Writing Post - JRock Love Ballads and GiftArt
Title: None Applicable
Length: 4+ pages in MS Word.
Characters: Alternate-Universe (Rock Band), Bohren and Rivek, Homosexual Relationship.
I haven't written in awhile. This is... kinda bad. Really kinda bad. My apologies. I actually don't think I've written AU BohRiv before.
Especially as I drew it in thanks to the amazing Noa, who drew me this picture that kokoryta said I should write a story to accompany. I now owe her Gaia gold.
---
Bohren walked into the club and leaned against the back wall. It was one of those dark places, filled with neon colored, glow-under-black-light, heads pumping back and forth with the drum beats and bass line. Not his kind of style, never was. He liked things a bit more elegant. You could do better than this, he thought.
The hall was filled with studs, spikes, and black leather. Bohren only wore this jacket because he never would have been allowed in otherwise. The red worked with his dirty blonde hair but not so much his brown eyes. Damn bouncers, they were spiky, too. His ripped clothing was stage wear, a kind of separate, kind of angst-plagued persona that he put on for special occasions like this. It had taken him five months to find this time, this place.
The band on stage finished up its last encore and began throwing their shit into the crowd - a drumstick, a ring, a spray of water from the lead singer’s mouth. A bassist’s pick arced overhead and into the flailing arms of a sixteen-year-old girl. She wouldn’t appreciate that as much as it deserved, he thought.
Bohren moved towards the door before he was trampled by platform boots. The last synthesizer vibrations died out and morphed into chatter.
“That concert was so great.”
“That last song just didn’t do it for me.”
“Why did you take me here? They suck!”
“Isn’t the lead singer hot?”
“I think he’s gay.”
He leaned against the threshold and knocked a cigarette from his box of Marlboros, more for warmth than for craving. He liked them because they were cheap and plentiful. The wet air outside and occasional pushes from teenagers who never bothered to apologize made it difficult to light. Ah, well. Finally successful, he continued to click his monogrammed lighter. Ironically, the initials weren’t his.
“You can’t do that here,” muttered the man at the door. Bohren was decently tall, but the bouncer was taller.
“Concert’s over.”
“Then leave.”
“I’m with the band.” Lame, Bohren. Lame.
“Listen, I know the list, who’s meant to be here. You little brats keep trying that, and I’ll kick you in the face.”
“I’m twenty-four, thank you very much,” Bohren sneered before making his way towards the back of the club. He wouldn’t find what he was looking for here, anyway. “And mind you, I really am here to see someone.”
The back entrance was more like a kitchen door, one a bartender would use to go out into the alley and toss empty bottles in the dumpster. He shuddered. This jacket was too light. It had been raining all day, and the cold wind seeped through the frayed edges of his shirt. Still, he had to wait.
As he smoked his cigarette down to the filter, a pathetically thin young man pushed open the door and accidentally bumped the head of the bass guitar he carried. “It’s been awhile, Rivek.”
Bohren turned his head to match the black-haired bassist walked right past him without a look. “Well, that was rude.” You know my voice, and that’s why you’re ignoring me. The musician continued to walk.
Bohren strode over to him and placed his hand on Rivek’s hip. It was a familiar position that he’d gone too long without. Rivek reached into his pocket, obvious reaching for a cell phone.
“Get the fuck away, or I’m calling the cops.”
“That’s no way to treat an old friend.”
“You’re not my friend anymore.”
“Now, that’s rude.”
Rivek paused, hand and phone still suspended in his black pants. Bohren leaned in and whispered, “It’s been eight months.” And two weeks. And four days.
“Yeah, with good reason. Are you following me?”
“No.” Sort of. No. Yes. No. Maybe. Yes.
“Then why are you here?”
“I had to find you.”
“Then you are following me.”
“I miss you.” He rested his chin on Rivek’s shoulder and fingered the little buckles on his jacket. So gothic. This wasn’t Rivek. The Rivek he knew would be in graphic print t-shirts, European jeans, and Chelsea boots. He still smelled the same, though. The concert-sweat on his neck still smelled the same.
