Ficlet: "These Inconvenient Fireworks" (Johnny Weir/Drew Meekins - ATIC universe)
The last hour and a half at work these days has been pure torture, with nothing to do, with me being too tired to do some research/reading for my thesis, or do anything else, really, and not allowed to go home quite yet.
Today, I spent the last hour or so pretending to work - furious typing does look good, right? I wrote this, and while I think it's not quite as good as Cel deserves, well, at least it's something?
Title: These Inconvenient Fireworks
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Drew Meekins (from the thexpuzzler's ATIC universe)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 942
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The events described in the story are not real. Not intended as libel, no money is being made.
Summary: Drew never yells. It drives Johnny crazy.
A/N: For thexpuzzler, because she turned older recently and wanted fic. She wanted Johnny-gen during those three years in ATIC where he's without Stéphane and I forgot about the gen bit, so she gets Drew. I'm sorry, Cel, if I screwed up your characters - I need to re-read ATIC, obviously. (And even then I would probably screw them up, because I'm not you, duh.)
Drew never yelled. It was not his nature to go and just lose it. He was always rational, always so damn mature. It drove Johnny crazy. The anger that was not even angry, just cold and almost condescending. The way Drew looked at him calmly whenever Johnny ran out of breath mid-rand, and told him to please sit down, Johnny in that mockingly quiet, composed tone.
Maybe Drew was just that boring, not passionate enough - that’s what Johnny told himself when he was pissed, every time after he’d gone off on Drew while Drew just sat back and ticked off arguments for why he was right, while Johnny was wrong. Or maybe he didn’t love him enough to care, couldn’t be bothered to waste his energy or breath or tears on a fight. Johnny hated that. He wanted Drew to care, to love him madly, though deep inside he knew he had no right to require that, not when he didn’t return the favor. He’d never admit that to himself, of course. It was just the stupid sneaky lying voice in the back of his head hinting at feelings long gone, reminding him of moments so intense that he thought he'd burst, emotions pounding through all of his body, torrents so strong that he was afraid he’d drown in them. Johnny always squished the echo of those feelings, silenced the voice pointing out that these moments never happened with Drew, nor with any of these people he’d fucked before he met Drew. Not since -
Johnny didn’t think about that. He was not a masochist. But it was hard, especially face to face with Drew’s dispassionate calm.
It was a stupid fight. It was not Drew’s fault, in fact, it wasn’t even about Drew. Johnny had been catty all afternoon, and it was easy to pick a fight, the one he’d wanted to pick with his boss at Vuitton who had - yet again - gotten praise for Johnny’s ideas. Picking a fight with Drew would cause much less collateral damage than arguing with his boss would have, though.
And so here they were, fighting because Drew had accidentally tossed his dirty running shoes onto Johnny’s favorite Galliano shirt which had, somehow, been lying on the closet floor. Or actually, Johnny was the one doing the fighting. It was exhausting, not having Drew react to him the way he should be.
“Are you even listening to me?!” he yelled, throwing his arms open in exasperation.
Drew sighed. “Of course. I would have to listen even if I didn’t want to.”
Johnny glared, hands on his hips and eyebrows lifted.
“You’re loud enough for both of us. I’m sure the neighbors will be pounding on the walls soon.” Drew had the guts to chuckle.
“Yeah, that’s what people do when they’re angry!” Johnny snapped. “People who give a damn, anyway.”
“But I’m not angry, Johnny,” Drew said. “Please, sit down.”
“NO! That’s exactly the problem!” Johnny started pacing; there was not much room to cover, three quick strides were enough to take him from one end of their living room to the other. It was infuriating, the lack of space. He couldn’t breathe. “You never get angry. You never yell. You never - it’s like you don’t even care!”
“So this is what it’s about?” Drew asked, eyes soft. Johnny felt himself bristle at the look, but Drew knew him well, anticipating the tantrum that was coming. He stood up from the couch and reached for Johnny’s wrist, catching him mid-stride. “You think I don’t care?” he said quietly and stroked his fingers across Johnny’s cheek, a touch so gentle and feather-light that it was hard not to shiver.
“Well,” Johnny said. It was hard to yell with Drew that close, that soft and anything but angry. Drew always did this to him, made him feel soft and warm and safe inside.
Drew sighed and shook his head. “I don’t yell at you because I don’t want to hurt you. People tend to say stupid stuff when they yell. And it can't be taken back once it's said. I don’t want to do that to you.” He brushed a finger at Johnny’s hair, then added, quietly: “I don’t want to lose you.” Johnny opened his mouth to say something, maybe tell Drew that he wouldn’t, but Drew shushed him, pressing his index finger across his lips. Johnny couldn’t help but wonder if Drew had seen the uncertainty in his eyes, if he could somehow tell that Johnny wasn’t completely sure about that statement he had been going to make.
“I get angry sometimes, because you can be such an annoying little bitch…” Drew chuckled again and this time, Johnny joined in, allowing the tiny upwards tug at the corners of his lips. “But I always tell myself that it doesn’t matter. Because you’re also a wonderful person and I love you so much - so much that all those fights are unimportant. The only thing that’s important is you, that you’re mine, and that you - we - are happy.”
“Oh,” Johnny said. The warm fuzzies in his belly were making it difficult to speak intelligently.
“Please don’t forget that,” Drew added and pecked his lips, never breaking eye-contact.
“Okay,” Johnny nodded before kissing Drew back, a proper kiss, molding their lips together and reaching around Drew’s waist to pull him closer, waiting - hoping, as always, for that blissful, mind-numbing sensation that should accompany it. It never came, but he felt warm - hot - all over when they came apart for breath. “You’re still cleaning my t-shirt, though,” he said, a mock-glare on his face. “Later,” he added, pressing in closer for more heat. It felt good.
