the hollow chocolate bunny of the apocalypse

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-11-06T14:17:00

2009-11-06T13:21:19Z

;_;

man on the moon

2009-11-03T13:02:49Z

man on the moon
Brad/Nate || G || 1400 words

Many, many thanks to cmonkatiekatie for the beta ♥

"I mean, if Ridge and Brooke hooked up in the first seven hundred episodes there would be like, no fucking plotline for the next six thousand."

Brad's startled into a soundless laugh despite himself. He's still kind of high on Ray's Ripped Fuel.

Ray's head pops out at the side of the Humvee like a demented, sideways version of jack-in-a-box. He points his finger at Brad. "You know I'm fucking right."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Brad says, grinning at him. "Shut the fuck up already."

"Yeah, whatever. You love me." Ray ducks back and Brad listens to him going on about Sally Spectra to Stafford who probably only wakes up to mumble, mmm, mhm in strategic intervals. Ray's never needed a particularly attentive audience so that's probably fine by him.

Apart from that, it's oddly quiet -- but quiet in a way that's not really quiet at all. There are explosions in the distance, painting the sky a washed shade of yellow. There are Navy SEALs snipers perched on a roof two buildings away, sending bullets into the darkness in a syncopated rhythm. Zing, zing, splat, zing, chink. Brad tries to tap it out on his stomach. It breaks every couple of shots and he has to start all over. Finally, he gets tired and just lies in the dark, trying not to think about anything at all.

It's not working.

The zipper on his bivy sack gets stuck halfway through so he has to half-crawl out of it. He stretches, vertebrea cracking into place like parts on a Transformer, then adjusts his flak vest and straps on the M4.

Ray looks up when Brad steps over him, but doesn't say anything.

The concrete under Brad's boots is chipped from the ricocheting bullets and fractured from the vibrations of the explosions. Little bits and pieces fly from underneath Brad's feet with a sound that's too normal, too familiar to belong in a warzone.

It feels like he's moving inside a giant barrel of tar, or in slow motion. His blood is pushing torpidly through his veins, making it hard to muster up any kind of energy. Every three beats his heart goes ka--boooooom, like it keeps forgetting what it's supposed to be doing and then tries to catch up.

He finds Nate by the front gate, curled over a cigarette like it's giving off any warmth in the chilly night air. The smoke he's exhaling puffs out in a grey veil against the darkness.

Nate wordlessly offers Brad the pack. It's battered and crumpled, and so are the cigarettes inside. The paper rustles beneath Brad's fingers as he tries to re-shape it back into what it's supposed to look like.

There's a lighter tucked inside the pack, a cheap orange Bic. The flint grinds but won't light the fuck up.

"Here, let me," Nate says, plucking the lighter from Brad's fingers. He gets it right in the second try. Brad leans in, shielding the flame with a hand curled over the top of Nate's palm.

"I didn't know you smoked," he says, when the flame flicks off and Nate backs away. Brad hands the pack over.

Nate shrugs, tucking it behind a strap on his utility vest. "I don't, not really."

The smoke fills Brad's lungs like jello, thick and slow. When he exhales, he imagines it leaving a layer of tar behind, clogging alveoli as it goes. Despite the characteristic red-white flip top on the pack, those are definitely not the Marlboros you can get back in the States. There's no fucking way Nate'd be able to smoke them like that if he didn't smoke at some point in his life.

Just as he's thinking that, Nate speaks up. "I used to," he says. "Back in college, you know."

Brad thinks about Nate in a crowded bar somewhere, offering someone light like he did for Brad seconds ago. There's music in the background, maybe some local band playing, and the A/C broke down last week but nobody gives a shit. Nate's t-shirt is sticking to the small of his back, and he tucks a slightly damp strand of hair behind his ear as he leans in when someone says something in his ear. He laughs and shakes his head, just slightly, but when he looks up he's smile isn't guarded and his eyes are dark and intent. Maybe it's the dim light that's blowing up his pupils. Maybe it's not.

A burst of tracers lights up the sky, a series of explosions follows shortly after. The sound is muted, like someone put a wad of cotton over the entire city. Or maybe Brad's just so sleep deprived that a nicotine rush can hardly do anything about it.

He takes a couple steps back and squats down with his back against the wall. Nate crushes the stub of his cigarette under his boot and mirrors it, gear clattering.

"What the fuck are they shooting at?" Brad asks when another charge goes off, closer this time. It makes the ground under their feet vibrate faintly.

Nate tips his head back and huffs a laugh. "I have no fucking idea." He sounds tired. If he's half as tired as Brad feels, neither of them would even duck if someone started shooting at them right now. Brad takes the last hit of his cigarette and flicks it away. The tip is a glowing spot against the dark -- everything. There's no fucking electricity in the entire city, and probably won't be for at least a couple of weeks unless the UN get their thumbs out of their asses. It's all fucked up way more than Brad had ever imagined it could get. He can't do anything about it though, except keep doing his fucking job the way he's being told to.

The brick wall is still faintly warm against Brad's back. He relaxes his body purposefully, muscles letting go like they're thawing; it almost feels like he could sink right through the wall if he focused hard enough.

He's hovering on the brink of sleep, close but not quite there when Nate speaks up, bringing him out of it. "I want rain," he says.

Brad struggles to open his eyes. In the dark, Nate's face is a mosaic of grey planes, shadows cutting through the lines at random. "I want to wake up on a rainy day and just stay in bed doing nothing," Nate says. "Or fuck."

It's so sudden, completely out of the context, that Brad stumbles right into that image, completely unprepared. Nate, on his back in plain white sheets, skin damp, mouth open on a low groan. Nate, holding himself up on his elbows, face buried in someone's sweaty hair. Nate, lips and chin wet, lazily getting some girl off, taking his time with every long, flat stroke of his tongue.

"About 90% of the annual rainfall in Iraq occurs between November and April. Still a chance," Brad says. He still has most of today MRE pound cake tucked in his front pocket. He fishes for it, and offers Nate some.

There's a beat of silence, then Nate laughs. "You're so fucking weird."

The pound cake crumbles underneath his fingers, chunks falling to the ground. Brad only sees it because another batch of tracers lights up the sky. He grins at Nate before shoving the rest of the pound cake into his mouth. Nate shakes his head, still laughing softly.

The cake tastes like sawdust soaked in sugar water, then left out to dry again. It's Brad's favorite.

There are footsteps on the concrete, closing in. Brad hears it long before Lilley steps out of the shadow like a phantom menace.

"Sir. Captain Shwetje is looking for you. New orders coming in," he says.

Nate gets up with a barely concealed sigh. "I'm coming."

He hovers over Brad for a second, maybe two. There's a brush of fingers high up on Brad's shoulder, so light he barely feels it. Then Nate says, "Get some sleep, Brad."

Brad counts their footsteps as they walk away, one, two, three, four -- Lilley stumbles and swears -- five, six. It's twenty seven before he can't hear them anymore. He runs his tongue over his teeth, sucks until the last stubborn remnant of pound cake comes off of the back of his molar.

He hums a few bars from the Star Wars opening, then rocks back onto his feet and starts walking. Dum dum-da-duuum dumm.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-10-27T21:53:00

2009-10-27T20:59:48Z

Dear Santa!

Please ignore this if you've already started writing. If you haven't - I hope this is going to be at least remotely helpful because God help me, my prompt wasn't.

So. If you decide to write Brad/Nate, it's awesome! I'm okay with 5000 words of them sitting somewhere in the dark discussing 80s power metal. I'm okay with 1001 words of shameless porn. I don't require a happy ending, and angsty is fine by me. As long as there's no gratuitous drama or the sexing doesn't take place in the desert, I'm going to be one happy camper. (Because seriously, first thing that's on my mind when I read sex in the theater is Oh my, they must've smelled BAD. If you put showers someplace in the said desert, go ahead, I'm totally with you on this \o/)

If it's Brad, Ray or Poke, I would really, really love something along the lines of a character study. Or you know, them throwing insults at each other, that's fine too :D

My wildcard request was Moonlight but since the show isn't overly popular I don't expect you to do any kind of research or whatever. If you'd like to write a vampire motif of any kind into your story though, this is what my face is going to look like: :D

Anyway, write whatever you have fun writing and feel comfortable with. In this fandom my needs are met with very little :D

planet earth is blue and there's nothing i can do

2009-10-01T13:11:08Z

planet earth is blue and there's nothing i can do

Brad/Nate || 4000 words || PG-13

Many, many thanks to cmonkatiekatie for the beta and to oteap for hand-holding and playing 'Choose Your Own Adventure' with me. ♥

Title from David Bowie's Space Oddity. Yes, I have no shame but you should also definitely check it out.

When they get back to Pendleton, all Brad wants to do is sleep. It’s nothing new, really. He’s gone through a million and one variations of tired, exhausted and fucked to all hell; it kind of comes with the territory. Brad deals with it. But when there’s no immediate threat, no reason to keep awake and alert, it’s like someone has flipped a switch. Brad crashes like a F-16 after the pilot blinked for a fraction too long.

He sleeps for sixteen hours straight, and it’s not nearly enough to make up for all the sleep he hadn’t had back in Iraq. His head hurts when he wakes up, and he can’t make any sense of his own jumbled thoughts. Someone would think he would have gotten used to it by now.

Taking a shower is probably the part that Brad likes best about being back to civilazation. He stands under the spray until the tips of his fingers get all wrinkly and he can’t take the steady beat of the water against his skin anymore. He dries himself perfunctorily but doesn’t bother with putting any clothes on.

The coffee still tastes like shit, but he can at least drink it from a regular mug and that makes a hell of a difference. He drinks three cups in between calling his parents to let them know he’s alive and watching National Geographic without paying much attention to what’s actually happening onscreen. It’s a relief, to be able to just let things go.

--

It takes three days before he gets bored. Good thing he’s due back by the end of the week.

--

PT is a bitch. It’s an even bigger bitch after you’ve spent over a month driving your ass around and it’s fucking hot as hell outside. Brad watches Trombley puke at the side of the track after a ten mile run and tries not to follow suit. He hasn’t felt this good in a long time.

--

There’s a dive bar right outiside the camp boundaries that has $5 pitchers. The beer is utter crap but gets the job done.

Brad sits at a table with Poke and Rudy and watches Ray doing a striptease up on the table next to them. A sweaty t-shirt hits him in the face with probably too much force to call it gracious. Ray probably wouldn’t make a living as a Chippendale.

“Hey, Brad!” Ray calls. “Check this out!” He attempts a moonwalk that ends with his naked ass right up in Brad’s face.

“Very nice,” Brad tells him and bends over to tuck a ten dollar bill under the waistband of Ray’s pushed down skivvies. He’s always had a soft spot for lost causes.

“Your mom liked it, too,” Ray says and pulls his pants back up. People here are used to jarheads with a couple of screws loose but Brad thinks that might be a bit too much even for them. Ray is something else.

“Get your white ass down, dog,” Poke says, “Don’t fucking disgrace us.”

Brad leans back in his chair. “Don’t worry, Tony. Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children have brought enough shame on themselves already.”

“No need to be so harsh, brother.” Rudy shakes his head over his water – “on the rocks, yo!” Ray had said - Brad still doesn’t get it why the hell Rudy keeps going to bars if the only thing he ever drinks is water.

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“Hey, man, isn’t this a bit too slang for your educated Hebrew ass?” Ray says, jumping off the table and pulling up a free chair.

“I’m adapting, Ray. Stooping to the masses.”

“You’re so fucking magnanimous.”

“Joshua. I am impressed.”

“You should fucking be,” Ray says. “Hey, Poke. Do Mexican chicks put out when you use SAT words on them?”

There’s a high probability this will send Poke into a rant and Brad doesn’t feel like taking chances with this one. He gets up and makes his way towards the bathroom. He takes a leak, staring at the wall ahead and trying to decipher the scribbles that cover it in black clusters. Marines are like high school kids in more ways than one.

There’s no soap in the dispenser; apparently the sole proximity of Pendleton is enough to cause shortage. Brad uses water to wash his hands, and wipes them on his pants because there are no paper towels either.

