[fic] - Drunk Without Drinking, jwalk/tomrad bff
First fic post. First Panic! fic.
Drunk Without Drinking
Panic! gen, Jon Walker+Tom Conrad BFF fic, PG.
Thank you wonderful beta heartequals.
It wasn't a problem, until Jon realised that maybe that was a little what he was about.
It was like at first sight for Jon with Brendon, Ryan and Spencer. He never had any problem getting on with them, it took less then a day to find one seperate thing he liked about each boy, and another few to find things he missed when they weren't around. They were dorks, they were teenage boys who laughed at stupid jokes and still thought Blink were worth listening to. They were also intelligent, and well read, and sometimes if Jon was tired of Bill and Butcher and Jim Beam, he would find Spencer or Ryan and sit while they talked at him, talked about hopes and plans and carousels. Brendon was unavoidable and Jon would find the boundless enthusiasm for himself a bit weird, were it not so infectious.
When their band fell apart, it was, to Jon, without warning. When they asked him to fill in, it was Pete who called first, Bill second and an hour later, Spencer showed up. Jon barely considered saying no. A week or so into the tour, it occured to Jon that being in this band was going to be very different to being around it. Touring without the Academy boys was unnerving, Brendon had walked away from the partyhard rockstar ideal and the unspoken agreement in the Panic! camp seemed to be that that wasn't what they were about. It wasn't a problem, until Jon realised that maybe that was a little what he was about. Alcohol was a release of sorts, something that Jon had learnt when he was fourteen. A release of tension from the body, slackening of limbs and the tautness of his thoughts, alcohol snapping wires he hadn't realised were there. Less a loss of inhibition, more a disregard for the concept of inhibitions. Drinking was a rebellion, and things hadn't changed much since then. Now though, Jon drank to rebel against his job, not school.
Living with Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer, you got everything. Jon got everything. All of it, all the time. Two in the morning, four in the afternoon, in the middle of a pink sunrise and under orange streetlight glow. Jon wouldn't change his life, but 'everything' is hard to receive when there's no let up. Their tourmates would drink after the shows, Jon wouldn't. Tried to find his release in other places, made sure to find a gracious, honest smile from somewhere every time Ryan told him, really, it was fine, Jon could go and drink if he wanted to. A sentiment that showed Ryan's ignorance of alcohol - sure Jon could drink, but he couldn't get drunk.
They go out, in a nameless, faceless city (when your stage script never changes you don't need to know the names). Ryan and Spencer stay on the bus, sidekicks insistent from Pete and Hayley, Brendon disappears somewhere with Zach, and Jon can't help but feel like the parent given a rare night off. Moving from bar to club he laughs, in the middle of the street, breath bursting out in ghosts of air, and slows down. Falls back slightly from the group, lagging behind and pulling out his own phone. The list of contacts is a lot longer these days. Ahead, his friends round a corner and join the end of a queue. The noise from the club reaches down the street, swelling every time the door is opened and people spill in and out, in, sober, out, drunk, in, tight, out, loose, in, too old, out, too young. Jon scrolls down the list and up again and then exits it anyway, pressing speed dial three instead and holding the phone to his ear. As it rings he moves out of the road, leans carefully back against a wall and closes his eyes, lets the slow creep of release start across his body. It rings once, twice, three - 'Jon?'
Jon laughs again, 'Tom, when did I become a father of three?'
Tom laughs too, 'I don't know, dude. Maybe when you took in these strays.'
'Street urchins.'
'Ragamuffins.'
'I have a big heart, what can I say.'
'A big wallet too, by the look of things.'
They both laugh and Tom accuses Jon of being mercenary. Jon accuses Tom of doubting his integrity. Tom says spread the wealth, maybe spread it in his direction, maybe spread it in the direction of the bar. Jon laughs again and hangs up.
He replaces the sidekick in his pocket and tips his head back, grazing it lightly across the roughness of the brick. The creep of release has stalled before it reaches his mind, but he cannot persuade his limbs to move, poised as they are perfectly against the wall. Closes his eyes, opens them again, blinks up at the sky and lets the low babble of the city fill his head. This is another release, letting the world in. It floods his head, floods out his thoughts, and settles, sediment like. He's not sure how many minutes pass, he counts one squeal of tires, two sirens, five indistinguishable yells, nineteen barks, infinity beats, and one click. Jon opens his eyes. Across the street, six yards away, Tom winds on and lowers his camera.
Jon turns his gaze back to the sky. 'I have a cat.'
'Yes.' Tom says. 'You do, in fact, have a cat.'
'No, I have a cat. I don't need three more... things, dependent on me.' He rolls his head across the wall and stares at Tom. Replacing the lens cap, Tom walks over to Jon and places a hand on his shoulder. He rolls his eyes.
'First of all, Ryan is one year younger than you, and second,' there is a pause, and Jon raises an eyebrow, 'second, don't think I don't know that's why you dragged my sorry ass out on this tour.' Tom grins, brief and rueful.
Jon reaches out two fingers and nudges Tom's lens hand. 'You'd better believe it.' He mirrors Tom's smile and lets his hand drop back to the wall. A shout from down the street draws their attention away and when the disturbance has gone round the corner, Tom holds out one hand to Jon and rubs his fingers together. Jon laughs.
'Mercenary.'
