Novocaine 1/1 (Bon Jovi)
Title: Novocaine
Genre: Slash
Band: Bon Jovi
Main Characters: David Bryan, Richie Sambora
Adult Content: No
Words: 1630
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: Is it easier to give something up when you know what you stand to gain - or what you stand to lose?
Teaser: David's left arm, the arm attached to the hand clutching the half-empty bottle of vodka, shot up in the air, and almost before Richie could blink, the sound of glass shattering, alcohol-soaked glass breaking apart on his kitchen floor, echoed in his ears.
The door had been locked when he'd left, Richie was sure of it. He always double-checked, often triple-checked. Too much expensive shit to risk a careless mistake, and while most people who knew him would probably be surprised he had it together enough to remember that, he did try to avoid careless errors whenever possible.
He just wasn't very good at it.
But he could handle locking the door, and he knew that wasn't really anything to be proud of, but he'd take anything he could find floating in the sea of fuckups and hangovers his life had become.
Which is why it was such a shock to find the door unlocked.
When he took a minute to look around, perhaps looking for something to fall from the sky and explain the door to him, he saw a strange car in the driveway. So it hadn't been his fuckup. Good to know.
David was in the kitchen, facing the sink, wiggling his hips and singing something stupid while he...wait.
While he poured Richie's favorite expensive vodka down the sink.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
David jumped a little, and Richie could have sworn he squeaked. The bottle almost clattered to the floor, but he caught it at the last minute. Pouring it down the drain must have been more fun than spilling it on the floor.
"What are you doing here?"
"It's my house."
"I know that. But you're supposed to be..."
"I'm done."
"Where the Hell did you go? McDonald's?"
He looked angry. What the Hell right did the man who went into his house uninvited and wasted his expensive - and delicious - liquor to be angry?
"David, what the fuck are you doing here?"
"You're not supposed to be back."
"How the Hell long did you think detox takes?"
It was almost like his face melted, features drooping from anger into confusion. "Rehab."
"I just went to detox, David."
David's left arm, the arm attached to the hand clutching the half-empty bottle of vodka, shot up in the air, and almost before Richie could blink, the sound of glass shattering, alcohol-soaked glass breaking apart on his kitchen floor, echoed in his ears.
"What the fu - "
"You fucking bastard. You stupid, lying, uncaring, piece-of-shit deceitful callous douchebag. You fucking said you were going the fuck to fucking rehab you stupid fucking asshole."
Glass crunched under David's sandals as he started towards Richie, eyes practically glowing with the emotion of his tirade.
"David - "
"Shut the fuck up. Just shut your stupid fucking mouth, Richie. You won't tell me the fucking truth anyway."
"I never lied to you."
"Oh yeah? So what was it you were doing when you told us you were going to rehab?"
Alcohol stung the inside of his nose, wrapped around his head and made his mouth water. This would be way easier to handle with a drink...but of course the drink was on the fucking floor, and Richie wasn't totally surprised when the only reason he could come up with to not get down and lick it up was the broken glass.
"I did go to rehab. A rehab. To detox."
David was a fairly mellow guy, and it was easy to forget how big he was, how frightening he could be when pissed off. Richie's back hit the fridge with enough force he wouldn't be forgetting that for a while when David stormed past him, swearing under his breath the whole way.
The door slamming rattled the glass on the floor. What the fuck had just happened?
----------
If Richie were honest with himself - which he hated, and wasn't exactly good at - David was probably right to call him a lying bastard. It had been easy enough to do, because it was Jon and Tico who sat him down and told him if he didn't get help it was done. Jon with his anger and self-righteous indignation and none-too-subtle undertones of I am Jon Bon Jovi and if I have to kick you out it's no contest which of our careers will survive. And Tico, who Richie was fairly sure didn't actually have human emotions.
