random story snippets
Jul. 18th, 2008 06:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violaceaI'm having one of those days where I have to remind myself that yes, indeed, I do sometimes write stuff! So, here's something I've been meaning to do for a while - a post that rounds up a bunch of random fic snippets I wrote in comments, either in my own journal or someone else's.
Jon's not having a good week. His mom is mad because they just booked a television gig on his grandmother's birthday, he's had to replace three strings on his bass, he forgot to pay his electricity bill on time (come on, he tells himself, it's not like you're Ryan Ross or anything, that's just laziness), and now he's just gotten bitched at by venue security for trying to take a nap in an empty dressing room. Apparently, they need to to set up some kind of VIP reception thing, or something, which means he's going to have to be happy and sociable for some kind of randomly important people later. That's just great.
He gets back on the bus, hoping for a quiet napping place, but of course he hears the sounds of the Xbox going back in the lounge. Brendon whoops loudly at some on-screen victory, and Jon sighs. He stares at his bunk for a few minutes, mentally calculating if he has enough space to throw all his dirty laundry into his suitcase without folding it, because he's so not in the mood to fold shit right now. Eventually, he just thinks "fuck it" and grabs his iPod.
In the lounge, Brendon is alone, but he's keeping up a running commentary with the game on the screen. Jon gives him a tight smile as he passes by him, but puts his headphones in his ears before Brendon can start a conversation. Not that he doesn't love Brendon, and not that he wouldn't normally be willing to provide the voiceover for Brendon's imaginary enemies, but today ... today's not the day.
Jon collapses on the couch on the opposite side of the lounge and closes his eyes. The music drowns out the game, but he's still not soothed. He taps his fingers on the back of the couch and tries visualizing the bass line of the song to relax. It doesn't work.
After a song and a half, Jon feels a hand in his hair. He presses pause on his iPod and opens one eye to see Brendon sitting above him on the couch. "You look like me, dude," Brendon observes, "all jumpy and shit."
Jon's mouth twists. "Bad day."
"If you're all stressed, it would have to be." Brendon is petting Jon's head aimlessly, which should be weird, but Jon feels some kind of tension drain out of his shoulders at the touch. Jon closes his eyes and hums, which makes Brendon laugh. He wiggles down the couch and positions himself so that Jon's head is resting in his lap. Jon opens his eyes and looks up at him. "Tell me your problems, Jon Walker, and I will make them go away," he announces in a dramatic voice.
Brendon's thumbs are now rubbing circles at Jon's temples. "How about you just keep doing that," Jon says. "Because that's awesome."
They sit there like that for a while, Jon's eyes closed, Brendon playing with Jon's hair and rubbing his temples. Eventually, though, Brendon's hands move lower. His knuckles brush against Jon's beard, while his other hand runs lightly down the side of Jon's neck. Jon opens his eyes. Brendon's eyes are dark as he looks down at Jon, and his gaze seems to be focused more on Jon's mouth than his eyes. When he notices Jon looking at him, Brendon flushes red. "Sorry," he mutters; Jon's not sure what the apology is for.
"Hey, hey, don't be," he says quickly. Automatically, Jon reaches up to touch Brendon's face - to reassure him? Something. Jon's not quite sure what's happening here. But, yet, somehow he's less surprised than he thinks he should be when Brendon swallows, then leans down and brushes his lips over Jon's.
Jon's mouth tingles at the contact, and somewhere inside his stomach the last remaining knot of tension unwinds. Oh, he thinks. Oh. Okay.
When Brendon starts to straighten up again, his face redder than ever, Jon reaches up and puts a hand on the back of his neck to hold him close. "Come on, you can do better than that," Jon says teasingly, tugging him back down.
Brendon's eyes widen, and Jon grins and cranes his neck just enough to reach Brendon's mouth. This time, there's more pressure, and Brendon's hand moves to cradle Jon's head. He feels more than hears the moan low in Brendon's chest when Jon's tongue darts out to lick at his lips experimentally. The kiss is short, though, too short, until Brendon is sitting back up with a groan. "Shit, fuck, my neck."
Jon's neck isn't terribly happy with him, either. He turns onto his side and presses his back to the couch before patting the sliver of room next to him. "Come on, you're skinny, lay down."
"So, we're going to sit here and make out, then?"
Jon looks up at Brendon, red face and slightly open mouth and dazed stare. Yeah, he thinks. Yeah. "You have better plans for this afternoon?"
Brendon's gaze focuses on Jon's face, finally, and a grin spreads slowly across his face. "Hell no."
As Brendon wiggles his body so that it's pressed flush against Jon's, Jon is hard-pressed to remember why he'd been in a bad mood in the first place.
