American Idol FF: Our own drawn-out version of a meadow run [Ryan/Simon; PG-13; RPF]
Title: Our own drawn-out version of a meadow run
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Ryan/Simon RPF
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,200 words
Disclaimer: Ryan and Simon belong to themselves, American Idol belongs to Fox
Spoilers: Theoretically set during this season's semifinals.
Summary: It always takes them a little while to get back into the swing of things.
AN: First try at this one. Real people's voices are harder. (Definition of Meadow Run at TV Tropes.)
“You do realise you’re not British, yes?”
Ryan leans his head over the arm of the couch to look at Simon upside down. He doesn’t remember leaving his dressing room door unlocked, but there’s nothing to prove that he didn’t. He shrugs. “Mmm?”
“The t-shirt.” Simon closes the door behind him.
Ryan drops the script he had been reading, and stretches back to lie normally on the couch. He looks down at the shirt he’s wearing: grey with a faded Union Jack printed on it. He says, “I do, yeah. Know.”
“It makes you look ridiculous. And anyway, haven’t I seen you wearing it before?”
Ryan considers. He had definitely worn it at least once during the auditions. “So? You’re not the only one allowed to wear the same shirts over and over again.” Jokes about Simon’s unchanging wardrobe are getting a little dull but then, so are the ones about Ryan being in the closet. And that certainly hasn’t stopped Simon. Ryan supposes they both find comfort in the familiar.
“You have been very casual lately,” Simon says this like he’s agreeing with something Ryan just said, instead of starting his own little sidebar. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in a suit in months.”
Ryan smirks. “Is Oscar night just a complete blur to you or what?”
“You know what I mean. On camera.”
“I was on camera then. Actually on the red carpet, in fact. It’s sort of my other job. I’m curious - in your mind, do I exist out of your presence?”
“Not really, no.”
Ryan nods agreeably and, when Simon doesn’t seem to be saying anything else, picks his script back up. There are info packs to get through as well: twelve kids per show and he needs to be able to interview them all semi-coherently. Of course, it would help if more of them could answer coherently. One good question and answer each is all they need, but God love them, half of them can’t even give him that.
Simon grabs the script away, and holds it above his head when Ryan snatches at it. Clearly they’ve reverted back to grade school. Simon says, “Didn’t you tell me you’d be in a better mood once we hit the live shows?”
“I am in a better mood. I’ve done nothing but get hugged by crying teenagers and record voiceover for months. This is the part they pay me for.”
“Looking pretty and taking us to commercial?”
“Yes, Simon. Exactly that.”
“Don’t sulk.”
“Simon.”
“You’ll get wrinkles.” Simon touches one finger to - presumably - the frown on Ryan’s face that is so offending him. He’s standing right over Ryan now.
Ryan says, quietly, because Simon is still touching his face, “I think they say smiling is worse for lines.”
“Which is why you don’t?”
“I smile.”
“You do your little ‘presenter’ smile - do you know how much work goes into putting a real expression onto your face? It’s as bad as the difference between your radio voice and your speaking voice.”
Ryan doesn’t know how to respond to that, and so stays silent. Simon’s finger makes a restless pass up his forehead, smoothing out the crease. Eventually, Ryan has to exhale, and the breath is enough to send Simon backwards. He ends up halfway between Ryan and the door.
Ryan says, dumbly, “I laughed today. I remember.”
“Yes? At what?”
“I don’t know. You, probably.”
“Well,” Simon says, “I suppose that’s something. Although I couldn’t say what.”
“No,” Ryan agrees. Simon nods. He backs out of the room in a hurry. The door slams shut with a bang. Even making a hasty exit, Simon is dramatic.
Ryan goes back to the script, though the words blur. He tries memorising instead, mentally reciting home states and marital status and occupations for the contestants in the next round. He’s fairly convinced that Simon doesn’t even have all their names straight in his head yet - but then he doesn’t actually have to talk to them. So much of Ryan’s job right now is getting the contestants to give the answers he already knows, but aimed to the camera with a smile.
The door opens again. “Why aren’t you gone yet?”
Ryan looks at Simon. “Why aren’t you?”
Simon sits on the chair across the room. Ryan stands, and crosses most of the way towards him.
Simon says, “I hate that shirt on you.”
“So you said.”
“Come here.”
And Ryan stops, though he had been moving that way before Simon had spoken. Feeling contrary, because Simon always makes him feel that way.
“Come here,” Simon repeats. He makes up the distance between them in two of his long strides. His hands slide under the hem of Ryan’s shirt, warm with his long fingers spread.
