ISKY! CLIVE AND GREG! EGO DOES GOOD!
You know those seven Greg/Clive drabbles I promised?
Hah... haha...
The End. - My Chemical Romance
So… Tony spins the daisy between a thumb and forefinger, watching the petals blur and slow and speed and blur and slow. This is death?
He's at a funeral-whose, he couldn't say-standing amongst the mourners, alone despite the small crowd that's gathered. The man hardly notices, though; his sunken eyes are busy switching between the flower in his grip and the coffin being lowered into the frozen ground. They aren't being cremated, and he pities them for it-that's how Tony would like to go. Everything… destroyed. Poof! The history, the family, the friends-all gone. The life…
"Poor Tony," someone whispers, voice broken. "We never even knew…"
The daisy is crushed in a grip suddenly vice-like.
So.
This is death.
Never Even Told Me Her Name - Air Traffic
Ryan stretched languidly, nearly purring at the sensation of the sunshine on his skin. The man had the distinct impression that he should have had a hangover, but that nagging thought was ignored to give him at least a few more minutes of relaxation. In a movement that seemed entirely too natural, Ryan's arms settled around the body beside him, fingertips barely ghosting over the warm, hirsute skin of the other man's chest.
Wait, man?
Wait, what?
The improviser sat up and rapidly regretted the decision; the hangover he didn't have seemed to have been lurking, waiting for such an opening. One hand pressed to a suddenly throbbing temple, Ryan turned to his bed-partner, eyes filled with equal parts terror and curiosity.
Still snoring peacefully, Colin barely shifted in his sleep.
Oh, it was just Colin. Of course.
…
What?!
Can't Take It - The All-American Rejects
Even as his fingers flutter across the keyboard, picking out a melody long since engrained in his memory, Richard watches, expression grim. He can just see the back of Tony's head over the piano's back, and the way the other man is staring at the ground doesn't seem promising. Greg's finished his verse, Colin as well, and yet the shortest improviser keeps his head down, marching slightly in pace. The tune is barely registering. The crowd is getting restless. Clive's smile is strained. Richard can't take it.
Cracking under pressure directed towards someone else entirely, the musician slides his fingers down a notch. The hoedown is transformed into a sick, eerie, minor-key disaster within seconds. The buzzer sounds.
Dan is pissed. Ryan, of course, is grinning, and Colin, gazing at the man gently, is smiling as well. Greg's leaned against Clive's desk, and the two watch the producer fume in silence. Tony hasn't even stopped marching.
As the improvisers get the livid order to return to their seats, it's Richard's turn to avoid eye contact.
Sorry, Tony.
He just wanted to help.
But WAIT!.... there's a NEW Greg/Clive drabble that I just wrote as an experiment with tenses... :3 It's sort of.... open to interpretation? You can pick your own ending!
"And when does that one leave?"
Greg's fine. He's calm. He's not bothered by the employee's bumbling incompetence, or by his perpetually delayed flights; the comedian's completely okay with the fact that it'll be days before he can get the fucking hell out of-
Greg would have scowled at the stubbornly tepid water heating on the stove before nearly throwing the tightly shut jar of pasta sauce in his hands, cursing his weak grip, if he were bothered. But he's not.
Of course he isn't.
"There's no way to get a simple connecting flight back to the States? You're sure?"
That there's no telltale beep in his ear indicating that there's a call waiting, that doesn't faze the Yank, either. Having no visitors isn't a reason to be snippy, after all, and certainly doesn't justify a seething, poisonous hatred that threatens to overwhelm all in its path. It would be irresponsible of Greg to try to throttle the stuck lid into submission with a wooden spoon, or pull faces at the young worker behind some uncooperative computer screen, feeling as overwhelmed as he would if he weren't completely fine.
Just an example, obviously.
"Double check that, would you? I don't trust your ability, to be honest."
There's no increasingly obvious tremor in Greg's voice, and if there had been, it wouldn't have come from crushing disappointment or deep self-doubt. It's not as if the man is still hoping for the doorbell to ring, or for a subdued knock to come; the tears not fogging up his glasses aren't from nine years of shared dreams gone to hell over a simple disagreement. He's not trembling because of the growing realization that Clive isn't coming, and the choked sob that doesn't happen can't have come from the glass that didn't just shatter over the floor.
There's no gasp over the phone asking if he's okay, but if there had been, Greg would have said yes.
Because of course he's okay.
And of course the man doesn't start to cry in earnest out of shock when a panicked, British, and unmistakably familiar voice calls from the hallway, since there's no reason for anyone to be there.
