he's got a mind like a sewer and a heart like a fridge
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RPS RANCH...
So I thought, hey, those fics where everybody realizes they're gay because of a sudden infatuation? What if they don't realize they're gay, and continue having het!sex? And this came out.
Joel/Aaron, Joel/Linzi. Featuring stronglyindenial!Joel and scarletletter!Linzi. Lots of wordplay, because mmm wordplay.
so this is where he came to hide
when he ran from you
in a private detective overcoat
and dirty dead man's shoes
Aaron used to say that Joel was maybe a little out of step. A man out of time. Hip to all the latest designs but there was this look in his eye, like he wasn't quite with it. Maybe like he was already thinking of the best ways to be nostalgic for his life.
Aaron used to sling his arm around Joel's neck and drag him close all buddy-buddy, skin on skin so tight Joel almost started believing that it never really got unstuck.
All hotel rooms look the same. Same paintings, same lamps, same grey bedsheets. The same damn beside table where Joel deposits his condoms immediately upon arrival. The same bathroom where he leans his face against the cool tile and listens to his heart beat.
Then there's the hotel lobby, with the bar and its attending bored bartender polishing glasses with his last shred of self-respect. Plush carpet that Joel's Vans sink into deeper with every drink. Chairs that are meant for the visitors in immediate transition, which makes an odd sort of sense. Chris and Benji always throw the complimentary coasters at each other, and Billy's always draped underneath Linzi, who's being dragged along for the duration.
Maybe it's resentment at that, or resentment in general, or maybe she's just sick of it all, but she always excuses herself with a winning smile and a kiss on Billy's cheek,
"I'm feeling kinda tired, babe. I think I'll go and take a bath, watch some Pay-Per-View. Is that okay with you, sweetie?"
(because she shoves as many terms of endearment as she can into every sentence, in a comically inept attempt to save him from her)
And some time later Joel extricates himself from a game of cards and creeps up to their room.
She dangles from his neck like tacky costume jewelry, holds his hand like a gauntlet. Whispers things in his ears that he isn't quite sure how to decipher. But her legs go from here to temptation, smooth calves rubbing against his back in some kind of Adultery Morse Code, bending and holding and drawing him in.
Linzi, he says. Linzi, Linzi, Linzi.
(because he says her name as much as he can, in a pathetic attempt to convince himself that he can be saved)
(because there is no other name in his head)
(because he's no goddamn queer)
Aaron used to say that Joel was maybe a little out of step. He'd look real close into his face, searching, breath hot on his skin, but they wouldn't kiss, not quite, and Joel would be left with this ache in his stomach that stayed for the rest of the day. And this guilt, this guilt that'd settle in and never really let up, that had him in a chokehold. Because he wasn't even entirely sure what he wanted, but he knew he wanted Aaron. And Aaron?
Aaron was a boy. All strong arms and beer, rough-and-tumble and hey let's go pick up some chicks. Like some fucking ex-prom king with blustery confidence and a quick enough imagination to lie his way into the possession of any girl's number.
And he made Joel nervous. Because seriously, that wasn't the time for sexual frustration and confusion. Let's learn the mystery dance some other time. Joel was flippant, snide, with this fake bravado (cocaine-bravado), waving his hands around and saying "You wanna start your own band? Go ahead and start your own fucking band."
Linzi's got this raspy whisper she uses when she's trying to be seductive. Oh, harder. With her legs tangled around the sheets, face in the pillow. Knees pressing into bedsprings that creak like heartstrings, metronomically unsound. She's got this whisper and she says all these things like she thinks that's what you're supposed to say if you're being dirty.
And he plays along, follows along, does what she asks him to do - because his cock doesn't lie and neither does the sweat running down his face, words more slippery than his mouth. Head up, eyes open, watching her almost cruelly.
(because they've got at least another two hours)
(because he's not in love)
(because he's no goddamn queer)
So I thought, hey, those fics where everybody realizes they're gay because of a sudden infatuation? What if they don't realize they're gay, and continue having het!sex? And this came out.
Joel/Aaron, Joel/Linzi. Featuring stronglyindenial!Joel and scarletletter!Linzi. Lots of wordplay, because mmm wordplay.
so this is where he came to hide
when he ran from you
in a private detective overcoat
and dirty dead man's shoes
Aaron used to say that Joel was maybe a little out of step. A man out of time. Hip to all the latest designs but there was this look in his eye, like he wasn't quite with it. Maybe like he was already thinking of the best ways to be nostalgic for his life.
Aaron used to sling his arm around Joel's neck and drag him close all buddy-buddy, skin on skin so tight Joel almost started believing that it never really got unstuck.
All hotel rooms look the same. Same paintings, same lamps, same grey bedsheets. The same damn beside table where Joel deposits his condoms immediately upon arrival. The same bathroom where he leans his face against the cool tile and listens to his heart beat.
Then there's the hotel lobby, with the bar and its attending bored bartender polishing glasses with his last shred of self-respect. Plush carpet that Joel's Vans sink into deeper with every drink. Chairs that are meant for the visitors in immediate transition, which makes an odd sort of sense. Chris and Benji always throw the complimentary coasters at each other, and Billy's always draped underneath Linzi, who's being dragged along for the duration.
Maybe it's resentment at that, or resentment in general, or maybe she's just sick of it all, but she always excuses herself with a winning smile and a kiss on Billy's cheek,
"I'm feeling kinda tired, babe. I think I'll go and take a bath, watch some Pay-Per-View. Is that okay with you, sweetie?"
(because she shoves as many terms of endearment as she can into every sentence, in a comically inept attempt to save him from her)
And some time later Joel extricates himself from a game of cards and creeps up to their room.
She dangles from his neck like tacky costume jewelry, holds his hand like a gauntlet. Whispers things in his ears that he isn't quite sure how to decipher. But her legs go from here to temptation, smooth calves rubbing against his back in some kind of Adultery Morse Code, bending and holding and drawing him in.
Linzi, he says. Linzi, Linzi, Linzi.
(because he says her name as much as he can, in a pathetic attempt to convince himself that he can be saved)
(because there is no other name in his head)
(because he's no goddamn queer)
Aaron used to say that Joel was maybe a little out of step. He'd look real close into his face, searching, breath hot on his skin, but they wouldn't kiss, not quite, and Joel would be left with this ache in his stomach that stayed for the rest of the day. And this guilt, this guilt that'd settle in and never really let up, that had him in a chokehold. Because he wasn't even entirely sure what he wanted, but he knew he wanted Aaron. And Aaron?
Aaron was a boy. All strong arms and beer, rough-and-tumble and hey let's go pick up some chicks. Like some fucking ex-prom king with blustery confidence and a quick enough imagination to lie his way into the possession of any girl's number.
And he made Joel nervous. Because seriously, that wasn't the time for sexual frustration and confusion. Let's learn the mystery dance some other time. Joel was flippant, snide, with this fake bravado (cocaine-bravado), waving his hands around and saying "You wanna start your own band? Go ahead and start your own fucking band."
Linzi's got this raspy whisper she uses when she's trying to be seductive. Oh, harder. With her legs tangled around the sheets, face in the pillow. Knees pressing into bedsprings that creak like heartstrings, metronomically unsound. She's got this whisper and she says all these things like she thinks that's what you're supposed to say if you're being dirty.
And he plays along, follows along, does what she asks him to do - because his cock doesn't lie and neither does the sweat running down his face, words more slippery than his mouth. Head up, eyes open, watching her almost cruelly.
(because they've got at least another two hours)
(because he's not in love)
(because he's no goddamn queer)