Nate’s at the bar when he gets back so Brad goes up to him, bumps him slightly on the shoulder. “If I recall correctly, you promised me a beer.”

Nate laughs. He flags the bartender and gestures for one more. “If you don’t like ale, I don’t wanna know it.”

“That’s not gonna make him put out, sir. I already tried,” Ray says from Nate’s left, sidling up to the bar as the bartender pushes a sweating bottle towards Brad.

Nate laughs. “Thank you, Corporal. I’ll keep that in mind.” He collects his order, gives Brad an amused grin and slides into the crowd.

--

They get back when the dawn is slowly creeping in. Brad has got just enough alcohol in his system to fall asleep without any trouble. He doesn’t dream about anything at all.

--

“Hey.”

The sun is high up so Brad has to put a hand over his face to look up at Nate and actually see him.

“Are you feeling particularly morbid today?” Nate's face is as straight as ever as he inclines his head towards the hospital entrance. Brad figures you just have to learn that trick when you want to shove your superior’s balls down his throat about three times a day.

“I’m contemplating the fragility of life and vitamin balance.”

Nate’s lips quirk. Brad only sees it because Nate’s level with him now, perched on the curb like a school kid waiting for a parent to pick him up. Brad kind of feels like that, waiting for something to happen.

There’s a decent view on the PT track from where they’re sitting, even though it’s partially obscured by a supply truck. Force Recon is up on the track but Brad isn’t paying much attention to what’s going on there. “You still wanna visit your folks?”

“Are you going that way?” Nate seems a little surprised. Brad’s not sure if it’s the offer that surprised him, or the fact that Brad remembered a conversation they had had somewhere between Al Gharraf and Ar Rifa. Maybe both.

“No,” he says.

Nate watches him for a brief moment, then looks away, back at the track. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“If we take turns driving, we can make it in ten to twelve hours.”

Nate looks at him, one eye closed against the sunlight and mouth quirked at the corner. “I didn’t know we were at the ‘bring home to meet the parents’ stage just yet but yeah, I can work with that.”

“I’ve seen you naked a handful of times. That’s got to count for something.”

Nate laughs.

Brad tosses the stray pebble he’s been playing with a couple of times. “I just want to get out of here for a bit. Driving around with no purpose seems kind of retarded, though. Plus, that way you’ll be paying for half of the gas.”

“Your strategic thinking would make Uncle Sam proud, Brad,” Nate says. “I’ll see about the leave and I’ll get back to you on the details.”

“Okay, then.” Brad glances at his watch. He’s scheduled for bloodwork in two minutes, he should probably get going. He tosses the pebble one more time, then throws it away and gets up. “You know where to find me.”

--

Brad doesn’t have any problems getting his leave, which is nice but a little unexpected. Bureaucracy in and of itself is something Brad hasn’t had a good experience dealing with ever since he wanted to vote in the presidential election at the age of twelve. Fucking invention of the post-bouergoisie society.

He runs a brief check-up on his car and listens to Led Zeppelin as he waits for Nate. He’s going to need fucking therapy for a damaged musical taste before the second tour is over, and Ray is going to pay for it.

“Hey.” Nate throws a small overnight bag in the backseat and eases himself into the passenger seat, handing Brad a styrofoam cup. “No cream, no sugar, no bitching.”

“What’s your price?” he asks Nate, taking a sip. The coffee is pretty damn awesome.

“Pancakes at IHOP,” Nate says with a grin, sliding lower in his seat and perching the cup on his stomach.

“That can be arranged. Now buckle up, Lieutenant. I’m not paying your ticket.”

--

It’s a seven-hundred-miles trip. This is pretty much exactly why Brad offered.

The window on Brad’s side is rolled down a bit but the one on Nate’s is closed so it’s relatively quiet inside. The radio’s on, some generic rock; uninvasive.

“You can change the station if you want to,” Brad says.

Nate gives him a smile from behind his aviators. “It’s fine.”

There’s a lot of shit Brad still doesn’t know about Nate, outside, in the real world. Nate doesn’t feel like a stranger here, not exactly, but he’s a different Nate than Brad is used to. Put in a different context, with no behavioral patterns that Brad can easily recreate. It’s strange.

They don’t talk much. Nate takes over around Tracy and drives up until Santa Rosa while Brad takes a nap in the backseat. It’s cramped but Brad sleeps through almost the entire portion of the drive.

They stop for food just outside Santa Rosa. It’s fucking great: greasy and aplenty. Twelve-hundred-and-thirty kilocalories MREs have nothing on it.

“Go on ahead, you can pick me up on your way back,” Brad says, then shoves another blueberry pancake into his mouth. He can taste butter on it, it’s incredible. “Or, you know, not pick me up at all.”

“Ray would cry himself to sleep every night for the rest of his life,” Nate says, sprawling in his seat, so obviously blissed out. His lips are stained blue and his knee is resting against Brad’s.

“I find AWOL charges a bit more worrisome than Ray’s state of mind but yeah, you may have a point,” Brad says. “Are you eating this?”

--

There’s a straight stretch of road from Cloverdale to Ukiah. Nate is asleep, curled in the passenger seat with a sweatshirt tucked in the crook of his neck, and it’s almost like Brad’s all by himself.

There’s nothing much but rocks and a few lonely trees on both sides of the road. Brad grins to himself and floors it. He has to slow down a couple of times when he passes a few cars but other than that he goes way over the speed limit until he reaches Ukiah suburbs. Nate is out cold, he doesn’t even stir. Brad focuses on the road ahead of him, on the hum of the engine that transfers into vibrations that go right up his spine. He fucking missed this.

--

Nate’s folks moved to Eureka a couple years ago. Mr. Fick had worked there for two years in the nineties and grown inexplicaply fond of the place. It’s the biggest piece of intel Brad has on Nate’s family. It’s kind of hilarious.

Eureka is not hard to navigate. Brad drops Nate at his parent’s house – Nate doesn’t invite him in; Brad didn’t expect him to – and follows Nate’s directions to the nearest motel. It’s called Fork in the Road and the lady at the front desk is around Brad’s grandmother’s age. She smells like rose powder and Brad has to resist the urge to give her a hug.

The room has definitely seen better days but it’s clean and only one of the beds is sagging. Brad goes through a push-ups/sit-ups routine that’s far more extensive than what he usually does, then takes a shower and watches some pay-per-view porn. He’s too tired to actually jerk off.

He falls asleep lying across the bed with the towel wrapped awkwardly around his waist.

--

He gets up at 6:30, mostly out of habit and a fucked-up internal clock. He gets breakfast and a cup of something bearing a faint relationship to coffee, then drives to Trynidad State Beach. The surfboard rental doesn’t open until nine so he’s got about fourty minutes to waste. A couple of surfers are in the water so Brad watches them for a while.

The waves aren’t too high but Brad rents a shortboard anyway, just for the sake of it. He takes it slow, letting his body slip into the familiar pattern. It’s easy, everything slowly clicking into place.

Later, he lies on the beach, wetsuit pulled down around his waist and sand rough against his back, until he almost falls asleep.

--

When he gets back, he takes a long shower to scrub all the sand from his hair, then naps a bit.

He leaves the car a couple parking spaces down from his room and goes for a walk. He eats a giant steak with a plate of fries at Applebee’s, chases it down with two pieces of apple pie and a glass of cranberry juice. He’d quit the Corps just because of food factor alone, if he knew what else to do with his life.

He ends up in a slightly sketchy bar in the west part of the town. He sits at the bar because it seems most neutral and orders a couple rounds of tequila.

The place isn’t crowded. It’s a weakday and not many people feel like getting drunk when they have to be up first thing in the morning the next day. Brad however has absolutely no qualms about it. He feels like he’s due to get wasted and do some stupid shit.

“Hey, you got a light?” a girl asks, sidling up to the bar next to Brad. She’s tall and looking a little out of place.

“Here you go.” The bartender lights her cigarratte up for her. He’s in his mid-thirties as far as Brad can tell, and polite in a disconnected sort of way working the bar teaches you.

The girl thanks him with a smile and slips onto the stool, legs hooked over the supporter. She’s still smiling when she turns to look at Brad, and Brad gives her a small smile in return before knocking back his drink. He waves the bartender over and orders another one.

“It’s very movie-like,” the girl says all of a sudden. “A guy, sitting in a bar, by himself, getting drunk.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Brad says, giving her a lopsided smile. “And you don’t really look like you belong here. It puts us in the mystery slash drama field.” He hums a couple of notes from the MGM intro tune and she laughs.

“Touché,” she says. “I’m waiting for a friend, he picked the place.”

Brad wonders if ‘friend’ means ‘friend’ or if it’s code for something else. He can’t decide. The girl is a little flirty but not overly so. She asks, “What about you?”

Brad slides the glass back and forth on the counter between his fingers. “Just wasting time.”

They chat for a little while before her friend shows up (‘friend’ is code for ‘I’m-cheating-on-my-boyfriend-with-you’, Brad decides). Brad orders a beer, drinks it, and gets going as well. He unintentionally takes a turn that sends him on a detour through half of the town, but it’s alright. It’s nice outside.

--

Nate is waiting for him when he gets back. He’s perched on the hood of Brad’s car, looking oddly relaxed. Nate is probably the most patient guy Brad has ever met. Frankly, it’s a little freaky sometimes.

“Got lucky?” Nate aks with a slight grin, not changing his position.

“Unfortunately, no. This town isn’t ready for me yet.” Nate hadn’t told him when he was going to get back, and Brad hadn’t asked. It hadn’t felt important at the time. “How long have you been waiting?”

“Half an hour, maybe.”

“You realize I do have a cell phone, right? You could’ve called me.” Brad leans against the hood alongside Nate. “I don’t think I’m gonna be good to drive tonight. Sorry.”

“I could drive,” Nate says, “but I figure getting in a car is not going to be an overly pleasant experience for you right now.” He’s totally laughing at him, Brad can tell.

“I’m not that wasted.”

“I know,” Nate says mildly. He’s not showing any signs of wanting to go inside so Brad hoists himself up on the hood. There was this fucking sweet make-out spot maybe three miles from where Brad lived when he was a teenager. He used to drive there a lot with Carrie - then Jessica, and later with Tanya - and make out lying on the hood of his dad’s old truck. It wasn’t particularly comfortable but it made Brad feel badass, like in Bonnie & Clyde.

Brad lies back and folds his arm behind his head. His t-shirt rides up a bit and he can feel the residual warmth of the lacquer on his skin. “Wanna make out?”

Nate has this type of laugh that makes his entire body tip forward, and eventually, he loses his balance and slides off the car. Brad grins up at the dark sky. He can’t see any stars, there’s too much light seeping from all around. It sucks.

There’s still laughter in Nate’s voice when he says, “Sure, why not?”

A couple of rooms down a door opens and two girls tumble out. Even in the dim light of the sodium lamp overhead Brad can see their short skirts and garish make-up. “Hey, hookers! Sweet.”

Nate laughs. “Request for a snatch denied.” He hooks his fingers under Brad’s knee and tugs a little. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

“Stingy motherfucker,” Brad says, sliding off the hood. It gets him right in Nate’s space but Nate just laughs and backs away to retrieve his duffel from the ground. Brad follows him a few steps behind.

“How the hell do you even know which room is it?”

“I told the nice old lady at the front desk you disappeared leaving my sister with two kids, and refuse to pay alimony. She was more than glad to help.”

Brad is kind of in awe. “You are a seriously evil son of a bitch, anybody ever tell you that?”

Nate leans against the wall and waits for Brad to open the door, hands in his pockets. “Once or twice.”

The lock is kind of a bitch. Brad has to turn the key three times before the catch finally clicks, then two more to open it. He gestures Nate inside. “I wasn’t expecting any guests.”

Brad is generally not a neat guy. He’ll arrange his surrounding to what’s most efficient but other than that, he really just doesn’t care. What little he had brought with him is strewn all over the room. In the sparse light coming from the outside it looks like a tornado swept it all up.

