Carling Fics for Sky
I posted at DYW about a fic challenge for schuyler's birthday based on the amazing set of bands playing this year's Carling Festival. I've decided there is too much fodder for one story (and also my track record with long stories is not so good as of late), so I will be posting ficlets! Some funny, some touching, some (god wiling) porny, I will post one a day (internet access permitting) until August 26th when Sky turns 25 and the pics from Carling start flooding in, destroying all my dreams. Or killing me. One or the other.
1. Ricky Wilson and Pete Wentz (PG)
“Well, that’s just bizarre.”
The voice came from just over Pete’s left shoulder and he laughed. “Why? You don’t think they’d get along okay?” He glanced back with a grin. “I mean, who wouldn’t hit that?”
Ricky shook his head, drops falling on his shoulders from the bottle of water he’d dumped on himself the second he’d walked offstage. His tie was still tied, though barely, and Pete could see the outline of words on the t-shirt under his white Oxford. “That’s a relationship doomed to failure, I’m telling you,” Ricky nodded back toward the side stage. “She’s fucking insane.”
Pete looked back in time to see Karen O. slip her hand into Stuart Murdoch’s front pocket for a moment and laugh along with Bobby and Richard at his shocked expression. “I’ve dated insane before. It can be fun,” Pete noted, maybe a little too wistfully. When he glanced back again, Ricky was looking at him.
“Insane is fun until the first time she attempts to behead you with your NME award,” he slung an arm companionably around Pete’s neck and tugged until Pete’s nose was almost pressed to Ricky’s collar. “I much prefer interesting. Interesting doesn’t usually end in bloodshed. Interesting is good conversation and damn good sex and no crying jags in my bathroom.”
Pete laughed and leaned into Ricky’s side as Belle & Sebastian took the stage to a roar from the crowd. They stood like that for three songs, Pete’s side warm against Ricky’s even through the cool damp of his shirt. Patrick’s voice cut through the crowd behind them.
“Pete! Come on, dude! We’ve got to tune,” he said with the slight agitation Patrick always wore when faced with festival crowds. Joe was behind him, his guitar in one hand and Pete’s bass in the other.
“Sorry,” he blinked up at Ricky. “On next.”
“Of course,” Ricky let go easily, taking a few backward steps. “I’d say break a leg, but I’ve had too much experience with that so…,” He grinned and waved, finally turning to join his bandmates in packing up the remainder of their gear.
Pete spent the rest of the set with Patrick’s head basically in his lap as they tried to tune over the sounds coming from the various stages. They lined up sidestage as Stuart started his last song. Ricky walked past with his drummer and gave him an over-the-top thumbs up. Pete flipped him off, laughing.
“What was that?” Pete heard the drummer ask, smiling but incredulous.
“He’s a good guy,” Ricky replied as they walked out of earshot. “Really… interesting.”
2. Ricky Wilson and Spencer Smith (PG)
“Is that a sheep?” Spencer asked, gritting his teeth as he jumped yet another mud puddle and pointing past a large wooden fence. If he’d known it was quite this much of a dirty hike, he wouldn’t have worn his Italian loafers. “Where the fuck are we?”
“Leeds?” Ricky replied with a grin, picking his way gingerly across the grass. He jeans were pegged a little higher then normal and his knee was muddy from slipping a few yards back.
Maybe five hundred yards back. Maybe a few miles, as far as Spencer knew. They were past the crush of people at the main stage and around to the side areas where the smaller acts played. Spencer could see a vast tent city off to his left.
“You people are clearly insane?” he muttered as Ricky pointed to the tents with glee. “These festivals are breeding grounds for disease.”
“Mostly just crabs,” Ricky noted happily and Spencer rolled his eyes. Ricky gazed to his right and stopped. “Huh. It has to be over there somewhere.”
Spencer looked at him, then at the sea of people and canvas and mud. “’Over there somewhere?’ Fuck. You have no idea where it is, do you?”
“Nope!” Ricky grinned and laughed. “But we’ll find it!”
“How do you know that, you crazy bastard?” Spencer couldn’t help but laugh. He clearly should have brought snacks on this outing.
“Because my girl is there, and I can find her anywhere,” he sighed overdramatically and Spencer kicked him in the shin.
“Come on, infant,” Ricky slung an arm around Spencer’s shoulder and marched them forward into the crowd.