David hadn't been there, and because Richie didn't have to look in David's eyes that could draw blood from a stone if that's what David wanted, because it wasn't that smooth voice that cut right through him asking, he could lie. He could say "I'll get help" when what he meant was "I'll find the quickest and easiest thing I can do that looks like I'm getting help".
And it would be Jon who'd tell David, so it would be Jon lying to those eyes and those probing questions in that deceptively soothing tone.
So Richie, when the bars were closed and he smelled too much like alcohol for himself to handle, when the fuzz in his brain obscured everything but the desperate loneliness that was always hanging around, could go knock on the door to David's room, and be greeted with a smile and a hug.
And, more often than not, soft hands to strip him and lips against his and a warm body to hide inside and maybe feel a little better while David writhed and moaned beneath him.
Sometimes, when their bodies gave out and David wrapped around him and feel asleep nuzzled into his neck, Richie thought that maybe if he could spend his entire life inside David he wouldn't drink so much.
But reality had this nasty way of interfering.
----------
Richie hated talking to David on the phone. David's voice flowed in through his ears and ran into his bloodstream like warm water, and there were two ways to respond to that: sex, and alcohol. And when they talked on the phone, he couldn't have sex with David so one guess where he ended up.
Alcohol was the better solution, anyway. Far easier to get drunk and pretend he wasn't affected than to stay lucid and wonder what it meant.
"Where the Hell are you?"
"Airport."
"You know there's not a flight back to Jersey for, like, seven hours, right?"
David's response to anything he couldn't argue was usually silence. Incredibly effective.
"David, come back to the house."
"You lied to me."
"Yeah."
He could almost hear David blinking, see his "wait, he was supposed to argue" face so clearly David might as well have been standing in front of him.
"I turned in my rental car."
"I'll come get you."
----------
The ten-minute ride from the airport to Richie's house took days, David's silence stretching every second into agonizing hours until, thankfully, they made it to the house.
And then, because David wouldn't be David if he weren't confusing the fuck out of Richie, grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, upstairs, down on the bed.
Alcohol. Everything smelled like alcohol, tasted like alcohol, his clear burning lifeline down the sink and on the floor and David's hands were everywhere, his lips were everywhere, and Richie tried to let go and bury himself in David for safety but the vodka sting tainted everything.
It was over, and David was wrapped around him, smiling and nuzzling and this close to purring, and Richie's mind reeled and he needed a fucking drink.
"You seem kinda...somewhere else."
"That's the first time I've done that sober."
Richie could feel the tensing in David's muscles, the hurt and anger and urge to just storm right out of there coiling in his shoulders. But he didn't bolt, he just sat up slowly and ra his fingers through his hair.
"And?"
"I'm sorry."
"For?"
"Everything I have to be sorry for."
David looked him over and sighed. "Yeah. I'm gonna just grab a shower."
----------
David had done a pretty thorough job emptying out the liquor cabinet. The fridge and freezer were empty, as was the mini-fridge in the studio. A six-pack of beer sat on the counter next to the sink, presumedly all that was left to go after the vodka Richie had caught him dumping.
But Richie knew this house better than David, and he knew in the third cabinet from the right of the stove there was a bottle of cheapo rum. He hated rum, for no good reason, and had hidden it so whoever bought it for him - probably Jon, who had shitty taste in drinks - wouldn't see the full bottle when he visited.
It was still there, still full minus one shot he'd taken to appease the guy-who-was-probably-Jon, amber and inviting and the shower was running upstairs, he could hear a quiet rushing through the pipes like the way David rushed through his veins if he wasn't drunk enough to ignore it.
Richie opened the bottle, the smell whacking him in the face and nearly bringing tears to his eyes. He took a swig - it was warm, and it tasted vile like rum always did.
He was standing right over the sink, probably wandered over there to get a glass, but before he was really aware of what was going on the bottle was tilting and the rum started to bubble down the drain.
There was warmth behind him, and something solid. Solid and damp, and Richie leaned back against David as the last few drops clung desperately to the lip of the bottle.