“Nice,” Nate says, dropping his duffel on the floor between two beds.

Brad pushes the latest issue of Cycle World aside and sprawls on the one he hasn’t been using. There’s less junk there. “What? I’m unwinding.”

He lies in the dark room when Nate showers, not thinking much about anything. His mind and body feel disconnected but in a pleasant sort of way. He drums his fingers on his stomach, then splays them wide. The bed is too small to accommodate him stretched out but then again, most are. Brad lets his knees fall apart and listens to the shower running in the bathroom. The rustle of water on the tiles fills his head with a pleasant buzz, and a couple thoughts he probably shouldn’t be having.

Like that’s stopped him before.

“Are you passing out on me?” Nate asks, walking out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Wouldn’t dare.” Brad stretches out to switch on the bedside lamp. The bulb is fourty watts at best and it doesn’t give much light. Nate grumbles about it when goes through his duffel in a search for something to wear.

The mattress dips with Nate’s weight; Brad’s lying in the saggy spot so he doesn’t feel much of it. He watches Nate as he absently plays with the t-shirt he’s holding, shadows cutting into his skin. He’s got a big, dark bruise low on his back, and a couple others, smaller, along his spine. He doesn’t flinch when Brad touches them.

“I’ve thought about it, you know,” Nate says eventually. Brad can’t really see his face and there’s enough alcohol in his system that it takes him a moment to clue in on what’s going on. It doesn’t take long, all things considered, but still a little longer than he usually needs to understand what Nate is - or isn’t, in most cases - saying.

A car pulls up outside, headlights sweeping over the wall. The engine sounds like a ‘69 Dodge Charger or Pontiac GTO. The skin on Nate’s back is still sort of damp under Brad’s fingers. “Yeah.”

Nate props his cheek in an open palm, turning sideways to look at Brad with a lopsided smile. “It would be an epic, completely unfuckable clusterfuck.”

Brad laughs. “True.”

Nate rubs at his eye and laughs, too. There’s a patch of sunburn on Brad’s back and the bedspread scrapes against it when he gets up. “I’ve got a bottle of tequila in the trunk. I think it’s a good time to break it out.”

It’s Cuervo; Brad has it wrapped in a towel and tucked in safely with the spare tire. They sit on the floor and drink it straight from the bottle. Brad gives himself a three-round handicap just to square the chances.

“I hate tequila,” Nate says, and takes a swig.

Somewhere between fourth and fifth round Brad leans in and kisses him, just because he fucking can. It’s sloppy and lasts maybe a couple beats too long. When he finally pulls back, Nate laughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The godfather of all clusterfucks.”

Brad reaches for the bottle. “My godson has come all the way from California. Give him a fucking drink.”

--

Nate sleeps taking up the entire bed. He’s sprawled on his stomach with the covers kicked down mid-thigh, snuffling lightly. Brad doesn’t wake him up until he absolutely has to, with just enough time for Nate to put some clothes on and puke if he needs to. He doesn’t, but looks pretty grateful when Brad hands him two Advil and throws a bottle of water his way.

They make it out of Eureka in half an hour, after a quick but greasy breakfast and two refills of coffee. It lasts Brad about two hours, then he makes Nate talk to him so he doesn’t fall asleep and get them both killed.

--

“Hey,” Brad says outside of Pentaluma, “You still have three days of leave, right?”

“Yeah. Why?” Nate looks at him questioningly.

Brad grins. “You ever been to Salsipuedes? They have the best waves on the West Coast. Perfect peeling right-hand point break.”

“You do realize I have no idea what you’re talking about, right?” Nate says. Then he laughs like he doesn’t believe he’s doing it and says, “Why the hell not?”

“I’m gonna teach you to surf.” Brad grins, glancing over at him. “You’re going to love it.”

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-09-20T12:52:00

2009-09-20T11:02:26Z

This is Brad. Unfortunately, I ran out of desert camo M&M's for his kevlar and I had to go with woodland.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-09-03T16:51:00

2009-09-03T15:32:41Z

You know you might be just a tiny bit obsessed with Generation Kill when:

1. You've been having marines-related dreams for two weeks straight, and for example you dream you:
- are going on a run with Rudy (YOU HATE RUNNING)
- are playing football with Bravo and worrying that Sixta is going to interrupt it because Trombley's hair doesn't meet the grooming standard
2. During an AIM conversation you say "I'm gonna go do some recon in the kitchen. I ran out of MREs" instead of "brb, I'm out of junk food".
3. Everyone around you is tired of the fucking Marines, seriously, SHUT THE FUCK UP.
3a. Yes, that includes your parents.
4. NO ONE FUCKING SHIPS "ONE BULLET AWAY" TO FUCKING POLAND. It's not like you're trying to get it FedEx-ed to Iraq, right? Your life, so hard.
4a. But you already have a plan how to get it anyway. You MAKE DO.
5. You start watching True Blood even though it's crap and you can't stand 90% of the characters. ~~Brad~~ Eric! *__*
5a. Godrick = Nate! \o/
5b. And then you go the extra mile and download the books. ~~Brad~~ Eric! *__*
7. You're in the toys section at a supermarket, see this:

and go all "OMG, GENERATION KILL ACTION FIGURES! BRAD! NATE! LET'S MAKE THEM HAVE SEX! :D Oh, wait, I'm 23."
8. You make stupid lists instead of plowing through 1117 pages of European Law for an exam you have in a week.

... Yeah. I'm gonna go sit in the corner now, and eat some Skittles.

9. Nobody saw that /o\
(10. SAW! M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. Trombley! \o/)

water & solutions

2009-08-27T13:43:44Z

water & solutions
Kris/Adam || 2700 words || PG-13

Kris and Adam smoke up on a fire escape. AU-ish.

Many thanks to saint_viticus for the beta, to bergann for helping me out in my time of need and to epiphanissimo for being the word order master. Love you all ♥

Kris can have four to five beers before it gets him drunk. Six, tops, if it’s lager, other factors aside.

Three bottles of Miller and two shots of tequila would be three times 33 cl of 4.7% plus two times 3 cl of 40% with a bonus catalyst of knocking them back one after another and chasing down with beer. Which would be about six or seven beers total.

Conclusion: Kris is kind of drunk.

He grabs a handful of chips and shoves it into his mouth. He chews methodically, idly watching the people milling around. He knows maybe a third of them, nodding acquaintances included, but it’s okay. It’s never been a problem.

“Hey!” Chad says, appearing out of nowhere and slinging a friendly arm over Kris’ shoulders.

“What’s up?” Kris says, throwing another handful of chips in his mouth. They’re garlic and pretty damn awesome.

“Yo, people!” Chad calls and Kris already knows this is probably going to a. be embarrassing, b. not going to end well or c. all of the above. That’s the way things involving Chad usually are. Chad says, “It’s Kris’ here birthday today, and I didn’t get him anything, so let’s at least sing him Happy Birthday!”

Kris awkwardly wipes his hands on his jeans. He doesn’t particularly enjoy being the center of attention. Also, this is ridiculous. He still has to stand patiently through a very off-key, very drunken rendition of Happy Birthday with Chad swaying kind of wobbly back and forth. Kris is taken along for the ride, since Chad won’t let go of him. They nearly topple over twice and it’s Kris’ fault in about a tenth. Chad is a lot more drunk than he is.

A few people say their own happy birthday’s later on, Sophie hugs him and ruffles his hair – Kris lets it slide because it’s Sophie; standard rules do not apply to her – and some girl he doesn’t know gives him a kiss on the cheek. It’s pretty nice, altogether.

But then, just as Kris is making his way towards the bathroom, some guy catches him by the elbow, completely out of blue, and kisses him on the mouth. Right there in the middle of the room.

The guy lingers maybe a bit longer than the situation merits for – Kris isn’t even sure if there is a protocol for this kind of shit in the first place because, seriously, what the hell is happening – and Kris would definitely be blushing to hell and back were it not for the amount of alcohol he’s poured into himself. He hears a catcall but aside from that, Kris doesn’t think people are actually paying all that much attention to them. It’s weird.

“Happy birthday,” the guy says, grinning. His eyes crinkle at the corners and it’s the stupidest fucking thing Kris would notice about a guy who just kissed him in the middle of a fucking room full of fucking people. Figures. “Um, thanks?”

The guy laughs. “You’re welcome.” Then, “I promised Brad I’ll pick up some pizzas from downstairs, I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

He’s got a patch of blue glitter in his hair, right behind his left ear. It’s strangely fitting. Kris looks after him when makes his way through the crowd, tight jeans and a completely ridiculous neon blue t-shirt. Kris wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and laughs.

Whoever is in the bathroom is taking for-fucking-ever. Kris briefly contemplates pissing out the window but he doesn’t think the neighbors would appreciate that. He bangs at the door. “Hurry up!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, chill,” a guy grumbles, opening the door. Kris goes in, takes a leak and splashes his face with cold water. The room smells like puke so he tries to keep it as quick as possible.

It’s not like he’s actively seeking the guy out when he goes to the kitchen later. He really isn’t; he’s just hungry, plain and simple.

The guy is there though, flipping through a stack of pizza boxes. Kris hovers in the doorway watching him as he opens each box and examines the content. Someone bumps into Kris from behind and Kris makes a surprised noise, steadying himself on the doorframe. It’s not like he can pretend he’s not there after that. He raises his hand awkwardly. “Hey.”

“Hey,” the guy says, grinning at him, as if nothing happened. Maybe nothing did. “You hungry? My advice is to dig in before the vultures come.” He pushes the stack of boxes towards Kris. There’s no way Kris’ saying no to hot pizza, whatever the circumstances may be.

“This one here is pepperoni, and so’s this one. This one’s Hawaiian but you don’t look like the Hawaiian type to me.”

“There’s a type?” Kris asks, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. He’s not too big on pineapple, actually. There’s been an incident.

“No, I just hate it and think everyone else should as well,” the guy grins. He folds a slice of pizza in half and shoves a good part of it into his mouth. “God, I’m so fucking hungry,” he mutters over a mouthful.

Kris laughs, leaning against the sink. The guy is kind of adorable.

“Lambert, dude, I fucking love you,” Jesse – at least Kris thinks his name is Jesse – announces, barging into the kitchen and going straight for the pizza boxes.

“See, I always knew you were a closet case,” the guy tells him, stepping aside when possibly-Jesse tries to push past him.

“I’d go gay for you any day, just so you know,” Sophie says and Kris didn’t even know they knew each other. It’s odd.

Not before long half of the party moves to the kitchen. Kris finishes off the last slice of pepperoni, the last drips of sauce trickling down his hand. He licks some of it off, then sticks his hand under the tap.

“Hey.” He feels a delicate nudge. They’ve been standing side to side for a while now and the guy is kind of tall – not many people aren’t, compared to Kris; it’s kind of annoying, really – so Kris has to look up a bit. “Yeah?”

“You wanna smoke up?” The guy taps the side of his head lightly and it’s only then that Kris notices the joint tucked behind his ear. Kris randomly thinks about Ian Curtis. He says, “Yeah, sure,” because really, why the hell not?

The guy grabs two beers from the fridge and they climb out the window and onto the fire escape. There’s a slight breeze but apart from that it’s still ridiculously hot. Kris is seriously fed up with the fucking weather.

“I’m Adam, by the way,” the guy says, fishing for a lighter in his pocket.

“Kris.”

“I know,” he grins but shakes Kris’ hand anyway. He angles away when he lights up the joint, which is kind of nice but also pretty pointless. It’s a gesture of someone who’s used to smoking in the presence of a non-smoker. Kris feels a little bad for him.

Kris’ fingers feel a little clumsy when he wraps them over the joint. The smoke goes through his throat like acid burn. It feels nice.

Adam laughs suddenly. “Sorry about earlier,” he says. It takes Kris a moment to catch on. He shakes his head and waves his hand, not willing to let go of the smoke just yet.

“You’re pretty Zen about it,” Adam observes, taking the joint from Kris.

“I’m pretty drunk,” Kris points out after a moment, watching the last bits of smoke curl in the air.