He pushes off from the wall, lands an arm across Tom's shoulders and steers them both back to the club.
Drunk Without Drinking
Panic! gen, Jon Walker+Tom Conrad BFF fic, PG.
Thank you wonderful beta heartequals.
It wasn't a problem, until Jon realised that maybe that was a little what he was about.
It was like at first sight for Jon with Brendon, Ryan and Spencer. He never had any problem getting on with them, it took less then a day to find one seperate thing he liked about each boy, and another few to find things he missed when they weren't around. They were dorks, they were teenage boys who laughed at stupid jokes and still thought Blink were worth listening to. They were also intelligent, and well read, and sometimes if Jon was tired of Bill and Butcher and Jim Beam, he would find Spencer or Ryan and sit while they talked at him, talked about hopes and plans and carousels. Brendon was unavoidable and Jon would find the boundless enthusiasm for himself a bit weird, were it not so infectious.
When their band fell apart, it was, to Jon, without warning. When they asked him to fill in, it was Pete who called first, Bill second and an hour later, Spencer showed up. Jon barely considered saying no. A week or so into the tour, it occured to Jon that being in this band was going to be very different to being around it. Touring without the Academy boys was unnerving, Brendon had walked away from the partyhard rockstar ideal and the unspoken agreement in the Panic! camp seemed to be that that wasn't what they were about. It wasn't a problem, until Jon realised that maybe that was a little what he was about. Alcohol was a release of sorts, something that Jon had learnt when he was fourteen. A release of tension from the body, slackening of limbs and the tautness of his thoughts, alcohol snapping wires he hadn't realised were there. Less a loss of inhibition, more a disregard for the concept of inhibitions. Drinking was a rebellion, and things hadn't changed much since then. Now though, Jon drank to rebel against his job, not school.
Living with Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer, you got everything. Jon got everything. All of it, all the time. Two in the morning, four in the afternoon, in the middle of a pink sunrise and under orange streetlight glow. Jon wouldn't change his life, but 'everything' is hard to receive when there's no let up. Their tourmates would drink after the shows, Jon wouldn't. Tried to find his release in other places, made sure to find a gracious, honest smile from somewhere every time Ryan told him, really, it was fine, Jon could go and drink if he wanted to. A sentiment that showed Ryan's ignorance of alcohol - sure Jon could drink, but he couldn't get drunk.
They go out, in a nameless, faceless city (when your stage script never changes you don't need to know the names). Ryan and Spencer stay on the bus, sidekicks insistent from Pete and Hayley, Brendon disappears somewhere with Zach, and Jon can't help but feel like the parent given a rare night off. Moving from bar to club he laughs, in the middle of the street, breath bursting out in ghosts of air, and slows down. Falls back slightly from the group, lagging behind and pulling out his own phone. The list of contacts is a lot longer these days. Ahead, his friends round a corner and join the end of a queue. The noise from the club reaches down the street, swelling every time the door is opened and people spill in and out, in, sober, out, drunk, in, tight, out, loose, in, too old, out, too young. Jon scrolls down the list and up again and then exits it anyway, pressing speed dial three instead and holding the phone to his ear. As it rings he moves out of the road, leans carefully back against a wall and closes his eyes, lets the slow creep of release start across his body. It rings once, twice, three - 'Jon?'
Jon laughs again, 'Tom, when did I become a father of three?'
Tom laughs too, 'I don't know, dude. Maybe when you took in these strays.'
'Street urchins.'
'Ragamuffins.'
'I have a big heart, what can I say.'
'A big wallet too, by the look of things.'
They both laugh and Tom accuses Jon of being mercenary. Jon accuses Tom of doubting his integrity. Tom says spread the wealth, maybe spread it in his direction, maybe spread it in the direction of the bar. Jon laughs again and hangs up.
He replaces the sidekick in his pocket and tips his head back, grazing it lightly across the roughness of the brick. The creep of release has stalled before it reaches his mind, but he cannot persuade his limbs to move, poised as they are perfectly against the wall. Closes his eyes, opens them again, blinks up at the sky and lets the low babble of the city fill his head. This is another release, letting the world in. It floods his head, floods out his thoughts, and settles, sediment like. He's not sure how many minutes pass, he counts one squeal of tires, two sirens, five indistinguishable yells, nineteen barks, infinity beats, and one click. Jon opens his eyes. Across the street, six yards away, Tom winds on and lowers his camera.
Jon turns his gaze back to the sky. 'I have a cat.'
'Yes.' Tom says. 'You do, in fact, have a cat.'
'No, I have a cat. I don't need three more... things, dependent on me.' He rolls his head across the wall and stares at Tom. Replacing the lens cap, Tom walks over to Jon and places a hand on his shoulder. He rolls his eyes.
'First of all, Ryan is one year younger than you, and second,' there is a pause, and Jon raises an eyebrow, 'second, don't think I don't know that's why you dragged my sorry ass out on this tour.' Tom grins, brief and rueful.
Jon reaches out two fingers and nudges Tom's lens hand. 'You'd better believe it.' He mirrors Tom's smile and lets his hand drop back to the wall. A shout from down the street draws their attention away and when the disturbance has gone round the corner, Tom holds out one hand to Jon and rubs his fingers together. Jon laughs.
'Mercenary.'
He pushes off from the wall, lands an arm across Tom's shoulders and steers them both back to the club.