***
When it came time to go off the road and start thinking about the third album, the four of them made a pact - they'd go at least a month without hanging out together. Spencer thought it was a good idea at the time. A month alone, just him and his dogs, sounded kind of like heaven.
... except for the part where, four days in, he wanted to slit his wrists from the boredom. It was different, living in a house that hadn't had residents in months. The last time he actually spent any time at home, Haley had been there. During the last break, he went to San Diego and learned how to surf. Now, though, he was stuck in a house with dust on the television and his ex-girlfriend's high school yearbook forgotten on the bookshelf. He thought about calling her to ask if she wanted it back. He ended up polishing off a six-pack of beer instead.
The next day, he called Ryan. "What are you doing?"
"Heading for New York," was the reply. "Keltie's new show opens on Friday."
"Oh."
Ryan paused. "You could come with me."
"Yeah, no." Spend a week or so feeling like the third wheel? No thanks. "I'll just email Kelts and tell her to break a leg, okay?"
He was holed up with a Corona and a Rock of Love marathon when Brendon burst through his front door. "Since when do you have a key?" Spencer asked.
"Since Ryan gave me his." Brendon brandished a paper bag in front of Spencer. "Guess what I have?"
"Enough weed to get you twenty to life?"
"Even better." Brendon pulled out a handful of multi-colored packages. "Sour gummi worms!"
Spencer made "gimme" hands, and Brendon tossed him a package. As Spencer tore into the plastic, Brendon flopped down on the couch beside him and wrapped his arms around Spencer's middle. Spencer didn't even put up the token protest he would normally make at Brendon's lack of personal space. He just sighed and wrapped an arm around Brendon's shoulder. "Thanks," he muttered over Brendon's hair, as the latter tucked his head under Spencer's chin.
"Call me next time, doucheface," Brendon said. "Now shut up, this is totally the episode where the girl with the gigantic rose tattoo on her tits goes pole dancing, right?"
"Yeah, don't worry, you haven't missed the blurred crotch shots yet."
"Aww yeah."
Spencer woke up the next morning on the couch, with Brendon sprawled half on top of him, half wedged into the space between Spencer and the back of the couch. Spencer rubbed Brendon's back, and Brendon muttered sleepily into his t-shirt. Spencer smiled and closed his eyes again.
***
... aaaaand, a bunch of stuff written when I did the iTunes shuffle "music is my gender neutral lover" thingy a little while back.
***
Victoria sits down in the grass harder than she intends. She's not sure what's in this homemade liquor - and why she ever agreed to drink something that Pete and William made by hand, she really doesn't know - but it's heady enough to make standing up a treacherous prospect. So, the grass, which is slightly wet from that afternoon's rainstorm. Summer in Chicago is muggy, air thick enough to cut with a knife, but when Vicky lays back in the dewy grass, she can see the full moon clear and bright. She sorta expected there to be a haze, but the sky is right there.
"There are a lot of stars," she observes to whoever it is that's creeping up on her, just out of her vision. It's not any member of her own band - they would have launched into a flying tackle already.
"Yeah, I noticed," Patrick says, amusement clear in his voice as he sits next to her. "The ground's wet, you know," he says next, staring at her sundress, which is getting wetter by the moment. Or maybe he's just staring at her legs. Victoria likes the idea of Patrick staring at her legs.
She stretches out and smiles up at him. "I'm drunk. Like, really drunk."
"Yeah, I noticed," Patrick repeats. "That's what you get for drinking Pete's moonshine. I learned that lesson a long time ago." He's carrying a bottle of beer, something safe. He's also still staring at her legs, long and bare against the grass.
Victoria feels kind of warm and pleasant inside. "I think you should kiss me, Patrick."
The double-take he does is funny enough that she starts to laugh out loud. "What?" he finally stutters. "You're ... you're really drunk, Vic."
"Yeah, but you should kiss me anyway. Because you're staring at my legs and you really want to." She sits up. "And I want you to."
"Victoria ..."
Patrick makes a move to stand up, but she reaches out and grabs his arm. "Or maybe I should do it," she muses. The wet grass makes it easy for her to slide over and press against his side.
When she presses her lips against his, he tastes like beer and salt and night air and maybe the stars. At least, she thinks the stars would taste like this, when his mouth opens and his tongue slides against hers, heady and rich with sparks behind her eyelids. And then she stops thinking at all, except Patrick, Patrick, yes, Patrick.
***
Gabe's bar doesn't have a name, but all the Chicago families know that it's neutral territory. Nobody misbehaves around here, because they know that they'll lose a valuable resource if Gabe's forced out of business. Besides, Gabe's got his own enforcers to take care of problems. He prides himself on being friends with the most dangerous people in town.
