jonas Brothers.

Pete doesn't get to talk to Dirty that often lately. He's busy with work and spending time with his family, and Pete's pretty busy doing the same. They've already had a couple conversations about how weird that is, that they're both supposed to be responsible adults for real now. Sometimes it still feels like he's winging it, this whole grown-up thing, since it's generally always just been Pete taking care of Pete, but now he's got Ashlee and their son, and that's still crazy to him. Although, it's not as crazy as Dirty swearing that his kid would be able to take Pete's kid because he's older and bigger, because that's just plain incorrect.

But those are the kinds of conversations they have now. Dirty's trying to encourage Dylan to walk, Pete's getting the nursery ready with Ashlee, Dirty's off again with his girl for a while -- boring adult conversations are what they're all about now.

So Pete isn't at all anticipating it when Dirty calls him up and says, "Hey, you remember how we started saying, 'Yeah, and I'm hooking up with The Jonas Brothers,' like our pigs fly comment? You know, for calling bullshit? So, uh, I don't think we can use that anymore."

Pete starts laughing before he even knows what Dirty means entirely.

"Or, I guess you could still say it, but I can't."

Still laughing, Pete says, "Why? You feel bad now?"

"Well, it's technically not, like," Dirty says, and then pauses for a second, making a couple thoughtful noises. "It's not entirely true."

Pete chokes on his laugh, hesitating. He coughs twice and asks, "I'm sorry, wh -- wait, what?"

Dirty's suddenly speaking faster as he says, "I just went to their show that time, right? Like last year? And they came back into town for a few days, to, like. They had a couple days for their family to vacation. Kevin, Sr. took their mom and little brother to a waterpark, but the other three wanted to go elsewhere. It just sort of ended up that, you know. It was unexpected -- "

"Hold on, you're serious?" Pete asks. "No, Dirty -- Dirty. You're blowing smoke up my ass or something, yeah? You're -- "

"They're legal and all. Mostly. Most of them. Like, half. Two-thirds. Sixty-six point seven percent."

"Stop lying," Pete says, laughing again, because seriously. Aren't those dudes in like the fifth grade or something? And super religious? There's no way Dirty's for real.

Dirty's saying, "Not like I even touched the younger one that much, anyway. They sort of only let me watch him with them."

"Yeah, sure."

"He gives decent head though."

"Jesus, dude. This is too -- wait, for real," Pete says, struggling to catch his breath. He's laughing because he still can't even get his head around it. Dirty's just trying to get over on him. He has to be. They haven't played it in a while, but he knows this game.

"If I was you, I'd hope I was lying, too, but," Dirty says, half-sighing, and Pete can almost sense the shrug he must give on the other line by the way he speaks. "A guy can't un-know how well Kevin Jonas rides, you know? Maybe that's just me."

Pete's stomach hurts, he's been laughing so long. What the fuck. What the fuck, Dirty's never been this good at holding onto any joke.

"Okay, for real. Stop before that big dude in the sky lightning bolts you right now instead of later for lying this bad," Pete says.

"Pete..." Dirty says, losing some of the bounce in his voice. "Dude, I think I might have bigger reasons for going to hell now. Can you get in trouble if you violate a purity ring but you're not the one wearing it? Or it just their problem?"

"Oh. My. God," Pete says. "Okay, no. You're full of so much shit, man. If you're fucking the Jonas Brothers. then I'm -- I'm --"

"See, that doesn't work anymore," Dirty asks, sounding sort of sad. "We need to think of a new one. Something like, 'Yeah, I let Gabe fuck me in a rabbit suit with a carrot bit' -- Ohhh, no, wait, nevermind, that's an issue for you then, huh?"</blockquote>

OKAY, WHATEVER, SO I CHEATED . YOU WERE TOTALLY READY TO READ PORN THOUGH, ADMIT IT. PERV.

:D? DDDDD:

Email correspondence, a recreation

gigantic — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 18:28:46 GMT

from: joyfulseeker
to: gigantic
date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 9:28 AM
subject: whaaaaaaat

CANNOT STOP STARING AT THE BRENDON/PETE IN THIS SET OF PICTURES

http://jocondite.livejournal.com/170295.html

SEND HELP.

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from: gigantic
to: joyfulseeker
date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 9:51 AM
subject: re: whaaaaaaat

GODDAMMIT BRENDON. YOUR DEDICATION TO HANGING OFF PETE WENTZ WHENEVER HE COMES TO HANG OUT ISN'T FAIR.

Whenever Brendon's around Pete, he's always draped around him or all in his space in this way that's got this casual "yeahhh, this is who I'm going home with tonight" feel. PICTURES OF YESTERDAYS THAT ALSO QUALIFY:

WAS THAT THE HELP YOU MEANT? :D?

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In conclusion: still needs moar Pete/Brendon, fandom, kthx!