Genre: Slash
Band: Bon Jovi
Main Characters: David Bryan, Richie Sambora
Adult Content: No
Words: 1630
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: Is it easier to give something up when you know what you stand to gain - or what you stand to lose?
Teaser: David's left arm, the arm attached to the hand clutching the half-empty bottle of vodka, shot up in the air, and almost before Richie could blink, the sound of glass shattering, alcohol-soaked glass breaking apart on his kitchen floor, echoed in his ears.
The door had been locked when he'd left, Richie was sure of it. He always double-checked, often triple-checked. Too much expensive shit to risk a careless mistake, and while most people who knew him would probably be surprised he had it together enough to remember that, he did try to avoid careless errors whenever possible.
He just wasn't very good at it.
But he could handle locking the door, and he knew that wasn't really anything to be proud of, but he'd take anything he could find floating in the sea of fuckups and hangovers his life had become.
Which is why it was such a shock to find the door unlocked.
When he took a minute to look around, perhaps looking for something to fall from the sky and explain the door to him, he saw a strange car in the driveway. So it hadn't been his fuckup. Good to know.
David was in the kitchen, facing the sink, wiggling his hips and singing something stupid while he...wait.
While he poured Richie's favorite expensive vodka down the sink.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
David jumped a little, and Richie could have sworn he squeaked. The bottle almost clattered to the floor, but he caught it at the last minute. Pouring it down the drain must have been more fun than spilling it on the floor.
"What are you doing here?"
"It's my house."
"I know that. But you're supposed to be..."
"I'm done."
"Where the Hell did you go? McDonald's?"
He looked angry. What the Hell right did the man who went into his house uninvited and wasted his expensive - and delicious - liquor to be angry?
"David, what the fuck are you doing here?"
"You're not supposed to be back."
"How the Hell long did you think detox takes?"
It was almost like his face melted, features drooping from anger into confusion. "Rehab."
"I just went to detox, David."
David's left arm, the arm attached to the hand clutching the half-empty bottle of vodka, shot up in the air, and almost before Richie could blink, the sound of glass shattering, alcohol-soaked glass breaking apart on his kitchen floor, echoed in his ears.
"What the fu - "
"You fucking bastard. You stupid, lying, uncaring, piece-of-shit deceitful callous douchebag. You fucking said you were going the fuck to fucking rehab you stupid fucking asshole."
Glass crunched under David's sandals as he started towards Richie, eyes practically glowing with the emotion of his tirade.
"David - "
"Shut the fuck up. Just shut your stupid fucking mouth, Richie. You won't tell me the fucking truth anyway."
"I never lied to you."
"Oh yeah? So what was it you were doing when you told us you were going to rehab?"
Alcohol stung the inside of his nose, wrapped around his head and made his mouth water. This would be way easier to handle with a drink...but of course the drink was on the fucking floor, and Richie wasn't totally surprised when the only reason he could come up with to not get down and lick it up was the broken glass.
"I did go to rehab. A rehab. To detox."
David was a fairly mellow guy, and it was easy to forget how big he was, how frightening he could be when pissed off. Richie's back hit the fridge with enough force he wouldn't be forgetting that for a while when David stormed past him, swearing under his breath the whole way.
The door slamming rattled the glass on the floor. What the fuck had just happened?
----------
If Richie were honest with himself - which he hated, and wasn't exactly good at - David was probably right to call him a lying bastard. It had been easy enough to do, because it was Jon and Tico who sat him down and told him if he didn't get help it was done. Jon with his anger and self-righteous indignation and none-too-subtle undertones of I am Jon Bon Jovi and if I have to kick you out it's no contest which of our careers will survive. And Tico, who Richie was fairly sure didn't actually have human emotions.