Adam laughs. “Yeah, that might be it.” Kris watches him as he sprawls out cautiously, one foot going through the railing. He’s wearing what looks like a pair of glammed-up cowboy boots. They’re kind of insane.

Kris twists around to grab the beer from where Adam had left it on the windowsill. The bottle is ice cold and there’s a layer of condensation covering it. He wipes it with the hem of his t-shirt and unscrews the cap. It slips out and falls three stories down with a distant clinking noise as it bounces off the metal. “Aw, shit.”

“Smooth.”

“Oh, shut up.” Kris laughs. Weed always makes him kind of giggly. It’s a little embarrassing. He takes a swig to cover it up. “So,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Did Chad put you up to this?”

“To what? Oh, the kissing thing?” Adam grins. “No. I didn’t need the extra incentive, trust me.”

“You’re really weird.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘gay’,” Adam says, taking a hit. He rolls his head to the side and looks up at Kris. His eyes are laughing.

“Yeah, I was trying that political correctness thing out,” Kris says, holding out his hand and wriggling his fingers until Adam puts the joint between them. Adam’s nails are painted black. Kris notices because he’s looking. “I’m pretty bad at it, turns out. Who knew?”

Adam laughs. Kris feels him watching as he tokes. He passes the joint over when he’s done.

“So, hey. What about ‘pussy challenged’? Would that be a politically correct term?” Adam muses. Kris lets out the smoke on a surprised snort. “Jesus.”

Adam holds up his hands. He’s leaning on his elbows; it’s not very spectacular.

Kris is still tipsy, yeah, and also a little high, but that doesn’t make much sense even to him. He opens his mouth to say as much but he gets distracted by a commotion down on the street. He scrambles up on his knees to peer through the railing, and sees a bunch of people laughing and pushing at each other. He’s pretty sure they were upstairs earlier on. And oh, there is Chad.

“Hey, Evans, what’s making you so damn happy?” Kris calls. It’s only three stories and his voice carries well. Chad looks up after a moment, a little confused.

“What’s up, midget?” If Chad was drunk last Kris saw him, he’s downright fucking wasted now. Kris laughs because it’s hilarious. Drunk Chad will never stop being hilarious.

“So I’m a midget now, huh? What happened to the birthday mood?”

Chad gestures wildly and pirouettes, primadonna style. “Gone with the wind!” He steps onto the street and someone has to pull him back up on the sidewalk as a car passes by. Kris laughs and shifts because the metal crate keeps digging into his knees. It brings him a little closer to the mouth of the fire escape and seriously, he’s totally got this under control, but Adam’s hand is on his hip all of a sudden, steadying. “Careful.”

It feels nice, so Kris doesn’t say anything, just grins over his shoulder. Adam doesn’t take his hand away.

Kris isn’t really looking after Chad and the rest of the bunch as they make their way down the street, loud and completely unapologetic about it, but he doesn’t sit back down either. Adam’s fingers are warm enough that he can feel it through his t-shirt, and he wonders if they’re making tiny dents in his skin where they’re pressed against it. The hair at the back of Kris’ head is a little damp.

Adam’s fingers slide down and across Kris’ back, and then they’re gone. Adam says, “Hey, space cadet.” He’s got a nice voice, Kris decides. If sound was something you could touch, Adam’s voice would be smooth and delicate and warm, like a blade of grass after a long day in the sun.

Kris laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Adam asks, lighting up a cigarette. Kris finally sits back up, brick wall warm and rough against his back, and watches Adam take a drag. His cheeks hollow out. Kris wonders if this is what he looks like giving a blowjob.

“I’ve never had sex while high. It’s weird.”

Adam laughs a little and takes another pull of his cigarette before speaking up. “Very.”

“No, seriously. I wonder what it’s like.”

“It’s nice. Pretty intense. But, you know,” he says, flicking the ash off with his thumb, “weed kinda makes you sleepy. Lazy. So it’s better if you let someone sober get you off.” He grins at that, giving Kris a look that’s somewhere between challenging and amused. His lips are curled up on one side, showing teeth. Kris likes being looked at like this. He shakes his head, laughing. “Is that your official advice, Sue?”

Adam laughs. “Hey, don’t mock! I’d be an awesome sex show host.”

“Oh, I bet you would,” Kris says, brushing the tips of his fingers over the patch of glitter behind Adam’s ear. “Just put some glitter on it, everything is going to be okay.”

For a second there he thinks he might have overstepped the line with that comment. But Adam just laughs and gestures at Kris with his cigarette. “Why aren’t you wearing glitter, birthday boy?”

Adam flicks the cigarette through the railing and runs his hand through his own hair. Kris is totally not prepared for it when Adam swipes his fingers down his neck, catching the collar of his t-shirt in the process as well. His touch is gentle but not particularly careful. Kris doesn’t bother checking if there’s glitter on the fabric, but there probably is.

He’s not really thinking about it when he tilts his head to the side. It could not mean much, could not mean anything at all, but Adam reads it for what it is. He glances up at Kris though his eyelashes and sort of smirks. It’s not mean though, more like I know what you’re doing, and I like it. Kris’ skin feels like it’s been set on fire when Adam trails his thumb back up, fingers curled over the other side of Kris’ neck, barely touching.

“Glitter’s a good look on you,” Adam says, uncurling his fingers and resting them lightly on Kris’ jaw.

“Yeah? I’m gonna have to give it a shot, then.”

He goes easily when Adam tilts his head up with just his fingertips. His mouth feels kind of numb so he bites at his lower lip, lets the teeth drag over it. It helps, a little.

“Hey,” Adam says, thumb swiping across Kris’ lips, “Don’t do that.”

Kris opens his mouth and Adam’s thumb settles against his teeth. Kris wonders if nail polish tastes in any particular way.

He’s a little slow to react when the window slides up and someone sticks their head through it. “Sorry to interrupt, boys, but we’re going.” It’s a girl, with neon pink hair and a nose ring. She’s smirking. Kris wonders why she’s even telling him this. But then Adam says, “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there in a sec.”

“Okaay,” she drawls out, grinning, and pulls back. She leaves the window open.

“I gotta go,” Adam says. “I need to be up in three hours.” He scrambles up gingerly, checks his pockets, and then looks around as if to make sure he’s got everything. Kris can’t be bothered to move. The crate is seriously digging into his ass but getting up seems like too much of a hassle right now. “Yeah.”

Adam is halfway inside, astride on the windowsill when he says, “Give me your phone.” Kris looks at him questioningly but Adam just smiles. Kris hands over his phone without a word; Adam types something in and hands it back.

It’s a set of digits, obviously a number, but it’s left like that, unprogrammed, no name to go with it.

“Take care,” Adam says with a quirky little smile, then ducks to climb back in.

Kris can hear it when Adam and his friends get out of the building. They’re not loud, it’s just footsteps on the asphalt and hushed voices. He doesn’t hear Adam.

Kris turns the phone over a couple of times in his hand, the plastic cool and smooth against the inside of his palm. He reaches for the leftover beer and takes a long pull. It’s mostly flat at this point, lukewarm and pretty disgusting, but he drinks it anyway.

He saves the number under Sue Johanson because there’s already an Adam in his contacts, and hopes he’s not going to flip out the next time he scrolls through them.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-08-14T12:26:00

2009-08-14T10:30:00Z

Contemporary Noise Quintet - Million Faces

Buena Vista Social Club meets Cowboy Bebop meets Miles Davis meets a lot of noise. I am absolutely in love.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-08-11T12:28:00

2009-08-11T10:37:31Z

I bet you always wondered how to say 'blowjob' in Vietnamese. I am here to help! \o/

It's an kem, and it also means 'to eat ice cream'.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-08-07T09:02:00

2009-08-07T07:15:19Z

So. I went for a walk at 5:00 a.m.

Sleep is for losers.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-07-27T15:45:00

2009-07-27T13:46:41Z

How is your Monday going? \o/

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-06-16T15:42:00

2009-06-16T13:52:43Z

I DON'T EVEN KNOW, OKAY. /o\

everything all the time
Kris/Adam || 4500 words || PG-13

Many thanks to wordsalone for the beta. You and your blue font are awesome. ♥

“I’d totally hit that,” Kris laughs. He shifts and sinks lower on the bed; the flowery bedspread bunches up under his thigh so he kicks at it, trying to straighten it up. The laptop wobbles precariously on his stomach.

“You’d hit what?” Adam asks, kneeling on the mattress to peer on the screen. He bursts out laughing. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

A few stray droplets fall from his hair as he shakes his head. Kris bats at him inefectually. “Go away. And I’m totally serious, man. You’ve got great legs.”

Adam sits at the edge of his own bed, towelling his hair. He grins. “It’s the fishnet that does the trick.”

“Those shoes are pretty sweet, too. Did you actually manage to walk in them?”

“Yeah, like a couple steps,” Adam laughs. “Mostly I just stood around looking all sexy and shit.”

“I’m totally saving this.”

“You’re getting just a tad creepy, Allen. Just so you know.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who put those on the Internet.”

Adam sighs. “Wish I could say it wasn’t me either.”

Kris laughs, clicks another link. “Your face looked kind of horrible, though,” he says absently, clicking through another batch of pictures. Then, “Wow.”

“What? Dude, are you stalking me?”

“I totally am. Is that Brad?”

Adam sighs. “I could probably go out on a limb here and say yes but how about you show me what exactly you’re looking at?” Then, after Kris angles the laptop so that Adam can see the screen, “Yeah, this is Brad.”

“Burdens of fame, huh?” Kris asks, lips quirked to the side just a little.

“Oh, fuck you,” Adam says with a lopsided smile. Kris grins at him. Adam rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, though,” Kris says after a moment of clicking through some more pictures, “Does it bother you? That this is all over the Internet now?”

“Not really, no.” Adam leans back on his elbows and rubs his foot over the back of his calf. “I mean. I never really had a chance of winning this thing in the first place. I’m not here to win anyway so, no problem.”

Kris hums.

“Maybe I’m going to regret this in like, twenty years but right now? I really just don’t care.”

“Those are pretty hot, though,” Kris says, waggling his eyebrows. He looks ridiculous.

Adam laughs. “You are so weird.”

--

“Oh, chips! Sweet.” Matt twists around to catch the bag Adam tosses his way. He’s got his legs hooked over the armrest and he’s two seconds from falling to the floor. “Thanks, man.”

“Welcome,” Adam says, settling between Danny and Kris on the couch. “You can pay me up by being my coffee bitch tomorrow.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so,” Matt grins and puts a handful of chips into his mouth.

“So ungrateful,” Adam says. He nudges Kris’ shoulder. “What are we watching?”

Kris blinks at him sleepily. “Honestly? No clue. You just woke me up.”

“Rainmaker,” Allison says. She’s curled in the other armchair, wrapped in an afghan from head to toe. She seems just a tiny bit more awake than Kris.

“Oh, so much action,” Adam mutters, making himself comfortable and opening his bag of Doritos. “Anyone?”

Danny bails out towards the end of the movie. The second he gets up, Kris crawls over Adam to take up the vacated space. He sprawls, tucking his feet under Adam’s thigh.

“You do realize you’re pretty much feeling up a gay dude, right?” Adam quirks an eyebrow at him.

Matt cackles from across the room.

“Mm,” Kris mutters, stretching his hands over his head with a blissful smile. He looks about ten seconds from falling asleep again.

“Kris, man.” Adam drums him fingers on Kris’ calf. “Maybe you should just go to bed instead?”

Kris smiles with his eyes closed. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” Adam concedes. “Hey, Alli, can I have my chips back?”

--

The house is eerily quiet when it’s just the two of them. Kris’ voice echoes off the walls when he sits at the top of the stairs with his phone cradled against his shoulder. There’s no noise to cover it up.

Adam’s bare feet don’t really make any noise either. Still, Kris turns to face him just as Adam is passing by, hand curling right above Adam’s knee and squeezing, hey.

“Hi,” Adam says with a smile. Kris looks like a kid, looking up at him.

“I know,” Kris says into his phone, then frowns, “Yeah, yeah. I get that.”