Ryan blinks. “Okay.” He stretches his arms up when Simon gets that far, letting Simon pull the shirt off him, before tossing it across the room.
Simon settles his hands on Ryan’s shoulders. “Do you know how long it took you just to say the damn words?”
“I’m sorry?”
Simon laughs. “That you missed me, of course.”
“You mean, how long it took me to admit it on camera, to our audience of however many millions of viewers?” (And I was supposed to be speaking for America generally, he thinks. It’s not ever meant to be personal. But Simon knows that - he just wants to hear Ryan explain why it’s more logical for a whole nation to miss him, instead of just Ryan. Ryan who really, really hates recording the audition shows: lots of standing outside the room, followed by lots of voiceover. No getting to see how quickly he can make Simon react on camera. No testing himself by trying not to laugh at whatever bizarre insult Simon devises next.)
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ryan.” Simon pauses for effect. “You know exactly how many viewers we had.”
This is rapidly turning into a laugh or cry moment. Ryan chooses to laugh. “I do. And, since we’ve been reunited for long enough for me to get over my momentary bout of sentiment, can we get on with it? Please?”
Simon kisses the corner of Ryan’s mouth. He murmurs, “If you insist.”
Ryan is briefly tempted to point out that he didn’t start any of this. Simon is the one who came in here to loom and make cryptic remarks and start stripping Ryan out of his clothes. But Simon’s hands are slipping lower and pulling them more tightly together. Ryan presses forward and Simon groans. It’s either about their awkward position or the way his jeans are too tight. Ryan has a cure for both of those. “Move,” he says.
“Hmm?”
Ryan’s hands drop from where they had been curved at Simon’s shoulders. He pushes Simon backwards, walking with him to the couch. With Simon sitting, Ryan fits perfectly well on top of him.
Simon bites the shell of Ryan’s ear, and whispers into it, “I suppose I may have missed you too.” Simon’s teeth are on Ryan’s neck now. “It only gets interesting once I can start insulting you in front of millions of viewers again.”
“Of course,” Ryan says. “Naturally I feel the same way.” He feels Simon’s laughter in his chest. His own smile draws lines at the corners of his eyes. Simon wipes them clear with his thumbs, and - finally - lands his kiss, open-mouthed, on Ryan’s lips.
FIN. Unbetaed, and it's stupidly late here - readers on typo-watch are welcome. As, of course, is all other feedback.
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Ryan/Simon RPF
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,200 words
Disclaimer: Ryan and Simon belong to themselves, American Idol belongs to Fox
Spoilers: Theoretically set during this season's semifinals.
Summary: It always takes them a little while to get back into the swing of things.
AN: First try at this one. Real people's voices are harder. (Definition of Meadow Run at TV Tropes.)
“You do realise you’re not British, yes?”
Ryan leans his head over the arm of the couch to look at Simon upside down. He doesn’t remember leaving his dressing room door unlocked, but there’s nothing to prove that he didn’t. He shrugs. “Mmm?”
“The t-shirt.” Simon closes the door behind him.
Ryan drops the script he had been reading, and stretches back to lie normally on the couch. He looks down at the shirt he’s wearing: grey with a faded Union Jack printed on it. He says, “I do, yeah. Know.”
“It makes you look ridiculous. And anyway, haven’t I seen you wearing it before?”
Ryan considers. He had definitely worn it at least once during the auditions. “So? You’re not the only one allowed to wear the same shirts over and over again.” Jokes about Simon’s unchanging wardrobe are getting a little dull but then, so are the ones about Ryan being in the closet. And that certainly hasn’t stopped Simon. Ryan supposes they both find comfort in the familiar.
“You have been very casual lately,” Simon says this like he’s agreeing with something Ryan just said, instead of starting his own little sidebar. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in a suit in months.”
Ryan smirks. “Is Oscar night just a complete blur to you or what?”
“You know what I mean. On camera.”
“I was on camera then. Actually on the red carpet, in fact. It’s sort of my other job. I’m curious - in your mind, do I exist out of your presence?”
“Not really, no.”
Ryan nods agreeably and, when Simon doesn’t seem to be saying anything else, picks his script back up. There are info packs to get through as well: twelve kids per show and he needs to be able to interview them all semi-coherently. Of course, it would help if more of them could answer coherently. One good question and answer each is all they need, but God love them, half of them can’t even give him that.
Simon grabs the script away, and holds it above his head when Ryan snatches at it. Clearly they’ve reverted back to grade school. Simon says, “Didn’t you tell me you’d be in a better mood once we hit the live shows?”