David hadn't been there, and because Richie didn't have to look in David's eyes that could draw blood from a stone if that's what David wanted, because it wasn't that smooth voice that cut right through him asking, he could lie. He could say "I'll get help" when what he meant was "I'll find the quickest and easiest thing I can do that looks like I'm getting help".
And it would be Jon who'd tell David, so it would be Jon lying to those eyes and those probing questions in that deceptively soothing tone.
So Richie, when the bars were closed and he smelled too much like alcohol for himself to handle, when the fuzz in his brain obscured everything but the desperate loneliness that was always hanging around, could go knock on the door to David's room, and be greeted with a smile and a hug.
And, more often than not, soft hands to strip him and lips against his and a warm body to hide inside and maybe feel a little better while David writhed and moaned beneath him.
Sometimes, when their bodies gave out and David wrapped around him and feel asleep nuzzled into his neck, Richie thought that maybe if he could spend his entire life inside David he wouldn't drink so much.
But reality had this nasty way of interfering.
----------
Richie hated talking to David on the phone. David's voice flowed in through his ears and ran into his bloodstream like warm water, and there were two ways to respond to that: sex, and alcohol. And when they talked on the phone, he couldn't have sex with David so one guess where he ended up.
Alcohol was the better solution, anyway. Far easier to get drunk and pretend he wasn't affected than to stay lucid and wonder what it meant.
"Where the Hell are you?"
"Airport."
"You know there's not a flight back to Jersey for, like, seven hours, right?"
David's response to anything he couldn't argue was usually silence. Incredibly effective.
"David, come back to the house."
"You lied to me."
"Yeah."
He could almost hear David blinking, see his "wait, he was supposed to argue" face so clearly David might as well have been standing in front of him.
"I turned in my rental car."
"I'll come get you."
----------
The ten-minute ride from the airport to Richie's house took days, David's silence stretching every second into agonizing hours until, thankfully, they made it to the house.
And then, because David wouldn't be David if he weren't confusing the fuck out of Richie, grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, upstairs, down on the bed.
Alcohol. Everything smelled like alcohol, tasted like alcohol, his clear burning lifeline down the sink and on the floor and David's hands were everywhere, his lips were everywhere, and Richie tried to let go and bury himself in David for safety but the vodka sting tainted everything.
It was over, and David was wrapped around him, smiling and nuzzling and this close to purring, and Richie's mind reeled and he needed a fucking drink.
"You seem kinda...somewhere else."
"That's the first time I've done that sober."
Richie could feel the tensing in David's muscles, the hurt and anger and urge to just storm right out of there coiling in his shoulders. But he didn't bolt, he just sat up slowly and ra his fingers through his hair.
"And?"
"I'm sorry."
"For?"
"Everything I have to be sorry for."
David looked him over and sighed. "Yeah. I'm gonna just grab a shower."
----------
David had done a pretty thorough job emptying out the liquor cabinet. The fridge and freezer were empty, as was the mini-fridge in the studio. A six-pack of beer sat on the counter next to the sink, presumedly all that was left to go after the vodka Richie had caught him dumping.
But Richie knew this house better than David, and he knew in the third cabinet from the right of the stove there was a bottle of cheapo rum. He hated rum, for no good reason, and had hidden it so whoever bought it for him - probably Jon, who had shitty taste in drinks - wouldn't see the full bottle when he visited.
It was still there, still full minus one shot he'd taken to appease the guy-who-was-probably-Jon, amber and inviting and the shower was running upstairs, he could hear a quiet rushing through the pipes like the way David rushed through his veins if he wasn't drunk enough to ignore it.
Richie opened the bottle, the smell whacking him in the face and nearly bringing tears to his eyes. He took a swig - it was warm, and it tasted vile like rum always did.
He was standing right over the sink, probably wandered over there to get a glass, but before he was really aware of what was going on the bottle was tilting and the rum started to bubble down the drain.
There was warmth behind him, and something solid. Solid and damp, and Richie leaned back against David as the last few drops clung desperately to the lip of the bottle.