Adam taps Kris’ shoulder lightly and Kris lets go of his leg. Adam laughs. Kris clips him in the calf.

“I’m gonna be downstairs,” Adam says, pointing towards the floor. Kris gives him a distracted smile and a nod, then frowns again. “I know. Can we change the subject?”

Adam puts his earbuds in and walks down the stairs with Jeff Buckley crooning, All full of wine the world before her, was sober with no place to go, in his ear. He kind of feels like getting drunk on cheap wine and chainsmoking a pack of cigarettes. It’s still a couple more days before he can do that.

--

The apartment smells of stale air and a little bit like Kara’s perfume. It’s weird, unfamiliar.

The table in the kitchen is pushed against the wall, and there are a few misplaced items in the living room. It irks Adam out a little but hey, it’s not that high of a price for having someone else cover his rent for a while.

He doesn’t bother with a shower, just strips down to his underwear and faceplants onto the bed. The sheets are fresh and crispy, and apparently ironed – something Adam himself never bothers to do. It’s actually pretty nice.

He sleeps for sixteen hours straight, and then wakes up only because one of his neighbors starts playing Lionel Richie at a volume that could shatter glass.

“Home, sweet home,” Adam mutters to himself, rolling off the bed. He wants a cup of coffee and a giant plate of cheese ravioli. He’s pretty sure neither is attainable.

--

There’s an electricity outage the third day Adam’s home so he spends four hours listening to music on his iPod. He carefully skips the folder with the Idol recordings.

--

Adam tosses the keys on the table and misses by a mile. It falls to the floor with a loud clatter that makes Adam cringe before he remembers he doesn’t have to be quiet.

He takes off his shoes, leaves his jacket on the hook by the front door. The apartment is dark but Adam doesn’t switch any lights on, just trails his fingers along the wall when he walks to the bedroom, just in case. He takes his wallet and his cell out of the pockets of his pants – back and side one, respectively – and puts it on the nightstand.

He leaves the rest of his clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor and brushes his teeth standing naked in front of the mirror.

The sheets are cool against his skin and Adam just lies there for a minute or two, enjoying it, then reaches for his phone. There’s one missed call from Neil and a message from Kris that says, hulk hogan on tv market.

wtf, Adam types away. The pads of his fingers feel kind of numb.

The phone buzzes in his hand a few seconds later. Adam hits the ‘accept’ button.

“Some work-out machine. He’s got me convinced I’ve got to work on my abs a little. Well, okay. A lot,” Kris says.

“How much is it?”

“$59,99, and I’ll get a fruit peeler if I order now. It’s a pretty sweet fruit peeler, I gotta say.”

Adam scratches his stomach. “Seems like a good deal to me.”

“I’m tempted. Did I wake you up?”

“Nah, I just got home. It’s all fine.”

“You sound a little off, is all. I thought I woke you up or something.”

“No, no,” Adam says, then laughs a little. “I took some acid earlier, I’m still kinda tripping a little. That’s probably it.”

It’s kind of cold so Adam pulls the cover up a little, until it brushes his collarbones. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

In the kitchen, freon kicks in with a loud whoosh. A car passes by, music blasting.

“Couldn’t. Too much coffee.”

Adam runs his hand down his chest. His skin is warm and yields under the press of his fingers easily. He’s kind of horny. He toys with the waistband of his pajama pants and thinks about making Kris talk about something, whatever, just long enough to wrap his fingers around his dick and jerk off. It doesn’t seem fair, though. He says, “You should stay at my place. When we go in the studio, I mean.”

“Hm,” Kris says.

“I’ve got a sweet-ass pull-out couch.”

“Are you sure you want me in your face for another couple of weeks?”

“Yeah, I think I can deal. Plus, you know,” Adam laughs, “I wanna take you to a gay bar, gay bar.”

“I wanna spend all your money, at a gay bar, gay bar,” Kris hums without missing a beat. “We need whip cracks in the background, though.”

Adam looks at the ceiling, at the shadows and the light creeping up the far end. It’s all bright, vivid. He says, “I’m pretty sure I had a whip somewhere in here.”

Kris laughs. “Now that’s an invitation I’ve been wanting to hear, Lambert!”

“You’ve got it,” Adam says, rolling onto his side. His muscles ache a little already. It feels good. “Seriously though. Think about it, okay? Think about it and let me know.”

“I will.”

“Okay, good. I’m gonna crash now, okay? I’m beat.”

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll get back to you about this.”

“You do that. ‘Night, Kris.”

“Yeah, man. Sleep tight.”

Adam leaves the phone on the pillow, then rolls to the other side of the bed. The patch of light has crept to the center of the ceiling, blue and bright. It’s full moon. Adam thinks about werewolves. He laughs to himself.

--

Funny thing is, Kris doesn’t seem too uncomfortable with the way the guy’s draped over the table, right in Kris’ face in all his sparkly glory. It’s the type of guy Adam would go for, a little over the top and very blatant about what he wants.

There’s no doubt what he wants now, hands splayed over the tabletop, fingers framing Kris’ empty glass as he says something. Adam entertains the idea of giving them some more time, seeing how the situation resolves itself. He’s a little curious as to how Kris would handle this, if he’d lead the guy on, teasing him without actually meaning to, or if he’d finally tell him to just fuck off. It doesn’t seem very likely, though.

“Hey.” Adam slides into the booth next to Kris, depositing two glasses of Screwdriver on the table. Kris looks up with a lopsided smile and Adam fights the urge to laugh. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Adam.”

The guy gives him a once over and it’s a little flattering; would be more under different circumstances. “Hi, Adam.”

Adam cups his hand around the back of Kris’ neck and pulls him in to say right into his ear, “Am I interrupting?” He’s putting up a show here, lingering those two extra seconds and letting his lips brush Kris’ cheek. He’s good at this, he knows. He enjoys doing it.

They guy holds up his hands as if to say, hey, I didn’t know before slinking away, hips swaying ever so slightly. Adam can’t help but look after him for a second. He’s interupted when Kris starts laughing; they’re pressed close enough that he can feel it.

Adam grins. “Rites of passage, Allen. There’s no escaping it.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“C’mon, drink up and we’ll get going. I think it’s enough for one night.”

There’s a taxi rank just two blocks over, and they walk. It’s still pretty warm but the rising wind blows over Adam’s sweaty hair in a way that isn’t entirely pleasant.

Kris bumps his shoulder into Adam’s. “You totally just cock-blocked me out there, didn’t you?”

Adam laughs. “You’re so out of your depth here.”

Kris laughs, too, looking up at the sky. “I know.”

“Come on,” Adam says, pulling him into one of the waiting cars. The ride is relatively short, traffic pretty tame at this hour. Adam sinks low in the seat, knees falling apart. He can smell the smoke lingering on the fabric of his jacket, stale and kind of gross. He sighs, tipping his head back. “I call first shower.”

Kris lolls his head sideways to look at him. His smile is slow and open and fucking everything Adam wants to see every single fucking day for the rest of his fucking life.

“Like hell you do,” Kris says.

--

“I honestly thought Mike was going to flip his shit,” Kris says, laughter audible in his voice. Adam can see his bare feet in the bathroom mirror.

He runs a towel over his face, then slings it over the edge of the tub. He’s barely upright and his eyes threaten to close any second. Recording an album is definitely not as awesome as it’s cracked up to be. Fucking hell.

Adam pads to the bedroom and crawls under the covers. Or more like, the part Kris isn’t lying on.

“Don’t pass out on me, man,” Kris says, rolling onto his side. His face is inches away from Adam’s when Adam makes the effort of opening his eyes. One eye. “You can sleep here. You can even take the pillow, I don’t care. Just stop talking,” he mumbles, letting his eyes fall shut again. He feels like someone dropped a ton of rocks on him.

There’s a second, two, of silence, filled with their breathing and a distant wailing of a police siren, then Kris says, voice hushed like he thinks Adam might be asleep already, “’Kay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Not if I see you first,” Adam mumbles with a smile that barely lifts the cornes of his mouth. He falls asleep to Kris’ fingers splayed warmly in the crook of his elbow.

--

Adam goes out with a bunch of friends and gets drunk. They stop by to get coffee on their way to the Owl, and by the time Adam gets off at his station he’s tipsy instead of shitfaced. He walks the rest of the way. He wonders if Kris is awake. He feels a little bad for leaving him alone but he had asked Kris to come along and Kris had said no.

He gets the key in the lock in the third try. The lightbulb above his head flickers ominously and Adam feels like that character from a horror movie, the one that dies first. It’s not that bad a part, actually. The first and the last victim always get the most screen time compared to those in between. It’s pretty okay.

The apartment welcomes him with the soft murmur of the TV and a patch of light spilling out from the open bathroom door. Adam toes off his shoes and throws his jacket over the back of the couch. Kris is probably going to bitch at him about it, maybe push it to the floor before he goes to sleep and leave it like that. It wouldn’t be unprecedented.

Kris is in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. Adam leans against the doorframe. “Hey.”

Kris gives him a smile over his toothbrush and a mouthful of foam, holds up his hand. Adam stands there watching him when he goes over his task methodically – front, back, up and down, in circles.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asks. He’s not precisely sure what time it is, but it feels like it’s late.

Kris spits out the toothpaste and rinses. “Got restless, I guess,” he says, wiping his mouth with the corner of his towel. “Then some action flick came on and I just kinda started watching it, and then the credits started rolling. You know how it goes.”

“You should’ve come with me. It was fun.”

“It’s okay. I got some work done. Finished that one song I was telling you about.”

“Oh, good. Great,” Adam says, then laughs. “I’m a little surprised Mrs. Henley didn’t call the cops on you, though.”

“There was some banging on the wall,” Kris admits. “Minor.”

Kris’ got a bruise right above his elbow from where Adam grabbed him a few days ago, right before some soccer mom nearly ran him over in the Walmart parking lot. It flickers in the mirror, purple with a tint of yellow, when Kris moves.

It’s exactly three and a half steps from the sink to the door, Adam counted it once. It’s easy to reach out and wrap his fingers around Kris’ wrist, somewhere between his second and third step. There’s cheerful music coming from the living room, some overly chipper voice. Laundry detergent commercial, Adam thinks distantly.

He strokes his thumb over the side of Kris’ neck, down, until it rests in the dip of his collarbone. Kris isn’t pulling away. He looks up at Adam and blinks once, twice.

Adam’s head feels like it’s filled with cotton when he leans down to kiss him. Kris’ lips are dry in the way they always are right after you brush your teeth, smooth when Adam touches his tongue to the corner of Kris’ mouth.

The doorframe is digging into his back so Adam shifts until it fits into the dip of his spine, pulls Kris with him. Kris’ tongue tastes like Adam’s toothpaste, mint and lemon. He smells clean and warm. It doesn’t seem fair, because Adam smells like cigarette smoke and sweat, and there’s a sour aftertaste on his tongue from the coffee. Kris isn’t pulling away.

Adam’s entire body is buzzing. He wonders if Kris can feel it when he touches Adam’s back, fingers splayed just under his shoulderblades. Suddenly, Adam wants to touch skin, too. He runs his hands down Kris’ back and up, sliding them under his t-shirt, bunching it up as he goes up again until the tips of his fingers rest at the top of Kris’ spine. It pulls Kris a little closer so Adam bends his left knee to accommodate him. He moves his hands a few inches, feels the short hairs at the nape of Kris’ neck. It’s been a long time since Adam had his hair this short. Kris sighs against his mouth, runs his knuckles over the bumps of Adam’s spine and Adam bows off the doorframe on a groan he’s too drunk and turned on to think about muffling.

Two seconds later and there’s a load bang on the wall. Then another, and another. Thud, thudthudthud.

They break apart, and look at each other. Then Kris cracks up. “Seriously.”

Adam frowns. He kinds of hates Mrs. Henley’s guts right now. “Okay, that was totally uncalled for.”

“Apparently, she’s had enough for the day,” Kris says. He’s not laughing anymore, just smiling with the corner of his mouth. He licks his lips and it’s kind of self-conscious all of a sudden. Adam looks away.