“Get off of me. It’s over. And you damn well know why.”
“Look, I’m sorry.”
“You’re never really sorry.”
His voice cracked. “I am.”
“I know how it is. One night, it’s all ‘God, I need you Riv. Need you,’ and then the next you have your dick up pussy - or worse - the ass of some groupie. Every fucking concert. I’ve known you for fifteen years. Since we were in, like, third, fourth grade. That’s fifteen fucking years you could have stopped being a jerk.”
Bohren sighed. Fucking truth. He hated the truth. He ran his other hand under Rivek’s neck, a pale, swanlike entity that he had touched so often. It was a sensitive spot, and he knew that. Rivek squirmed a little. “Well, if it means anything, I haven’t been with anyone since you left.” Well, there was that one time, but nothing else. Nothing else.
“Why should I care?”
“The band broke up after you left. You can’t really have a band without a vocalist.” You have such a good voice. “Speaking of which, why’re you playing bass?”
“It’s what the band needed.”
“That’s it? ‘What the band needed’?”
“Hey, I saw the flyer, and it’s a job that pays the rent, okay?”
“I thought you had a job. You were a curator at the aviation museum.”
“No, I was the secretary to the head curator. And that museum closed months ago.”
“Listen, I swear, I miss you so much. Let’s just go back to your place, and talk this over. You still have that studio in Harrison Park, right? I just can’t… if anything, I just can’t let this stay where it has been. You just walked out on us, put down your notice and walked out on us.”
“Bohren… my lease ran out last month. I’ve been-.”
“Living with someone?”
“Yeah, the drummer. He’s the guy in charge of the band.”
“You’re not just living with him, are you?”
Rivek put his hand on Bohren’s, trying to push it away. Trying. If he were really trying, he would have done it. “He doesn’t treat me like you did.”
Bohren ran his hand down Rivek’s right cheek, noticing a half-healed aberration. “What’s this?” Fifteen years. That’s right, fifteen years. He knew Rivek, his habits and weaknesses. “This isn’t make-up.” You’re at it again.
“It’s nothing. We were high. It’ll heal in a week.”
“I thought you stopped that shit.”
“Well, that’s what Sorian likes, okay? And it’s not like you’ve stopped smoking.”
“Smoking’s legal.”
The drizzle grew louder until the drops could be heard pelting the sidewalk. Rivek slung his bass over his shoulder, breaking Bohren’s hold. “Look, I’ve got to go. Sorian and I are going for drinks. You’re not invited.” The straps and buckles on his pants jingled slightly as he turned.
“I love you.”
“I’m not falling for that again.” His boots clicked rhythmically on the pavement, echoing fading drums at the end of a too-long song.
“Wait.”
He did. Bohren ran in front of Rivek, took the shorter man’s chin in his hands, and tilted those lips towards his. The taste of alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes, love ballads, and nights in each others’ beds rushed into Bohren’s brain. He couldn’t go through with this again. Bad yet amazing memories seeped past Rivek’s parted lips and tickled his throat. He needed this again.
The rain dripped down Bohren’s forehead, down the bridge of his nose, down Rivek’s cheek, down his chin, and beaded on his jacket.
Rivek pushed him away.
“Fuck you.”
“When’s your next concert?”
The words, repeated so many times on stage to so many people he didn’t know, cam automatically, “Not this Friday but the next. At the Glow Factory. Concert starts at ten, doors open at nine. Tickets are twenty dollars per person.”
Bohren reached into his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and stuck it in Rivek’s pant pocket.
“Save me a seat.”
---
Haha. This is so emo.
On another note, groovyguava drew me pictures, too. Or rather than I write a story for her illustration, she illustrated one of my old story blurbs! Gah. :heart: So much appreciated. I luff you Kalkie. Y_Y And, like, thank you so, so much for actually reading.
I also got some chibis from CrescentDragonwagon. Aren't they adorable? I love their costume designs.
In real life, I got an ice cream cake and a pair of "awkward" turtle socks. Yay for real-life friends.