Like Pete. He's not the highest guy on the family food chain, and most people think he's nothing but a blowhard. It's easy to underestimate him - he sits here night after night, all braying laugh and tacky clothing, chasing skirts and drinking Gabe out of his best bottles of whiskey. But Gabe, he notices that most of that whiskey ends up inside whatever guy he's entertaining that night; sometimes it's his man inside the police, sometimes it's a banker from across town, sometimes it's someone inside his own family. And Pete watches, intently underneath those lazy brows. Most people don't see.
Gabe prides himself on seeing. It's how he's stayed in business this long.
One time, he overheard the tail end of a conversation. Some lawyer, pointing his finger at Pete. "You'd better shape up," he said, while Pete lounged in his chair, looking unconcerned. "I'm watching you."
The lawyer's body turned up in the lake three weeks later. Gabe noticed.
Tonight, though, Pete's not with anyone. He's sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a single glass of scotch. Gabe is curious enough to sit down next to him. "No business tonight, my friend?" he asks casually, offering a cigarette.
Pete takes the cigarette without comment. "Nah. Sometimes, I'm just in the mood to take the night off."
"So," Gabe asks, because he's genuinely curious, "what does a guy like you do with a night off?"
Pete grins, and it's both more casual and more predatory than Gabe's seen from him. Similar, he thinks, to the smile he turns on the cocktail waitresses who wander past. "Ah, that's private, unless you're planning to help me fill up the night."
And Gabe thinks, "huh." But he grins back. "What would it be worth to me?" Because all knowledge is power, around here.
***
Ryan doesn't fall asleep, not even after Jon's breath evens out, blowing steadily on his neck while his arm drapes warm over Ryan's stomach. On the other bed, Spencer and Brendon are both snoring softly, tiny sounds that chase each other through the shadows of the hotel room.
Ryan remembers a time when he didn't want, couldn't want, didn't need ... except, he always needed, he just couldn't bring himself to ask for it. Didn't dare hope. But now, he has skin slick with sweat, sticky and gross in the best way possible, the memory of bodies sliding together, awkward positions and genuine laughter. And now, he doesn't want to close his eyes, because he's afraid they'll all cease to exist when he closes his eyes.
He thinks he needs Spencer to be awake, too, to tell him he's thinking too much and to just go to sleep, dumbass. But Spencer's breath is mingled with Brendon's, and in the darkness he can tell that their limbs are tangled together possessively. He inches closer to Jon, who tightens his grip on Ryan in his sleep. It's almost enough. It almost convinces Ryan that they're all real.
Ryan stares into the darkness, gripping Jon's arm and listening to Spencer and Brendon breathe. He doesn't sleep. "I love you," he whispers, at everyone and no one.
***
Jon lays in his bunk and talks to Cassie in a hushed voice. It's not like they're talking about anything the other guys shouldn't hear - he's telling the story about Brendon and the traffic cop, while Cassie's worrying that she needs to take Clover to the vet - but it's still something Jon wants to keep to himself. The road is the road, and home is home, and these conversations are a weird bridge between the two. One of the only things around here that's exclusively his.
Outside of his bunk, he can hear Spencer and Brendon debating the merits of Forgetting Sarah Marshall, while a rhythmic thumping noise tells him that Ryan is listening to his iPod in his bunk, tapping a rhythm on the ceiling in time with the music. In his ear, Cassie is laughing and swatting at whatever cat decided to walk on her head. Jon smiles, and in that moment, misses them enough to make his chest ache.
"Look!" comes Brendon's voice. "Look at all the fucking cows!!"
"Yeah, that kind of happens in Wisconsin, you know," Spencer responds, deadpan.
"Oh, yeah, don't they make, like, cheese and shit around here somewhere? We should totally stop and buy cheese. Hey!" Brendon's footsteps gallop towards the front of the bus, and Jon hears him start to beg the bus driver for a pit stop.
He realizes he's missed whatever Cassie just said, and he chuckles guiltily. She understands, though. In the beginning, when this all started, they would have fought about it, Cassie accusing him of not being interested any more. She understands now, or accepts, whatever it is. He doesn't entirely belong to her, not out here. He just makes sure to make it up to her when he's home. They've worked it out.
"I love you," he says, and means it more than he once ever thought possible, before he hangs up and goes to help Brendon. Because, hey, cheese sounds like an excellent idea.
***
Brendon stretches out on top of Gabe. He's small enough that his feet only reach the middle of Gabe's calf, with his knees planted on either side of Gabe's hips and his chest pressing into Gabe's torso. He rests his hands on Gabe's chest and leans his chin on his hands. "Is this the point where we get to the sex?" he asks.
Gabe laughs, and Brendon looks moderately offended. "I realize I have a reputation," Gabe says, "but really, I try to avoid taking advantage of drunk children."