“I’m,” he starts but doesn’t know what to say next. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Kris opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it. Finally, he says, “It’s okay.”

It felt okay, it felt fucking amazing, but right now Adam isn’t so sure it is okay. He’s still pretty drunk and a hell lot of confused right now. “I’m gonna crash. I’m kind of. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Kris looks at him for a long minute before finally moving out of Adam’s way. He sighs. “Sleep tight.”

Adam undresses, leaving his clothes in a messy pile in the middle of the room, then sits at the edge of the bed. He rubs at his eyes; they sting a little from the eyeliner. He thinks, fuck this.

--

“Where are you?” Adam needs to blink a couple of times before he wakes up enough to actually process what Kris is saying. “Adam?”

“Yeah,” Adam mutters, “I’m here.”

“It’s half past ten. Are you going in later today or something?”

And that’s when it clicks. “Fuck.”

Kris laughs. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“Dude, it’s not funny.” Adam scrambles out of bed. He’s already late by half an hour. He’s screwed.

“Okay, then. I’m gonna hang up now that you’re awake and all.”

Adam has no memory of waking up and switching the alarm off. He would have overslept by a lot more had Kris not called him. “Hey, Kris? Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. See ya.”

Adam calls the studio between gathering his clothes and hopping into the shower. He doesn’t bother making up excuses, just tells Andy he’ll be over in an hour. It’s probably a huge bout of optimism on his part but Andy just grumbles, “Yeah, yeah. Get your ass over here,” and hangs up. He reminds Adam of his dad a lot.

--

“Let’s. Fuck, I don’t know. Let’s take a break,” Morgan says, rubbing at his left eye. Adam hears him over the speaker and sees him talk through the glass but it feels like those are two things happening separately.

Adam takes off his headphones and stretches, going onto his tiptoes. His bones crack.

The coffee from the machine outside is pretty terrible but it’s the only one available. Adam gets a cup with double milk and double sugar and walks down the hallway to take his usual spot. There’s a window at the end, with the last hints of light coming through it. Adam thinks, What would Mulder do? then laughs to himself.

He perches on the windowsill and drinks his coffee methodically. There’s a dull thudding at the back of his skull, it’s really annoying.

He’s in the middle of texting his mom when Kris tumbles out the door at Adam’s left.

“Hi,” Kris says with a deep sigh. He sounds tired. Frustrated.

“What’s wrong?” Adam asks, cradling the phone between his palms for a second before slipping it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Fuck, it’s. I don’t even know, man. They’re driving me crazy, I’m driving them crazy and I’m so ready for this day to be over.”

Adam laughs and reaches to pull him into a side hug. Kris groans and tucks his face into the crook of Adam’s neck. He mutters, “So ready.”

“You can have some of my shitty coffee, if you want.”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

Adam laughs and, when Kris pulls back, digs his fingers into the tight knot of muscle in his shoulder. Kris groans, tips his head forward. “Keep doing that.”

“I can give you a proper massage when we get home. I’m pretty sure I even have some massage oils left.”

“The Lambert Spa, huh?” Kris glances over at him with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Mani-pedi at a twenty percent discount,” Adam says before he squeezes Kris’ shoulder one last time and lets go. “I’m gonna head back inside. Hopefuly they’ve figured out what they want me to do by now.”

“Okay,” Kris says, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

--

“Hey,” Kris says, standing in the doorway. He hits the lull between two songs and it’s the only reason Adam actually hears him.

He takes the earbuds out. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Just bored.”

“C’mere.” Adam pats the bed beside him and scoots to make more space. Kris crawls on the bed knee-hand-knee, like a kid. Or a cat, Adam can’t decide.

“What are you listening to?”

“Bowie.” Adam is tired of listening to his own voice, on repeat all day long, with reverb, with pitch, with echo, through a vocoder, whatever-the-fuck. He’s tired.

Kris grabs one of the earbuds and curls on his side next to Adam. He grins. “It’s like a junior high field trip. Sweet.”

Adam grins back, taps out the rhythm on his own stomach. There’s a patch of light slanting across the opposite wall, separating it in half. The line flickers and blurs when the voltage jumps minutely. Adam stills his hand, splays his fingers wide, feeling the heat of his own skin seep through the fabric. He kind of wants to touch Kris’ neck.

Kris’ eyes flick up and he catches Adam looking. Adam doesn’t bother looking away.

Kris says, “Are you thinking about kissing me?”

Adam doesn’t see the reason to lie. “Yeah.”

Kris doesn’t hesitate when he says. “Then do it.”

I see you see me through your window, David Bowie sings into Adam’s right ear. The earbud falls out when Adam shifts to lean on his elbow. He looks at Kris. Kris looks back at him. It’s the weirdest five seconds of Adam’s life.

Kris’ eyes fall shut when Adam touches his neck, with just his fingertips. Adam is very, very careful not to jostle the cord when he slides his hand under it to curl around the back of Kris’ neck. He wonders what verse Kris is on.

Adam hovers. He counts out the beat like they taught him when he got his first part in a musical that required actual dancing; one-and-two-and --

Kris breathes out against his lips when Adam leans down, and fucks the rhythm all to hell. Adam’s laughing, just a little, when he kisses him.

--

“Food’s here!” Adam announces, balancing four take-out boxes and trying to close the door with his foot. “Ha.”

He hands Kris two of the boxes, puts his own on the coffee table and goes to get the beer from the fridge.

“I feel like an exemplary wife here. What’s up with that?” he says, flopping onto the couch next to Kris and tearing the chopsticks wrapper with his teeth.

“I don’t know, but it’s nice.” Kris grins, kicking his feet up on the table and digging in.

Adam sighs dramatically. “The shit I go through for you, Allen.”

They eat in silence, watching Mel Gibson dislocate his shoulder on a wall. The light coming from the screen is pretty dim and Adam’s having a hard time fishing out the bits of chicken from his box.

“You’re not my bi-curious phase. Thing. Whatever,” Kris says suddenly. Adam looks over at him but Kris is looking at the screen. Adam says, “Okay.”

“Okay. Pass me the beer?”

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-05-30T22:24:00

2009-05-30T20:27:12Z

Ahahahaha.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-05-26T16:02:00

2009-05-26T14:07:09Z

This Will Destroy You - A Three-legged Workhorse
One of the best post-rock bands out there, hands down.

Dave Matthews Band - Gravedigger
Gives me chills every time I listen to it.

Stray Cats - Stray Cat Strut
Great rockabilly piece.

Lupe Fiasco ft. Kanye West, Pharrell & Thom Yorke - Us Placers
It just can't get any more awesome than this.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-05-24T19:43:00

2009-05-24T18:02:27Z

This must be the BEST ICON EVER.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-05-21T13:32:00

2009-05-21T11:35:01Z

I had a dream Spencer started a side project that he called MILK & BARFS.

Wtf brain, seriously :|

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-05-04T17:37:00

2009-05-04T15:48:48Z

Hi, I'm feeling particularly nosy today \o/ Hence:

In-college flisters, what are you majoring in? What are your plans for after you're done with college, do you have any?

High school flisters, what are your plans for college?

the fast and the furious fic, yo.

2009-05-02T15:01:21Z

A SQUID EATING DOUGH IN A POLYETHYLENE BAG IS FAST AND BULBOUS.

keep it loose, keep it tight
Brian/Dom || 2400 words || G

Many thanks to bkm5191 for looking this over. Drunk beta is the best beta.

“Shit.” Some beer spills when Dom cracks the bottle open, trickling down the gaps between his fingers; he wipes his hand on the back of his jeans. The second one overflows too, like someone had shaken the bottle before putting it in the fridge. Letty does that sometimes, picking a few bottles at random and shaking them in a weird-ass version of Russian roulette. She’s got herself more times that she has any of them, but Dom’s not going to point that out.

He takes the Coronas with him, two bottles dangling from his fingers as he walks through the house. There are people milling around and the music is so loud Dom can feel the thrum of the bass in his bones. He steps over Leon and Letty, both sprawled on the floor and engrossed in San Andreas. Letty calls Leon a fucking dickwit and Leon calls her a tight-assed bitch. It’s the only time he can get away with shit like that because Letty’s too focused on the game to pay attention.

Vince salutes Dom with his bottle over some brunette’s back. She’s curled in his lap, long hair falling down the smooth expanse of her back. Dom can almost feel the heat of her skin, can almost smell her perfume. He slaps Vince on the shoulder as he passes by, mutters, “Way to go, man.”

The garage is open and lit like a Christmas tree. Brian’s feet are sticking from under the Supra; the sole of his left shoe is starting to peel off. “Hey, man,” Dom says, “Chill a bit, will ya?”

Brian rolls the dolly out, fingers wrapped over the edge of the chassis. “Yo, what’s up?”

“There’s a party out there,” Dom says, handing him the beer, “and you’re hiding out here working on a car. That’s unhealthy.”

Brian accepts the bottle with a grateful smile and downs half of it in one go. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark trail of grease on his skin. “Exactly what I needed, man,” he says with a bright grin, rolling the dolly back and forth a couple of times. The music from the house is still audible but barely. It’s mostly just the heavy thump of bass and the occasional uproar of people cheering over something.

“So, what are you up to?” Dom asks, leaning against the side of the car. The bottle is sweating in his hand and against his t-shirt where he’s cradling it to his stomach. There’s not much left in it but the glass is still cool.

“I’m almost done.” Brian says, setting the bottle aside and rolling back under the car. His voice is muted when he says, “Pass me the spanner?”

Dom fishes for it in the toolbox only to find it lying on the floor next to it. He taps Brian’s thigh with it and puts it in his hand.

“Thanks. Fuel injection kept getting cut over five-six k, it was pissing me off.”

“Tried the pump?” Dom squats down next to Brian’s legs, and takes a long pull of his beer, finishing it off.

“First thing I did, man. Nothing. My bet’s on the limiter, that’s what I’m doing now. If it doesn’t help I’ll get Jesse to recalibrate the rev meter. Okay,” Brian grunts, and there’s a clank of the wrench against the concrete. “All done.”

The dolly rolls out again reavealing Brian’s smudged face. He gets up with a grunt, rolling his shoulder back. “Fucking hell. I’m too old for this.”

Dom laughs. “Whiny bitch.”

“You’ve just set an opening for a shitload of ‘your mom’ jokes, you know that, right?”

Dom gives Brian an indulgent smile, running his hand over the hood of the Supra. The lacquered surface is cold and smooth beneath his palm. “Shut up, Spilner. Let’s take her for a ride.”

They ease the car off of the blocks, and Dom puts the hood down. He watches Brian as he cleans up perfunctorily, biting his tongue not to laugh. Brian borders on compulsive when it comes to his car.

Brian fires up the engine and it comes to life with a low, soft rumble. “Get in, Toretto. We’re not gonna wait on you forever.”

Brian eases out of the garage like it’s driving lesson. The wheels don’t screech on the asphalt, there’s no burning rubber; nothing. Dom buckles up and Brian grins at him. “Afraid to ride with me?”

“Shitless,” Dom says, his face impassive. Brian laughs, and his foot gets heavier on the gas. The car is gaining speed slowly but Dom can already feel the inertia pushing him into his seat. His muscles relax just like that, entire body surrendering to the pull.

Then Brian floors it. His hand on the gear shift is lax but precise. Always precise.

What’s going on the road is by no means a rush hour but there are some cars cruising at what is not really a leisurely pace either. Brian manoeuvers the Supra in between them, leaving no more than literally a few inches of space when he passes by. There’s honking and someone flips them off through an open window.

Riding shotgun is not exactly in the top ten of things Dom likes best in his life. Mostly, it’s annoying because it’s somewhere between being the passenger and being the driver, right there but not quite. What you see is pretty much the same; what you can do is a whole different story. Even riding backseat is better because at least you know precisely what you are. You’re a passenger, with no control over what’s going on. Up front it’s different, it’s easy to get fooled.