Because he's not waiting for that voice.
Of course not.
He's fine.
Hah... haha...
The End. - My Chemical Romance
So… Tony spins the daisy between a thumb and forefinger, watching the petals blur and slow and speed and blur and slow. This is death?
He's at a funeral-whose, he couldn't say-standing amongst the mourners, alone despite the small crowd that's gathered. The man hardly notices, though; his sunken eyes are busy switching between the flower in his grip and the coffin being lowered into the frozen ground. They aren't being cremated, and he pities them for it-that's how Tony would like to go. Everything… destroyed. Poof! The history, the family, the friends-all gone. The life…
"Poor Tony," someone whispers, voice broken. "We never even knew…"
The daisy is crushed in a grip suddenly vice-like.
So.
This is death.
Never Even Told Me Her Name - Air Traffic
Ryan stretched languidly, nearly purring at the sensation of the sunshine on his skin. The man had the distinct impression that he should have had a hangover, but that nagging thought was ignored to give him at least a few more minutes of relaxation. In a movement that seemed entirely too natural, Ryan's arms settled around the body beside him, fingertips barely ghosting over the warm, hirsute skin of the other man's chest.
Wait, man?
Wait, what?
The improviser sat up and rapidly regretted the decision; the hangover he didn't have seemed to have been lurking, waiting for such an opening. One hand pressed to a suddenly throbbing temple, Ryan turned to his bed-partner, eyes filled with equal parts terror and curiosity.
Still snoring peacefully, Colin barely shifted in his sleep.
Oh, it was just Colin. Of course.
…
What?!
Can't Take It - The All-American Rejects
Even as his fingers flutter across the keyboard, picking out a melody long since engrained in his memory, Richard watches, expression grim. He can just see the back of Tony's head over the piano's back, and the way the other man is staring at the ground doesn't seem promising. Greg's finished his verse, Colin as well, and yet the shortest improviser keeps his head down, marching slightly in pace. The tune is barely registering. The crowd is getting restless. Clive's smile is strained. Richard can't take it.
Cracking under pressure directed towards someone else entirely, the musician slides his fingers down a notch. The hoedown is transformed into a sick, eerie, minor-key disaster within seconds. The buzzer sounds.
Dan is pissed. Ryan, of course, is grinning, and Colin, gazing at the man gently, is smiling as well. Greg's leaned against Clive's desk, and the two watch the producer fume in silence. Tony hasn't even stopped marching.
As the improvisers get the livid order to return to their seats, it's Richard's turn to avoid eye contact.
Sorry, Tony.
He just wanted to help.
But WAIT!.... there's a NEW Greg/Clive drabble that I just wrote as an experiment with tenses... :3 It's sort of.... open to interpretation? You can pick your own ending!
"And when does that one leave?"
Greg's fine. He's calm. He's not bothered by the employee's bumbling incompetence, or by his perpetually delayed flights; the comedian's completely okay with the fact that it'll be days before he can get the fucking hell out of-
Greg would have scowled at the stubbornly tepid water heating on the stove before nearly throwing the tightly shut jar of pasta sauce in his hands, cursing his weak grip, if he were bothered. But he's not.
Of course he isn't.
"There's no way to get a simple connecting flight back to the States? You're sure?"
That there's no telltale beep in his ear indicating that there's a call waiting, that doesn't faze the Yank, either. Having no visitors isn't a reason to be snippy, after all, and certainly doesn't justify a seething, poisonous hatred that threatens to overwhelm all in its path. It would be irresponsible of Greg to try to throttle the stuck lid into submission with a wooden spoon, or pull faces at the young worker behind some uncooperative computer screen, feeling as overwhelmed as he would if he weren't completely fine.
Just an example, obviously.
"Double check that, would you? I don't trust your ability, to be honest."
There's no increasingly obvious tremor in Greg's voice, and if there had been, it wouldn't have come from crushing disappointment or deep self-doubt. It's not as if the man is still hoping for the doorbell to ring, or for a subdued knock to come; the tears not fogging up his glasses aren't from nine years of shared dreams gone to hell over a simple disagreement. He's not trembling because of the growing realization that Clive isn't coming, and the choked sob that doesn't happen can't have come from the glass that didn't just shatter over the floor.
There's no gasp over the phone asking if he's okay, but if there had been, Greg would have said yes.
Because of course he's okay.
And of course the man doesn't start to cry in earnest out of shock when a panicked, British, and unmistakably familiar voice calls from the hallway, since there's no reason for anyone to be there.
Because he's not waiting for that voice.
Of course not.
He's fine.