Brendon responds by tweaking Gabe's nipple. He yelps. Perhaps taking off his shirt wasn't the best of ideas. But, really, Gabe's not entirely sober either, so he can't be entirely responsible for his choices. He's more sober than Brendon, though, so he pushes the boy off of him. "Seriously, you should probably sleep it off."
Brendon struggles to a kneeling position. His cheeks are flushed, and his mouth - that mouth, god, if Gabe was just that much less of an actually decent person, he'd still be laying down - is screwed up into a scowl. "I'm not that drunk."
Probably true, Gabe allows silently. Brendon's been drunk for the entire tour, as far as he can tell, so possibly this is what passes for not-fucked-up in his world these days. Gabe had those days, once upon a time. He doesn't really remember them that fondly, inevitably fun times aside.
But, Brendon crawls across the bed and reaches for the button on Gabe's jeans, and he licks his lips, and okay, Gabe's conscience has a limit. "Jesus fuck," he mutters appreciatively, and climbs back onto the bed. He's pretty good at ignoring regret, anyway.
***
"Are you coming?" Spencer asks, his camera dangling from his hands. Ryan looks up from his guitar. "I mean, you know Pete's shows are never boring. And also, Christmas Eve."
Ryan is tempted. The apartment is cold, and not likely to get any better as the night wears on. And he can probably convince someone to buy him some food if he goes. He last ate ... huh, when did he last eat, anyway?
Spencer obviously has the thought at the same time, because he frowns and digs into his pocket. When his hand emerges, he tosses a plastic package at Ryan. Beef jerky. "Eat," Spencer says gruffly. "And don't forget your meds."
Meds. Right. Because that's Ryan's life now, however long it lasts. Narcotic cocktails that will keep him alive until ... well, until they don't. Which might be before next Christmas Eve. This might be his last holiday, it's always possible. At some point, it'll become probable. Because, while people live for years and years with HIV, most of those people probably have homes that have actual heat and electricity and shit. Ryan, he figures he's kind of screwed.
Spencer is still staring at him. Ryan wonders, not for the firs time, what Spencer will do when he dies. Maybe he'll live here alone. That would suck. Spencer deserves to have a lot more. He deserves better people than Ryan. Always has.
"I'm not in the mood for people," Ryan says. "Tell Pete good luck for me." Pete's ... well, okay, Pete might not precisely be better people than Ryan, but he's someone who isn't likely to die any time soon, unless he gets offed by an ex-boyfriend.
Spencer continues to hesitate in the doorway. Ryan looks back down at his guitar. Finally, he hears Spencer sigh. "You know where we'll be if you change your mind."
When Ryan is finally alone, the sound of his guitar echoes unpleasantly through the room.
***
Brendon is stretched out on a crushed velvet couch comfortable enough to make him never want to move again. Good thing, he thinks, that there are waitresses bringing drinks, because he doesn't intend to leave until they kick him out. The music is just loud enough to drown out his own thoughts, house grooves with an Arabic flavor, the kind of music that makes him want belly dancers to entertain him. "One girl wearing nothing but see-through scarves. Is that so much to ask?" he asks Ryan when he walks over.
Ryan looms above him, a smirk on his face. "Scoot over, pervert, your legs are in my seat."
Brendon just grins back and pats his lap. He doesn't actually expect Ryan to take him up on the offer, but yet, a moment later he has a lot of bony ass poking into his legs. "Ouch," he mutters, but instead of pushing him off, he shifts up so that Ryan is sitting between his legs. Ryan gives him an arch look, but swings his legs around and settles back against Brendon's chest without commenting.
Brendon winds one arm around Ryan's chest, while the other one reaches for his drink. Ryan snatches the glass out of his hand, though, and downs the drink himself. "Selfish bastard," Brendon mutters, and Ryan laughs. Brendon can feel the laugh vibrating through his entire body. He reaches down and presses a kiss to Ryan's neck, in just the right spot to make Ryan shudder involuntarily. Brendon likes knowing Ryan's body. There's a power there that he can never resist taking advantage of.
"Wanna get out of here?" Ryan murmurs, just loud enough for Brendon to feel the shape of the words over the music.
Brendon hesitates. Ryan taps on Brendon's leg, beats in time with the music, and Brendon allows his vision to lose focus. Maybe they're lost in time, he thinks, lost in their own little universe, just he and Ryan. Maybe that wouldn't be bad at all.
"Not yet," Brendon says finally. "Let's just ... be."
Ryan makes a noise of agreement, and Brendon leans his head back, losing himself in the music.