Length: 4+ pages in MS Word.
Characters: Alternate-Universe (Rock Band), Bohren and Rivek, Homosexual Relationship.
I haven't written in awhile. This is... kinda bad. Really kinda bad. My apologies. I actually don't think I've written AU BohRiv before.
Especially as I drew it in thanks to the amazing Noa, who drew me this picture that kokoryta said I should write a story to accompany. I now owe her Gaia gold.
---
Bohren walked into the club and leaned against the back wall. It was one of those dark places, filled with neon colored, glow-under-black-light, heads pumping back and forth with the drum beats and bass line. Not his kind of style, never was. He liked things a bit more elegant. You could do better than this, he thought.
The hall was filled with studs, spikes, and black leather. Bohren only wore this jacket because he never would have been allowed in otherwise. The red worked with his dirty blonde hair but not so much his brown eyes. Damn bouncers, they were spiky, too. His ripped clothing was stage wear, a kind of separate, kind of angst-plagued persona that he put on for special occasions like this. It had taken him five months to find this time, this place.
The band on stage finished up its last encore and began throwing their shit into the crowd - a drumstick, a ring, a spray of water from the lead singer’s mouth. A bassist’s pick arced overhead and into the flailing arms of a sixteen-year-old girl. She wouldn’t appreciate that as much as it deserved, he thought.
Bohren moved towards the door before he was trampled by platform boots. The last synthesizer vibrations died out and morphed into chatter.
“That concert was so great.”
“That last song just didn’t do it for me.”
“Why did you take me here? They suck!”
“Isn’t the lead singer hot?”
“I think he’s gay.”
He leaned against the threshold and knocked a cigarette from his box of Marlboros, more for warmth than for craving. He liked them because they were cheap and plentiful. The wet air outside and occasional pushes from teenagers who never bothered to apologize made it difficult to light. Ah, well. Finally successful, he continued to click his monogrammed lighter. Ironically, the initials weren’t his.
“You can’t do that here,” muttered the man at the door. Bohren was decently tall, but the bouncer was taller.
“Concert’s over.”
“Then leave.”
“I’m with the band.” Lame, Bohren. Lame.
“Listen, I know the list, who’s meant to be here. You little brats keep trying that, and I’ll kick you in the face.”
“I’m twenty-four, thank you very much,” Bohren sneered before making his way towards the back of the club. He wouldn’t find what he was looking for here, anyway. “And mind you, I really am here to see someone.”
The back entrance was more like a kitchen door, one a bartender would use to go out into the alley and toss empty bottles in the dumpster. He shuddered. This jacket was too light. It had been raining all day, and the cold wind seeped through the frayed edges of his shirt. Still, he had to wait.
As he smoked his cigarette down to the filter, a pathetically thin young man pushed open the door and accidentally bumped the head of the bass guitar he carried. “It’s been awhile, Rivek.”
Bohren turned his head to match the black-haired bassist walked right past him without a look. “Well, that was rude.” You know my voice, and that’s why you’re ignoring me. The musician continued to walk.
Bohren strode over to him and placed his hand on Rivek’s hip. It was a familiar position that he’d gone too long without. Rivek reached into his pocket, obvious reaching for a cell phone.
“Get the fuck away, or I’m calling the cops.”
“That’s no way to treat an old friend.”
“You’re not my friend anymore.”
“Now, that’s rude.”
Rivek paused, hand and phone still suspended in his black pants. Bohren leaned in and whispered, “It’s been eight months.” And two weeks. And four days.
“Yeah, with good reason. Are you following me?”
“No.” Sort of. No. Yes. No. Maybe. Yes.
“Then why are you here?”
“I had to find you.”
“Then you are following me.”
“I miss you.” He rested his chin on Rivek’s shoulder and fingered the little buckles on his jacket. So gothic. This wasn’t Rivek. The Rivek he knew would be in graphic print t-shirts, European jeans, and Chelsea boots. He still smelled the same, though. The concert-sweat on his neck still smelled the same.