There are only a few people that Dom rides shotgun with – Vince, Leon, sometimes Hector. He doesn’t do it with Letty, ever. She's a good driver - objectively he knows that - but she’s too impulsive, too rapid to make decisions that aren’t always good. Brian’s like that, too – he’s downright fucking crazy, that’s what he is – but there’s something about him that makes it easy – easier – for Dom to trust him when he’s behind the wheel. With Brian though, it’s not about being out of control and struggling with it. It’s about giving the control up, and giving in.

Dom’s fought all his life not to let anyone take the control from him, and fought hard. With Brian though, it’s just something that happens. Even the first time, when he had saved Dom’s ass from the cops, telling him, I’m your good grace, it hadn’t felt like that much of a stretch. And it’s not like Dom had had a choice then, really, but to get in the car with him – but still. Still.

“What are you waiting for, Arizona?” Dom says, looking at the empty expance of road in front of them as they climb up the ramp for the freeway. “Show me whatcha got.”

Brian glances at him and grins, bright and challenging. “This not good enough for you, Toretto?”

Dom can feel the pull when Brian shifts to fifth, gaining speed with minimal delay. The engine purrs like a satisfied cat. Dom laughs. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

It’s maybe a couple of miles later when there’s flash of red and blue behind them, a siren wailing. The lights reflect in the rearview mirror, painting Brian’s face in demented smudges. Brian chuckles. “Aww, shit.”

“We’re not over fifty six hundred yet, are we?” Dom asks, turning around to look through the rear window.

“Nope,” Brian confirms, voice cheerful.

“What you did down there better be the right thing.”

Brian gives him a manic grin. “Let’s see.”

It’s just a matter of seconds before the police car starts falling back. It’s a factory car, speed limit and all, and it doesn’t stand a chance with a souped up Supra. Brian speeds up a bit, and changes gears. Nothing weird happens - the car doesn’t start slowing down, just keeps gaining speed, slowly but steadily. The engine hums, a low rumble that makes Dom’s entire body vibrate at the same rate. Brian’s thumb hovers over the NOS button. Dom wonders if the cylinder is even loaded.

“Nah,” Brian says, “Let’s play fair.” He reduces gears, lets the police car come level with them. It’s barely 70 mph when it does, drawing closer with a sound of a run-down engine.

“It’s never been fair play in the first place,” Dom says, shaking his head at the two policemen, mock-sad. Brian laughs, speeding up again with no remorse. He weaves his way through the bustle of cars on the middle lane, then cuts right in front of a silver Corvette on the left lane. Fifth gear, sixth, and they leave it far behind.

Brian hoots, thumping his hand against the steering wheel. It makes the car swerve a little, and Brian laughs, putting it back in gear with a gentle flick of his wrist. Blood rushes in Dom’s ears, kind of painfully. He lets out a long breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and grins at the front window. “I guess it was the limiter, after all.”

Brian looks over at him with a brilliant smile. His breathing is faster than normal, a little shallow, eyes bright. Dom likes that look on him.

Brian’s still riding his adrenalin rush when he takes the exit off the freeway a couple miles later and pulls over after another minute or two of driving along the promenade. He gets out of the car with an exclaimed, “Fuck yeah!” that echoes in the silence of the night like a gunshot. Dom leans against the railing that’s separating the boardwalk from the beach and watches Brian as he stretches, reaching his hands over his head. Dom can see the hard line of his dick against the denim of his jeans. Brian’s completely unashamed of it as he walks over and hops on the railing, facing the ocean. “Man,” he laughs, shaking his head.

Brian thigh is pressed against Dom’s side and he’s so close Dom can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell the sweat. The air is warm but the breeze is picking up, brushing over the damp skin of Dom’s back in a cool puff.

“You gonna stick around for Race Wars?” he asks, looking up at the overpass where a couple of kids on bikes are making their way up.

Brian’s voice is drawled-out, lazy, when he says, “I’m not going anywhere, man. Besides,” Brian laughs a little, “Mia says you own me.”

Dom tips his back a little to glance at Brian. “Do I?”

Brian gives him a sideways look, his grin wide and eyes challenging. “I don’t know, you tell me.”

And there it is, he’s doing it again. Fucking flirting with Dom. He does it sometimes when he’s high on adrenalin, reckless and pushing, always pushing. Occassionaly, he’d do it when they’re working on a car, with people around and it’s easier to ignore him then, easier to just laugh it off. When they’re alone though Dom sometimes feels the urge to push back, see how far Brian would let him take it, how far he’d go before chickening out.

Dom supposes it might be a lot further that he gives Brian credit for. “I own your car. With you, it’s more like lease.”

It’s quiet for a moment, then Brian laughs, bright and easy. “It better be long-term, Toretto. Like I said, I ain’t going anywhere.”

Dom pushes himself off the railing. “Good.” His body feels heavy, sated. He doesn’t want to move. “Come on, Spilner, let’s get going.”

Brian hops off the railing without any protest, the soles of his shoes thumping lightly on the asphalt. “You wanna drive?”

Dom shakes his head. “I’ve had a couple more beers than you, I’ll pass.” There’s stupid and there’s stupid. Dom’s not a fan of the latter.

“Okay, then.” Brian grins. “Get in. Your chariot awaits.”

This time Brian drives just a little over the speed limit. He keeps looking over at Dom like he’s waiting for Dom to tell him to cut this shit, to drive at what the car’s been made for. Dom just leans against the door and doesn’t say a word, just to spite him. He feels good, sleepy and kind of horny despite it.

He laughs when Brian finally breaks, mutters, “Fuck this shit,” and floors it. Dom looks out the window on the passenger side, letting the lights and the colors blur right in front of his eyes, tangled smudges as they drive faster, faster.

Brian parks out front this time, right beside Jesse’s Jetta. Dom stretches, looks at him questioningly.

“Gotta be at Harry’s in three hours,” Brian smiles mournfully, the engine still running.

“Like that’s stopped you before,” Dom says, getting out of the car. There’s a scent of barbecue floating in the air and Dom’s hungry all of a sudden.

“Nah, man. I gotta get some sleep. I’m beat.”

“Okay, then,” Dom lets go. He leans against the door briefly before shutting it. “I’ll see you around.”

Brian laughs. “You bet.”

Dom stands in the driveway watching until the taillights of the Supra disappear behind the curve of the road.

“What’s up with Arizona?” Vince appears at Dom’s side, beer bottle in hand. His speech is a little slurred and he himself is far past the line of ‘tipsy’, edging straight into ‘shitfaced drunk’. The antipathy in his voice is still loud and clear though.

“Nothing,” Dom says, throwing an arm over Vince’s shoulders and hauling him back into the house.

Letty’s in the kitchen, mixing drinks. She looks up with a smile when she sees him. Dom crowds her against the counter, murmurs, “Hey, babe.”

She goes pliant against him in an instant, tipping her head back and letting him trail a wet line up her neck with his mouth and tongue. She’s soft and smells like soap and citrus shampoo, clean and warm.

Dom can still feel the rumble of the engine at the base of his spine when she rides him, up in his room, the sheets tangled around them. His hands are firm on her hips, guiding her and setting the rhythm until her every move is exactly what he wants.

Until he’s in control again.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-04-29T19:41:00

2009-04-29T17:53:13Z

You know who is awesome? I am awesome. I managed to cut my leg open on a bed. A BED. Seriously, you guys, only me :|

I also went to see a doctor about my tonsillitis today, which I failed to do a week ago when it actually started. I got a prescription for what is probably the most expensive syrup on the market. Wtf, seriously.

I also sneaked a peak at my medical record, according to which the last time I was sick was in 2004. There are two entries after that: a referral to a sports medicine doctor in 2006 and bruised ribs in 2007. For some reason I find this very amusing. Tonsillitis, not so much.

Who wants to write me some porn to make it better? D:

*is cunning*

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-04-23T13:00:00

2009-04-23T12:00:04Z

nobody's looking for a puppeteer in today's wintry economic climate
Tom/Sean || 3000 words || nc-17

Sean is sick. Tom is drunk. They have sex. End of intriguing summary.

Dear Tom & Sean. I write porn because I love! ;_;

Many thanks to bkm5191 for the beta. Title from Being John Malkovich.

Sean’s usual MO in the event of coming down with something is to swallow down half of the medicine cabinet and hope for the best. Average efficacy varies between mostly unspectacular to efficacy? what efficacy?, with one memorable case of puking his guts out at a truck stop somewhere in West Virginia.

Sean isn’t easily discouraged, though. He hates being sick. He also hates going to the doctor’s, so that kind of narrows his options down to whatever he can self administer. Sean’s supply of NyQuil, in all of its variations, is truly impressive.

It also tends to shrink rapidly whenever he actually gets sick, and by the time they play a show at Subterranean – and Sean really, really needs to be upright and at least remotely coherent – he's down to half a bottle of NyQuil D and three Liquicaps. Sean makes Ryan drive around until they find an open drug store and stocks up like the apocalypse is coming. It’s going to be a long weekend, he can already feel that.

The show is okay but not spectacular by any means. They have to cut the set to nine songs because Sean is starting to lose his voice (NyQuil Cough comes in handy but it’s not enough), and even if the audience doesn’t seem to mind all that much Sean still feels pretty shitty about it. Someone from the crowd yells, “Get better, man!” and a girl from the front row smiles at him like she wants to take him home and make him chicken soup for a week. Sean is a little tempted.

He manages to resist, though, and helps the guys pack the van. Al hands him a lukewarm beer with a sympathetic pat on the back, and shoos him off. Acetaminophen interacts with alcohol, and interacts badly. Sean knows it, but he ignores it, too thristy to resist. He must be running a temperature already. Sean downs half of the bottle in one go. He doesn't immediately throw up all over the place, so he figures he's going to be okay.

He dozes on and off during the drive home, hopped up on NyQuil and a little tipsy. Tom shakes him awake when Max drops them off at their place; Sean grabs his acoustic from the trunk and follows Tom up the stairs. Tom huffs and swears his way through a curse word dictionary before he manages to unlock the door.

“One day,” Sean says contemplatively, “One day, Conrad, we’re gonna change the damn lock.”

Tom huffs a laugh and kicks the door the open. “Sure,” he says. He sways a little.

Sean manages it as far as the couch in the den before he decides he’s too fucking tired to go any further.

He doubles over to retrive the blanket from under the couch. There are dust bunnies all over it; Sean can’t remember the last time either of them vacuumed. He dusts it off, then wraps himself in it head to toe.

“What’s on?” Tom asks, coming from the kitchen with a bag of chips. He throws it on the couch, and goes to switch the TV on.

“Do I look like TV Guide to you?” Sean says, making himself comfortable against the arm of the couch and fishing for the remote between the cushions. Tom turns around with a raised eyebrow. Sean’s never learned that trick.

“Fuck you,” he says, kicking his legs to pull the blanket over his feet without having to let go of the remote. He knows Tom will grab it the second he lets it out if his eyesight and they’ll end up watching TV Market or whatever weird-ass porn Tom got from Nick lately. Sean is not in a mood for either one.

They end up watching porn anyway. Figures, it’s just Sean’s luck. It’s not like he’s opposed to porn, in general, the problem is Tom’s usual source for this kind of stuff is either Nick or Louis, which means it's either a. animal porn or b. dress-up porn, neither of which Sean is particularly fond of. Because, seriously.

“Dude, this is awful.”

Tom cackles. “I know!”

The girl onscreen is wearing what looks like a squid outfit. Or maybe Sean needs more NyQuil.

The CD is packed with ten-to-fifteen-minute clips, and a thirty-minute movie that they eventually settle for on. It features a girl dressed up as a girl scout, her fourty-year-old superior, and a wide range of other dudes. There’s even something resembling a plot. It mostly evolves around the girl wandering around trying to sell cookies and then accepting a fuck as a form of payment, but still.

“He’s totally going to pull her by the pigtails, isn’t he?”

Tom laughs over a mouthful of chips before handing the bag over to Sean. “God, I hope so.”

There’s mostly just crumbs left in the bag, so Sean grabs a handful and throws it into his mouth. It crunches satysfyingly between his teeth.