***
I think that's everything I didn't already have tagged over here. And also? Despite having three stories I'm supposed to be working on right now, I liked the results of the music meme - so, if you're in the mood for a bandom drabble, pick a character/pairing and a number between 1 and 20,858, and I'll write you a little something! (Probably not until Sunday, though. I have concerts and a movie to attend to in the meantime! :))
(PS: looking through the last meme, I realized I forgot a prompt from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
geneli4! So, that one will be done on Sunday, I promise. :))
Jon's not having a good week. His mom is mad because they just booked a television gig on his grandmother's birthday, he's had to replace three strings on his bass, he forgot to pay his electricity bill on time (come on, he tells himself, it's not like you're Ryan Ross or anything, that's just laziness), and now he's just gotten bitched at by venue security for trying to take a nap in an empty dressing room. Apparently, they need to to set up some kind of VIP reception thing, or something, which means he's going to have to be happy and sociable for some kind of randomly important people later. That's just great.
He gets back on the bus, hoping for a quiet napping place, but of course he hears the sounds of the Xbox going back in the lounge. Brendon whoops loudly at some on-screen victory, and Jon sighs. He stares at his bunk for a few minutes, mentally calculating if he has enough space to throw all his dirty laundry into his suitcase without folding it, because he's so not in the mood to fold shit right now. Eventually, he just thinks "fuck it" and grabs his iPod.
In the lounge, Brendon is alone, but he's keeping up a running commentary with the game on the screen. Jon gives him a tight smile as he passes by him, but puts his headphones in his ears before Brendon can start a conversation. Not that he doesn't love Brendon, and not that he wouldn't normally be willing to provide the voiceover for Brendon's imaginary enemies, but today ... today's not the day.
Jon collapses on the couch on the opposite side of the lounge and closes his eyes. The music drowns out the game, but he's still not soothed. He taps his fingers on the back of the couch and tries visualizing the bass line of the song to relax. It doesn't work.
After a song and a half, Jon feels a hand in his hair. He presses pause on his iPod and opens one eye to see Brendon sitting above him on the couch. "You look like me, dude," Brendon observes, "all jumpy and shit."
Jon's mouth twists. "Bad day."
"If you're all stressed, it would have to be." Brendon is petting Jon's head aimlessly, which should be weird, but Jon feels some kind of tension drain out of his shoulders at the touch. Jon closes his eyes and hums, which makes Brendon laugh. He wiggles down the couch and positions himself so that Jon's head is resting in his lap. Jon opens his eyes and looks up at him. "Tell me your problems, Jon Walker, and I will make them go away," he announces in a dramatic voice.
Brendon's thumbs are now rubbing circles at Jon's temples. "How about you just keep doing that," Jon says. "Because that's awesome."
They sit there like that for a while, Jon's eyes closed, Brendon playing with Jon's hair and rubbing his temples. Eventually, though, Brendon's hands move lower. His knuckles brush against Jon's beard, while his other hand runs lightly down the side of Jon's neck. Jon opens his eyes. Brendon's eyes are dark as he looks down at Jon, and his gaze seems to be focused more on Jon's mouth than his eyes. When he notices Jon looking at him, Brendon flushes red. "Sorry," he mutters; Jon's not sure what the apology is for.
"Hey, hey, don't be," he says quickly. Automatically, Jon reaches up to touch Brendon's face - to reassure him? Something. Jon's not quite sure what's happening here. But, yet, somehow he's less surprised than he thinks he should be when Brendon swallows, then leans down and brushes his lips over Jon's.
Jon's mouth tingles at the contact, and somewhere inside his stomach the last remaining knot of tension unwinds. Oh, he thinks. Oh. Okay.
When Brendon starts to straighten up again, his face redder than ever, Jon reaches up and puts a hand on the back of his neck to hold him close. "Come on, you can do better than that," Jon says teasingly, tugging him back down.
Brendon's eyes widen, and Jon grins and cranes his neck just enough to reach Brendon's mouth. This time, there's more pressure, and Brendon's hand moves to cradle Jon's head. He feels more than hears the moan low in Brendon's chest when Jon's tongue darts out to lick at his lips experimentally. The kiss is short, though, too short, until Brendon is sitting back up with a groan. "Shit, fuck, my neck."
Jon's neck isn't terribly happy with him, either. He turns onto his side and presses his back to the couch before patting the sliver of room next to him. "Come on, you're skinny, lay down."
"So, we're going to sit here and make out, then?"
Jon looks up at Brendon, red face and slightly open mouth and dazed stare. Yeah, he thinks. Yeah. "You have better plans for this afternoon?"
Brendon's gaze focuses on Jon's face, finally, and a grin spreads slowly across his face. "Hell no."
As Brendon wiggles his body so that it's pressed flush against Jon's, Jon is hard-pressed to remember why he'd been in a bad mood in the first place.
***
When it came time to go off the road and start thinking about the third album, the four of them made a pact - they'd go at least a month without hanging out together. Spencer thought it was a good idea at the time. A month alone, just him and his dogs, sounded kind of like heaven.