~fin
Today, I spent the last hour or so pretending to work - furious typing does look good, right? I wrote this, and while I think it's not quite as good as Cel deserves, well, at least it's something?
Title: These Inconvenient Fireworks
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Drew Meekins (from the thexpuzzler's ATIC universe)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 942
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The events described in the story are not real. Not intended as libel, no money is being made.
Summary: Drew never yells. It drives Johnny crazy.
A/N: For thexpuzzler, because she turned older recently and wanted fic. She wanted Johnny-gen during those three years in ATIC where he's without Stéphane and I forgot about the gen bit, so she gets Drew. I'm sorry, Cel, if I screwed up your characters - I need to re-read ATIC, obviously. (And even then I would probably screw them up, because I'm not you, duh.)
Drew never yelled. It was not his nature to go and just lose it. He was always rational, always so damn mature. It drove Johnny crazy. The anger that was not even angry, just cold and almost condescending. The way Drew looked at him calmly whenever Johnny ran out of breath mid-rand, and told him to please sit down, Johnny in that mockingly quiet, composed tone.
Maybe Drew was just that boring, not passionate enough - that’s what Johnny told himself when he was pissed, every time after he’d gone off on Drew while Drew just sat back and ticked off arguments for why he was right, while Johnny was wrong. Or maybe he didn’t love him enough to care, couldn’t be bothered to waste his energy or breath or tears on a fight. Johnny hated that. He wanted Drew to care, to love him madly, though deep inside he knew he had no right to require that, not when he didn’t return the favor. He’d never admit that to himself, of course. It was just the stupid sneaky lying voice in the back of his head hinting at feelings long gone, reminding him of moments so intense that he thought he'd burst, emotions pounding through all of his body, torrents so strong that he was afraid he’d drown in them. Johnny always squished the echo of those feelings, silenced the voice pointing out that these moments never happened with Drew, nor with any of these people he’d fucked before he met Drew. Not since -
Johnny didn’t think about that. He was not a masochist. But it was hard, especially face to face with Drew’s dispassionate calm.
It was a stupid fight. It was not Drew’s fault, in fact, it wasn’t even about Drew. Johnny had been catty all afternoon, and it was easy to pick a fight, the one he’d wanted to pick with his boss at Vuitton who had - yet again - gotten praise for Johnny’s ideas. Picking a fight with Drew would cause much less collateral damage than arguing with his boss would have, though.
And so here they were, fighting because Drew had accidentally tossed his dirty running shoes onto Johnny’s favorite Galliano shirt which had, somehow, been lying on the closet floor. Or actually, Johnny was the one doing the fighting. It was exhausting, not having Drew react to him the way he should be.
“Are you even listening to me?!” he yelled, throwing his arms open in exasperation.
Drew sighed. “Of course. I would have to listen even if I didn’t want to.”
Johnny glared, hands on his hips and eyebrows lifted.
“You’re loud enough for both of us. I’m sure the neighbors will be pounding on the walls soon.” Drew had the guts to chuckle.
“Yeah, that’s what people do when they’re angry!” Johnny snapped. “People who give a damn, anyway.”
“But I’m not angry, Johnny,” Drew said. “Please, sit down.”
“NO! That’s exactly the problem!” Johnny started pacing; there was not much room to cover, three quick strides were enough to take him from one end of their living room to the other. It was infuriating, the lack of space. He couldn’t breathe. “You never get angry. You never yell. You never - it’s like you don’t even care!”
“So this is what it’s about?” Drew asked, eyes soft. Johnny felt himself bristle at the look, but Drew knew him well, anticipating the tantrum that was coming. He stood up from the couch and reached for Johnny’s wrist, catching him mid-stride. “You think I don’t care?” he said quietly and stroked his fingers across Johnny’s cheek, a touch so gentle and feather-light that it was hard not to shiver.
“Well,” Johnny said. It was hard to yell with Drew that close, that soft and anything but angry. Drew always did this to him, made him feel soft and warm and safe inside.
Drew sighed and shook his head. “I don’t yell at you because I don’t want to hurt you. People tend to say stupid stuff when they yell. And it can't be taken back once it's said. I don’t want to do that to you.” He brushed a finger at Johnny’s hair, then added, quietly: “I don’t want to lose you.” Johnny opened his mouth to say something, maybe tell Drew that he wouldn’t, but Drew shushed him, pressing his index finger across his lips. Johnny couldn’t help but wonder if Drew had seen the uncertainty in his eyes, if he could somehow tell that Johnny wasn’t completely sure about that statement he had been going to make.
“I get angry sometimes, because you can be such an annoying little bitch…” Drew chuckled again and this time, Johnny joined in, allowing the tiny upwards tug at the corners of his lips. “But I always tell myself that it doesn’t matter. Because you’re also a wonderful person and I love you so much - so much that all those fights are unimportant. The only thing that’s important is you, that you’re mine, and that you - we - are happy.”
“Oh,” Johnny said. The warm fuzzies in his belly were making it difficult to speak intelligently.
“Please don’t forget that,” Drew added and pecked his lips, never breaking eye-contact.
“Okay,” Johnny nodded before kissing Drew back, a proper kiss, molding their lips together and reaching around Drew’s waist to pull him closer, waiting - hoping, as always, for that blissful, mind-numbing sensation that should accompany it. It never came, but he felt warm - hot - all over when they came apart for breath. “You’re still cleaning my t-shirt, though,” he said, a mock-glare on his face. “Later,” he added, pressing in closer for more heat. It felt good.
~fin