“Get off of me. It’s over. And you damn well know why.”
“Look, I’m sorry.”
“You’re never really sorry.”
His voice cracked. “I am.”
“I know how it is. One night, it’s all ‘God, I need you Riv. Need you,’ and then the next you have your dick up pussy - or worse - the ass of some groupie. Every fucking concert. I’ve known you for fifteen years. Since we were in, like, third, fourth grade. That’s fifteen fucking years you could have stopped being a jerk.”
Bohren sighed. Fucking truth. He hated the truth. He ran his other hand under Rivek’s neck, a pale, swanlike entity that he had touched so often. It was a sensitive spot, and he knew that. Rivek squirmed a little. “Well, if it means anything, I haven’t been with anyone since you left.” Well, there was that one time, but nothing else. Nothing else.
“Why should I care?”
“The band broke up after you left. You can’t really have a band without a vocalist.” You have such a good voice. “Speaking of which, why’re you playing bass?”
“It’s what the band needed.”
“That’s it? ‘What the band needed’?”
“Hey, I saw the flyer, and it’s a job that pays the rent, okay?”
“I thought you had a job. You were a curator at the aviation museum.”
“No, I was the secretary to the head curator. And that museum closed months ago.”
“Listen, I swear, I miss you so much. Let’s just go back to your place, and talk this over. You still have that studio in Harrison Park, right? I just can’t… if anything, I just can’t let this stay where it has been. You just walked out on us, put down your notice and walked out on us.”
“Bohren… my lease ran out last month. I’ve been-.”
“Living with someone?”
“Yeah, the drummer. He’s the guy in charge of the band.”
“You’re not just living with him, are you?”
Rivek put his hand on Bohren’s, trying to push it away. Trying. If he were really trying, he would have done it. “He doesn’t treat me like you did.”
Bohren ran his hand down Rivek’s right cheek, noticing a half-healed aberration. “What’s this?” Fifteen years. That’s right, fifteen years. He knew Rivek, his habits and weaknesses. “This isn’t make-up.” You’re at it again.
“It’s nothing. We were high. It’ll heal in a week.”
“I thought you stopped that shit.”
“Well, that’s what Sorian likes, okay? And it’s not like you’ve stopped smoking.”
“Smoking’s legal.”
The drizzle grew louder until the drops could be heard pelting the sidewalk. Rivek slung his bass over his shoulder, breaking Bohren’s hold. “Look, I’ve got to go. Sorian and I are going for drinks. You’re not invited.” The straps and buckles on his pants jingled slightly as he turned.
“I love you.”
“I’m not falling for that again.” His boots clicked rhythmically on the pavement, echoing fading drums at the end of a too-long song.
“Wait.”
He did. Bohren ran in front of Rivek, took the shorter man’s chin in his hands, and tilted those lips towards his. The taste of alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes, love ballads, and nights in each others’ beds rushed into Bohren’s brain. He couldn’t go through with this again. Bad yet amazing memories seeped past Rivek’s parted lips and tickled his throat. He needed this again.
The rain dripped down Bohren’s forehead, down the bridge of his nose, down Rivek’s cheek, down his chin, and beaded on his jacket.
Rivek pushed him away.
“Fuck you.”
“When’s your next concert?”
The words, repeated so many times on stage to so many people he didn’t know, cam automatically, “Not this Friday but the next. At the Glow Factory. Concert starts at ten, doors open at nine. Tickets are twenty dollars per person.”
Bohren reached into his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and stuck it in Rivek’s pant pocket.
“Save me a seat.”
---
Haha. This is so emo.
On another note, groovyguava drew me pictures, too. Or rather than I write a story for her illustration, she illustrated one of my old story blurbs! Gah. :heart: So much appreciated. I luff you Kalkie. Y_Y And, like, thank you so, so much for actually reading.
I also got some chibis from CrescentDragonwagon. Aren't they adorable? I love their costume designs.
In real life, I got an ice cream cake and a pair of "awkward" turtle socks. Yay for real-life friends.