... except for the part where, four days in, he wanted to slit his wrists from the boredom. It was different, living in a house that hadn't had residents in months. The last time he actually spent any time at home, Haley had been there. During the last break, he went to San Diego and learned how to surf. Now, though, he was stuck in a house with dust on the television and his ex-girlfriend's high school yearbook forgotten on the bookshelf. He thought about calling her to ask if she wanted it back. He ended up polishing off a six-pack of beer instead.
The next day, he called Ryan. "What are you doing?"
"Heading for New York," was the reply. "Keltie's new show opens on Friday."
"Oh."
Ryan paused. "You could come with me."
"Yeah, no." Spend a week or so feeling like the third wheel? No thanks. "I'll just email Kelts and tell her to break a leg, okay?"
He was holed up with a Corona and a Rock of Love marathon when Brendon burst through his front door. "Since when do you have a key?" Spencer asked.
"Since Ryan gave me his." Brendon brandished a paper bag in front of Spencer. "Guess what I have?"
"Enough weed to get you twenty to life?"
"Even better." Brendon pulled out a handful of multi-colored packages. "Sour gummi worms!"
Spencer made "gimme" hands, and Brendon tossed him a package. As Spencer tore into the plastic, Brendon flopped down on the couch beside him and wrapped his arms around Spencer's middle. Spencer didn't even put up the token protest he would normally make at Brendon's lack of personal space. He just sighed and wrapped an arm around Brendon's shoulder. "Thanks," he muttered over Brendon's hair, as the latter tucked his head under Spencer's chin.
"Call me next time, doucheface," Brendon said. "Now shut up, this is totally the episode where the girl with the gigantic rose tattoo on her tits goes pole dancing, right?"
"Yeah, don't worry, you haven't missed the blurred crotch shots yet."
"Aww yeah."
Spencer woke up the next morning on the couch, with Brendon sprawled half on top of him, half wedged into the space between Spencer and the back of the couch. Spencer rubbed Brendon's back, and Brendon muttered sleepily into his t-shirt. Spencer smiled and closed his eyes again.
***
... aaaaand, a bunch of stuff written when I did the iTunes shuffle "music is my gender neutral lover" thingy a little while back.
***
Victoria sits down in the grass harder than she intends. She's not sure what's in this homemade liquor - and why she ever agreed to drink something that Pete and William made by hand, she really doesn't know - but it's heady enough to make standing up a treacherous prospect. So, the grass, which is slightly wet from that afternoon's rainstorm. Summer in Chicago is muggy, air thick enough to cut with a knife, but when Vicky lays back in the dewy grass, she can see the full moon clear and bright. She sorta expected there to be a haze, but the sky is right there.
"There are a lot of stars," she observes to whoever it is that's creeping up on her, just out of her vision. It's not any member of her own band - they would have launched into a flying tackle already.
"Yeah, I noticed," Patrick says, amusement clear in his voice as he sits next to her. "The ground's wet, you know," he says next, staring at her sundress, which is getting wetter by the moment. Or maybe he's just staring at her legs. Victoria likes the idea of Patrick staring at her legs.
She stretches out and smiles up at him. "I'm drunk. Like, really drunk."
"Yeah, I noticed," Patrick repeats. "That's what you get for drinking Pete's moonshine. I learned that lesson a long time ago." He's carrying a bottle of beer, something safe. He's also still staring at her legs, long and bare against the grass.
Victoria feels kind of warm and pleasant inside. "I think you should kiss me, Patrick."
The double-take he does is funny enough that she starts to laugh out loud. "What?" he finally stutters. "You're ... you're really drunk, Vic."
"Yeah, but you should kiss me anyway. Because you're staring at my legs and you really want to." She sits up. "And I want you to."
"Victoria ..."
Patrick makes a move to stand up, but she reaches out and grabs his arm. "Or maybe I should do it," she muses. The wet grass makes it easy for her to slide over and press against his side.
When she presses her lips against his, he tastes like beer and salt and night air and maybe the stars. At least, she thinks the stars would taste like this, when his mouth opens and his tongue slides against hers, heady and rich with sparks behind her eyelids. And then she stops thinking at all, except Patrick, Patrick, yes, Patrick.
***
Gabe's bar doesn't have a name, but all the Chicago families know that it's neutral territory. Nobody misbehaves around here, because they know that they'll lose a valuable resource if Gabe's forced out of business. Besides, Gabe's got his own enforcers to take care of problems. He prides himself on being friends with the most dangerous people in town.
Like Pete. He's not the highest guy on the family food chain, and most people think he's nothing but a blowhard. It's easy to underestimate him - he sits here night after night, all braying laugh and tacky clothing, chasing skirts and drinking Gabe out of his best bottles of whiskey. But Gabe, he notices that most of that whiskey ends up inside whatever guy he's entertaining that night; sometimes it's his man inside the police, sometimes it's a banker from across town, sometimes it's someone inside his own family. And Pete watches, intently underneath those lazy brows. Most people don't see.