“I’ve got to piss,” Sean says, getting up. The blanket gets tangled around his calves and he nearly falls over, face down onto the coffee table.

“You’re gonna miss the ending,” Tom says, putting his feet on the coffee table as soon as Sean gets past him.

“Spoiler alert.” Sean says. “He’s going to come on her face.”

Tom boos him off. Sean laughs.

He’s kind of cold now that he’s out of the warm cocoon of the blanket. He must be running a temperature again. And sure enough, there’s a smudge of pink high over his cheeks when Sean looks in the mirror in the bathroom. He sighs. Being sick sucks.

He pees, and he has to wrestle with his dick a little so as not to get piss all over the wall. He’s half-hard; bad porn is still porn and sick Sean is still a guy.

Sean washes his hands and splashes some water on his face. His eyes in the mirror are glazed over and kind of unfocused. Sean grabs the NyQuil and drinks straight from the bottle, not bothering to measure. He’s totally going to OD on NyQuil and die but he can’t really bring himself to care.

He runs his tongue over his teeth to get rid of the residual aftertaste, then switches the light off.

When he gets back in the living room Tom’s switched to That 70s Show. Kelso is standing in the doorway, pushing at it with his hands.

“I gotta try this someday,” Tom says as Sean tucks his feet under his thighs and pulls the blanket over himself.

“I did, when I was a kid,” Sean admits. “It works.”

He wiggles around until Tom rests his hand atop of his calf and says, “Stop it.”

Sean does, even though he’s still not entirely comfortable. He knows it ticks Tom off sometimes, though, so he tries to keep still.

Tom drums his fingers on Sean’s leg, then curls them a little just under Sean's knee. His hand is warm, even through two layers of fabric. Tom’s hands are always warm.

After That 70s Show, Colour Me Kubrick comes on. Technically, Sean should probably just go to bed and sleep this whole flu away, but he hates staying in bed when he's sick because it makes him feel even worse.

“You’re totally gonna want to watch this, aren’t you?” Tom snickers as soon as John Malkovich’s name flashes across the screen.

“Fuck you,” Sean mutters but his voice is lacking heat. He kind of does have a boner for John Malkovich, there’s no denying it.

There’s a scene in the restaurant about thirty minutes in and suddenly Sean realizes that he hasn’t eaten a proper meal since – well, yesterday would be about it. He waits it out until a commercial break comes on, and goes to fix himself a sandwich.

He’s puttering around the kitchen when Tom appears in the doorway. Tom sways a little on his last step and that’s how Sean knows he’s still at least a little bit buzzed from earlier. Sean’s never been good at telling whether people are drunk or not. Usually, it needs to be something completely obvious to let him in on the person’s state of sobriety.

He turns around to glance at Tom and asks, “You want anything?”

“Nah,” Tom says. He doesn’t say anything else so Sean goes about his business. He’s almost done with his sandwich when he sees Tom move in his peripheral vision.

It doesn’t exactly come as a surprise when Tom steps up behind him, one hand on Sean’s hip, even though it maybe should. Tom noses at the back of Sean’s neck and it might be completely innocent, except Sean know it isn’t. The metal of Tom’s nose ring is cool against his skin.

“Tom,” he says, half a warning and half a question. He's not sure himself. Tom hums something in response and he’s so close Sean can almost feel the vibration on his skin. He shivers. There’s heat blooming from where Tom’s hand is, having slipped under the fabric of his shirt. Tom rubs his thumb over the skin there and Sean squirms a little. He’s still feverish and his skin is a little over-sensitized.

“Sorry,” Tom mutters, his movements stilling. His lips brush the side of Sean’s neck and Sean can’t help it, he tips his head to the side. It’s kind of fucked up, how well Tom knows how to push his buttons.

Tom uses his free hand to push the fabric of Sean’s hoodie and t-shirt aside and presses his lips against the juncture of Sean’s neck and shoulder. His lips are warm but compared to how hot Sean’s body feels, it’s almost a relief.

When Sean turns around slowly, both of Tom’s hands slide down to rest against his hips. There’s nothing demanding about it and it’s kind of fucked up, too, that Sean knows exactly what Tom is doing; he’s waiting.

Sean sighs. It’s not a thing, what they do. It’s just – well, whatever it is, Sean hasn’t said no yet, not once.

He runs his hand through Tom’s hair. It’s a little greasy and sifts through his fingers easily. Sean curls them around the back of Tom’s head and keeps his hand there when Tom leans in and presses his lips against his collarbone. There’s a soft hum of the TV coming from the living room and the clock above the door ticks its way to 2 a.m. Sean can hear himself breathing if he focuses on it, the rhythm a bit off.

“Is this shit contagious?” Tom mutters from the vicinity of Sean’s chin.

Sean laughs. “No idea. But yeah, probably.”

“Well, fuck it. I really want to kiss you right now.”

And Sean should probably know better, be the responsible adult here or whatever, but he opens up for Tom easily. Letting him run his tongue over his lips, his teeth, the roof of his mouth. They’re both perfectly still apart from that, and it’s quite a turn-on.

Sean shifts a little because the edge of the counter is digging into his ass, and Tom pulls back. He looks at Sean questioningly. Sean shakes his head, nothing.

Tom unzips his hoodie but doesn’t take it off, just slides his hand under Sean’s t-shirt. His hands are gentle and it’s still weird, knowing that Tom can be like that.

“Can we like, change scenery?” Tom asks.

“I don’t know,” Sean ponders, “I’m still pretty hungry.”

“Fuck you, van Vleet.”

Sean laughs. “Come on.”

They end up back in the living room with John Malkovich strutting across the screen in green polka-dot socks.

“It’s a totally weird-ass fantasy of yours, isn’t it?” Tom mumbles into Sean’s neck. “John Malkovich watching you have sex.”

Sean cracks up. “Shut up, seriously.”

Tom looks like he might say something so Sean puts a hand over his mouth. They just look at each other for a moment, the bluish light from the screen flickering over Tom’s face in an irregular pattern.

Not breaking eye contant, Tom pushes his tongue flat against the center of Sean’s palm. He tilts his head to the side and licks a long flat line until his tongue dips in the space between Sean’s fingers, then pushes. Sean pulls his hand back with a breathless laugh. His skin is damp and warm and it feels kind of nice, even if a little gross.

Sean shifts around, lets his legs fall apart, and pulls Tom between them. Tom’s neck is a little prickly already when he runs his hand over it, fingers scraping over the stubble. Tom tips his head back, leans into it. The movement pushes his hips into Sean’s and Tom rocks a little, as if testing how much space this allows him.

Sean can feel himself getting hard. He presses his thumb against Tom’s jaw and pulls him in for a kiss. This time, it’s open-mouthed and kind of sloppy, but still pretty languid. Sean doesn’t think he could make his body do anything more than that, really.

If Sean were to decide what happens next, he’d be perfectly happy with the two of them rocking against each other until they wear themselves out. Tom, apparently, has different plans.

He slides off the couch and pulls at Sean’s leg until he sits up properly, then slides in between Sean’s legs, curling one hand under Sean’s knee to pull himself closer. He doesn’t bother getting Sean’s pants all the way off, just pulls them down some.

Onscreen, John Malkovich is rocking a white fur coat.

“Dude, seriously,” Tom huffs, reaching blindly for the remote and turning the TV off.

Sean means to protest but Tom picks this particular moment to wrap his mouth around his dick. Sean was totally watching, so what. He’d give up Malkovich for Tom’s mouth – for Tom, really - any given day. But Tom doesn’t need to know that.

Tom can be a real cocktease sometimes but apparently today he's showing mercy to Sean. He doesn’t fuck around, just swallows Sean’s dick nearly all the way down. Sean can’t help but to buck up a little. It makes Tom throw his arm over Sean’s hips. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sean says, breathless.

He grips at the backrest and tries not to black out when he comes. The blood is rushing through his veins like he’s about to have a heart attack, a steady, kind of painful buzz in his head. Sean is possibly tripping a little. The NyQuil should have kicked in by now but apparently it hasn’t.

It takes him a moment to get back to reality. He feels waves of hot and cold running through his body and it’s a serious fucking problem, keeping his eyes open.

“I can suck you off,” he offers feably, “Just, in a minute.”

“No,” Tom says firmly. “I don’t want your bacteria anywhere near my dick.”

“You want me to jerk you off?”

“Yeah. I’ll take a raincheck on that blowjob, though.”

So Sean does. He lets Tom curl against him and jerks him off fast and rough. Tom bites into Sean’s shoulder when he comes and that’s ow, definitely too much stimulation. Sean’s skin aches like someone beat him up with a baseball bat.

Sean runs his hands over Tom’s face, his neck, his shoulders when Tom comes down. Tom likes being touched after he’d come, Sean knows.

It’s strangely quiet without the TV, just the two of them breathing and the distant noise of the city behind closed windows.

“I’m going to pass out any second now,” Sean warns, entwining his fingers at small of Tom’s back. He wouldn’t mind staying like this but his body is a fucking bastard traitor.

“Yeah,” Tom sighs, pulling back. There’s a tint of post-orgasmic blush on his cheeks. Sean kind of stupidly likes that look on him. “Just get into a bed first, will you?”

Sean would also love to take a shower but no way that is happening anytime soon. He really feels like he might collapse the second he gets up. “Yes, mom.”

“Way to ruin the mood, asshole.”

“We had a mood?”

“Yes, fuck you. Somewhere between John fucking Malkovich and you calling me mom, yes, there was a mood."

Tom is grinning though, so it’s not like he’s really pissed. Sean gets up, feeling kind of dizzy all of a sudden; his vision swims a little. “Fuck, I really hate being sick.”

“Uncle Tom’s patented treatment will you get all better, no worries.”

“A mood, huh?”

“Shut up,” Tom grins. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”

When Tom knocks at his door the next morning, Sean’s just drifting awake. He mumbles, “Come on in.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Tom announces, walking in. His voice sounds like it’s about to break.

Sean wants to laugh but he’s pretty sure Tom would actually end him if he did.

“Well,” he says patting the bed, “hop in. We can die together. There’s a bottle of NyQuil on the floor, help yourself.”

“Sweet,” Tom rasps, but he gets under the covers anyway. He’s warm, alarmingly so, when he curls on his side next to Sean.

“Which one of us is going to call Max and cancel the practice?” Sean asks.

Tom flaps his hand listlessly. “Not it.”

“I’ll do it later,” Sean sighs. That was not going to go over too well.

They lay in silence for a while. Then Tom says, “On the upside, we can have a shitload of sex now. Nothing to lose at this point.”

Sean laughs. “I like the way you think, Conrad.”

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-04-22T19:39:00

2009-04-22T17:42:31Z

Guys, why haven't I been informed about this? 14-year-old Brendon! Singing! YOU ARE ALL FIRED.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-04-22T12:47:00

2009-04-22T10:50:34Z

Am I a bad person considering how much this cracks me up?

ETA: A question. Do you think Sean cursing a lot would be OOC?

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-04-10T21:28:00

2009-04-10T19:32:07Z

I had a dream I was in a terrorist organization and we were going to drop an atom bomb on Germany.

Don't defriend me, German flisters! I don't want to drop an atom bomb on Germany in real life, I swear! ;_;

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-04-08T18:06:00

2009-04-08T16:36:04Z

There's a band. They're called Phonochrome and they're from Portland. Dustin Allen, their singer, has one of the most entrancing voices I've ever heard, hands down.

Here's a couple of songs:

Away From Me
The Voice
Master Plan

I ripped them from their MySpace (which you can find here, by the way) because I have no shame. There's a few more available HERE for $0,99 each. I'd buy them but I can't because they don't accept payments from outside the US. If any of you decided it's worth spending a couple of bucks, though, and wouldn't mind sharing with me, I WOULD LOVE YOU FOREVER AND EVER.

Like I said, no shame.

battleofhydaspe @ 2009-04-01T23:16:00

2009-04-01T21:21:17Z

So, apparently the entire Panic + Shane & Regan collectively moved to California, and Ryan is now savvy enough for an iPhone.

Fuck, I love these people. They're so easy to stalk.