“I am in a better mood. I’ve done nothing but get hugged by crying teenagers and record voiceover for months. This is the part they pay me for.”
“Looking pretty and taking us to commercial?”
“Yes, Simon. Exactly that.”
“Don’t sulk.”
“Simon.”
“You’ll get wrinkles.” Simon touches one finger to - presumably - the frown on Ryan’s face that is so offending him. He’s standing right over Ryan now.
Ryan says, quietly, because Simon is still touching his face, “I think they say smiling is worse for lines.”
“Which is why you don’t?”
“I smile.”
“You do your little ‘presenter’ smile - do you know how much work goes into putting a real expression onto your face? It’s as bad as the difference between your radio voice and your speaking voice.”
Ryan doesn’t know how to respond to that, and so stays silent. Simon’s finger makes a restless pass up his forehead, smoothing out the crease. Eventually, Ryan has to exhale, and the breath is enough to send Simon backwards. He ends up halfway between Ryan and the door.
Ryan says, dumbly, “I laughed today. I remember.”
“Yes? At what?”
“I don’t know. You, probably.”
“Well,” Simon says, “I suppose that’s something. Although I couldn’t say what.”
“No,” Ryan agrees. Simon nods. He backs out of the room in a hurry. The door slams shut with a bang. Even making a hasty exit, Simon is dramatic.
Ryan goes back to the script, though the words blur. He tries memorising instead, mentally reciting home states and marital status and occupations for the contestants in the next round. He’s fairly convinced that Simon doesn’t even have all their names straight in his head yet - but then he doesn’t actually have to talk to them. So much of Ryan’s job right now is getting the contestants to give the answers he already knows, but aimed to the camera with a smile.
The door opens again. “Why aren’t you gone yet?”
Ryan looks at Simon. “Why aren’t you?”
Simon sits on the chair across the room. Ryan stands, and crosses most of the way towards him.
Simon says, “I hate that shirt on you.”
“So you said.”
“Come here.”
And Ryan stops, though he had been moving that way before Simon had spoken. Feeling contrary, because Simon always makes him feel that way.
“Come here,” Simon repeats. He makes up the distance between them in two of his long strides. His hands slide under the hem of Ryan’s shirt, warm with his long fingers spread.
Ryan blinks. “Okay.” He stretches his arms up when Simon gets that far, letting Simon pull the shirt off him, before tossing it across the room.
Simon settles his hands on Ryan’s shoulders. “Do you know how long it took you just to say the damn words?”
“I’m sorry?”
Simon laughs. “That you missed me, of course.”
“You mean, how long it took me to admit it on camera, to our audience of however many millions of viewers?” (And I was supposed to be speaking for America generally, he thinks. It’s not ever meant to be personal. But Simon knows that - he just wants to hear Ryan explain why it’s more logical for a whole nation to miss him, instead of just Ryan. Ryan who really, really hates recording the audition shows: lots of standing outside the room, followed by lots of voiceover. No getting to see how quickly he can make Simon react on camera. No testing himself by trying not to laugh at whatever bizarre insult Simon devises next.)
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ryan.” Simon pauses for effect. “You know exactly how many viewers we had.”
This is rapidly turning into a laugh or cry moment. Ryan chooses to laugh. “I do. And, since we’ve been reunited for long enough for me to get over my momentary bout of sentiment, can we get on with it? Please?”
Simon kisses the corner of Ryan’s mouth. He murmurs, “If you insist.”
Ryan is briefly tempted to point out that he didn’t start any of this. Simon is the one who came in here to loom and make cryptic remarks and start stripping Ryan out of his clothes. But Simon’s hands are slipping lower and pulling them more tightly together. Ryan presses forward and Simon groans. It’s either about their awkward position or the way his jeans are too tight. Ryan has a cure for both of those. “Move,” he says.
“Hmm?”
Ryan’s hands drop from where they had been curved at Simon’s shoulders. He pushes Simon backwards, walking with him to the couch. With Simon sitting, Ryan fits perfectly well on top of him.
Simon bites the shell of Ryan’s ear, and whispers into it, “I suppose I may have missed you too.” Simon’s teeth are on Ryan’s neck now. “It only gets interesting once I can start insulting you in front of millions of viewers again.”
“Of course,” Ryan says. “Naturally I feel the same way.” He feels Simon’s laughter in his chest. His own smile draws lines at the corners of his eyes. Simon wipes them clear with his thumbs, and - finally - lands his kiss, open-mouthed, on Ryan’s lips.
FIN. Unbetaed, and it's stupidly late here - readers on typo-watch are welcome. As, of course, is all other feedback.