Gabe prides himself on seeing. It's how he's stayed in business this long.
One time, he overheard the tail end of a conversation. Some lawyer, pointing his finger at Pete. "You'd better shape up," he said, while Pete lounged in his chair, looking unconcerned. "I'm watching you."
The lawyer's body turned up in the lake three weeks later. Gabe noticed.
Tonight, though, Pete's not with anyone. He's sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a single glass of scotch. Gabe is curious enough to sit down next to him. "No business tonight, my friend?" he asks casually, offering a cigarette.
Pete takes the cigarette without comment. "Nah. Sometimes, I'm just in the mood to take the night off."
"So," Gabe asks, because he's genuinely curious, "what does a guy like you do with a night off?"
Pete grins, and it's both more casual and more predatory than Gabe's seen from him. Similar, he thinks, to the smile he turns on the cocktail waitresses who wander past. "Ah, that's private, unless you're planning to help me fill up the night."
And Gabe thinks, "huh." But he grins back. "What would it be worth to me?" Because all knowledge is power, around here.
***
Ryan doesn't fall asleep, not even after Jon's breath evens out, blowing steadily on his neck while his arm drapes warm over Ryan's stomach. On the other bed, Spencer and Brendon are both snoring softly, tiny sounds that chase each other through the shadows of the hotel room.
Ryan remembers a time when he didn't want, couldn't want, didn't need ... except, he always needed, he just couldn't bring himself to ask for it. Didn't dare hope. But now, he has skin slick with sweat, sticky and gross in the best way possible, the memory of bodies sliding together, awkward positions and genuine laughter. And now, he doesn't want to close his eyes, because he's afraid they'll all cease to exist when he closes his eyes.
He thinks he needs Spencer to be awake, too, to tell him he's thinking too much and to just go to sleep, dumbass. But Spencer's breath is mingled with Brendon's, and in the darkness he can tell that their limbs are tangled together possessively. He inches closer to Jon, who tightens his grip on Ryan in his sleep. It's almost enough. It almost convinces Ryan that they're all real.
Ryan stares into the darkness, gripping Jon's arm and listening to Spencer and Brendon breathe. He doesn't sleep. "I love you," he whispers, at everyone and no one.
***
Jon lays in his bunk and talks to Cassie in a hushed voice. It's not like they're talking about anything the other guys shouldn't hear - he's telling the story about Brendon and the traffic cop, while Cassie's worrying that she needs to take Clover to the vet - but it's still something Jon wants to keep to himself. The road is the road, and home is home, and these conversations are a weird bridge between the two. One of the only things around here that's exclusively his.
Outside of his bunk, he can hear Spencer and Brendon debating the merits of Forgetting Sarah Marshall, while a rhythmic thumping noise tells him that Ryan is listening to his iPod in his bunk, tapping a rhythm on the ceiling in time with the music. In his ear, Cassie is laughing and swatting at whatever cat decided to walk on her head. Jon smiles, and in that moment, misses them enough to make his chest ache.
"Look!" comes Brendon's voice. "Look at all the fucking cows!!"
"Yeah, that kind of happens in Wisconsin, you know," Spencer responds, deadpan.
"Oh, yeah, don't they make, like, cheese and shit around here somewhere? We should totally stop and buy cheese. Hey!" Brendon's footsteps gallop towards the front of the bus, and Jon hears him start to beg the bus driver for a pit stop.
He realizes he's missed whatever Cassie just said, and he chuckles guiltily. She understands, though. In the beginning, when this all started, they would have fought about it, Cassie accusing him of not being interested any more. She understands now, or accepts, whatever it is. He doesn't entirely belong to her, not out here. He just makes sure to make it up to her when he's home. They've worked it out.
"I love you," he says, and means it more than he once ever thought possible, before he hangs up and goes to help Brendon. Because, hey, cheese sounds like an excellent idea.
***
Brendon stretches out on top of Gabe. He's small enough that his feet only reach the middle of Gabe's calf, with his knees planted on either side of Gabe's hips and his chest pressing into Gabe's torso. He rests his hands on Gabe's chest and leans his chin on his hands. "Is this the point where we get to the sex?" he asks.
Gabe laughs, and Brendon looks moderately offended. "I realize I have a reputation," Gabe says, "but really, I try to avoid taking advantage of drunk children."
Brendon responds by tweaking Gabe's nipple. He yelps. Perhaps taking off his shirt wasn't the best of ideas. But, really, Gabe's not entirely sober either, so he can't be entirely responsible for his choices. He's more sober than Brendon, though, so he pushes the boy off of him. "Seriously, you should probably sleep it off."
Brendon struggles to a kneeling position. His cheeks are flushed, and his mouth - that mouth, god, if Gabe was just that much less of an actually decent person, he'd still be laying down - is screwed up into a scowl. "I'm not that drunk."
Probably true, Gabe allows silently. Brendon's been drunk for the entire tour, as far as he can tell, so possibly this is what passes for not-fucked-up in his world these days. Gabe had those days, once upon a time. He doesn't really remember them that fondly, inevitably fun times aside.
But, Brendon crawls across the bed and reaches for the button on Gabe's jeans, and he licks his lips, and okay, Gabe's conscience has a limit. "Jesus fuck," he mutters appreciatively, and climbs back onto the bed. He's pretty good at ignoring regret, anyway.
***
"Are you coming?" Spencer asks, his camera dangling from his hands. Ryan looks up from his guitar. "I mean, you know Pete's shows are never boring. And also, Christmas Eve."
Ryan is tempted. The apartment is cold, and not likely to get any better as the night wears on. And he can probably convince someone to buy him some food if he goes. He last ate ... huh, when did he last eat, anyway?
Spencer obviously has the thought at the same time, because he frowns and digs into his pocket. When his hand emerges, he tosses a plastic package at Ryan. Beef jerky. "Eat," Spencer says gruffly. "And don't forget your meds."
Meds. Right. Because that's Ryan's life now, however long it lasts. Narcotic cocktails that will keep him alive until ... well, until they don't. Which might be before next Christmas Eve. This might be his last holiday, it's always possible. At some point, it'll become probable. Because, while people live for years and years with HIV, most of those people probably have homes that have actual heat and electricity and shit. Ryan, he figures he's kind of screwed.
Spencer is still staring at him. Ryan wonders, not for the firs time, what Spencer will do when he dies. Maybe he'll live here alone. That would suck. Spencer deserves to have a lot more. He deserves better people than Ryan. Always has.
"I'm not in the mood for people," Ryan says. "Tell Pete good luck for me." Pete's ... well, okay, Pete might not precisely be better people than Ryan, but he's someone who isn't likely to die any time soon, unless he gets offed by an ex-boyfriend.
Spencer continues to hesitate in the doorway. Ryan looks back down at his guitar. Finally, he hears Spencer sigh. "You know where we'll be if you change your mind."
When Ryan is finally alone, the sound of his guitar echoes unpleasantly through the room.
***
Brendon is stretched out on a crushed velvet couch comfortable enough to make him never want to move again. Good thing, he thinks, that there are waitresses bringing drinks, because he doesn't intend to leave until they kick him out. The music is just loud enough to drown out his own thoughts, house grooves with an Arabic flavor, the kind of music that makes him want belly dancers to entertain him. "One girl wearing nothing but see-through scarves. Is that so much to ask?" he asks Ryan when he walks over.
Ryan looms above him, a smirk on his face. "Scoot over, pervert, your legs are in my seat."
Brendon just grins back and pats his lap. He doesn't actually expect Ryan to take him up on the offer, but yet, a moment later he has a lot of bony ass poking into his legs. "Ouch," he mutters, but instead of pushing him off, he shifts up so that Ryan is sitting between his legs. Ryan gives him an arch look, but swings his legs around and settles back against Brendon's chest without commenting.
Brendon winds one arm around Ryan's chest, while the other one reaches for his drink. Ryan snatches the glass out of his hand, though, and downs the drink himself. "Selfish bastard," Brendon mutters, and Ryan laughs. Brendon can feel the laugh vibrating through his entire body. He reaches down and presses a kiss to Ryan's neck, in just the right spot to make Ryan shudder involuntarily. Brendon likes knowing Ryan's body. There's a power there that he can never resist taking advantage of.
"Wanna get out of here?" Ryan murmurs, just loud enough for Brendon to feel the shape of the words over the music.
Brendon hesitates. Ryan taps on Brendon's leg, beats in time with the music, and Brendon allows his vision to lose focus. Maybe they're lost in time, he thinks, lost in their own little universe, just he and Ryan. Maybe that wouldn't be bad at all.
"Not yet," Brendon says finally. "Let's just ... be."
Ryan makes a noise of agreement, and Brendon leans his head back, losing himself in the music.
***
I think that's everything I didn't already have tagged over here. And also? Despite having three stories I'm supposed to be working on right now, I liked the results of the music meme - so, if you're in the mood for a bandom drabble, pick a character/pairing and a number between 1 and 20,858, and I'll write you a little something! (Probably not until Sunday, though. I have concerts and a movie to attend to in the meantime! :))
(PS: looking through the last meme, I realized I forgot a prompt from
geneli4! So, that one will be done on Sunday, I promise. :))