The farther they got from the main stage, the less they were asked for autographs. The crowd was cooler out here. Less outwardly drunk, more outwardly disdainful. Spencer heard a group of girls in fedoras laugh as they passed. Spencer made a mental note to tell Ryan about it later. Ryan would want to meet those girls. He always was a masochist.
“Here we go, this will do nicely!” Ricky stopped and placed his hand on his hips. They were standing in front of a run down building that was clearly out of place. Spence was pretty sure it was usually the only thing on this road for miles.
“…It’s a bar.”
“It’s a pub! It’s Jackie Whittaker’s pub, actually. This guy would serve me when I was still in grade ten. Good man. Also makes damn good chips.” He patted Spence on the back and opened the door.
“But,” Spence paused, looking over his shoulder, “what about Amanda’s show?” The Dolls were set to go on in (he checked his watch) ten minutes and they were nowhere near, well, ANY stage.
“If we’re going to face that lady’s wrath, I’d rather not do it sober.”
Spencer looked back toward the sea of humanity and forward into the dark, cool of the pub. The smell of French fries made his mouth water. “Okay, but just five minutes.”
Four hours later, they managed to find Amanda and Brian in the mess tent. “You smell like a brewery,” she said fondly, slipping her hand in Ricky’s.
“Bastard spilled his drink on me while I was dancing to your set, love,” he said with a perfectly straight face. Spencer was full of potatoes and a little in love.
3. Spencer Smith and Nick McCarthy
“Those are great shoes.”
Spencer looks up from his kit and his mouth goes a little dry. Christ, it’s Nick McCarthy, his brain screams. The man leaning on his speaker case is dressed in a button down from Pete’s school of ‘always buy a size too small’ and pants tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. He’s dressed like a rockstar but his expression is anything but. He leans forward and Spence almost flinches back, blushing. “Thank you.”
“Italian, yes? Gott, the Italians make the best shoes. Alex would kill for those shoes.”
“Really?” And Spence is smiling, grinning like an idiot and oh god he really hopes Brendon can’t see them because he would never hear the end of it. Brendon is the only person alive who knows about this stupid, stupid crush. He would have told Ryan, but Ryan is the irrationally jealous type.
He wasn’t going to talk to Nick at this festival. No matter how many magazine articles Brendon left on his bunk, no matter how fucking gorgeous he looked on stage, Spencer watching from behind the curtain, he was not going to do it. It was a Good Plan. Don’t talk to Nick, don’t sound like an asshole.
But Nick was grinning at him and asking things like “Did you get these here?” and “Do you have a group stylist?”
“Um, not really,” Spencer manages at that one. “Ry pretty much sets the tone. We all just try to keep up.”
“Oh, he’s the one with the makeup and the…” Nick makes a hand gesture that can only mean “crazy lady hair” and Spencer laughs.
“Yeah, him. He’s always been a fashionista, even when we were kids.”
“You’ve been friends for a long time?” Nick has his arms crossed now, leaning on the stack of speakers and smiling broadly. Spencer’s heart is beating a mile a minute.
“Yeah, forever basically.” And its weird, talking to Nick Fucking McCarthy about Ryan.
“That’s great, yeah? Touring with your best mates?” Nick’s smile is contagious, infectious. Spencer blushes and Nick tilts his head a bit. “Maybe more,” he says quietly, still smiling. Spencer isn’t certain who he’s talking to.
“Yeah?” he says, nervously, stupidly, and closes his eyes for a moment. Nick laughs and when Spencer opens his eyes Nick is bending closer. Spencer stops breathing.
“Tour secrets are the best kind,” he whispers with a wink. He stands suddenly and wanders off, distracted by someone in the crowd. Spencer’s breathing again, hard, and he knows Nick didn’t mean…
Later, he sees Nick again through the crowd. He’s standing with Alex and Stuart, drinking a bottle of beer and laughing. His shirt is hiked up a little and there are long, pale fingers splayed over his back, the bottom few resting on bare skin. It’s nothing, a meaningless gesture between bandmates, but Spencer notices the way Nick leans into the touch and thinks of Ryan and small touches and warm skin and soft cries muffled by bunk curtains.
Maybe Nick did mean… and when Nick catches his eye and nods, raising his bottle in a salute, Spencer turns suddenly to Jon and asks “Hey, where’s Ry? I need to see him.”
1. Ricky Wilson and Pete Wentz (PG)
“Well, that’s just bizarre.”
The voice came from just over Pete’s left shoulder and he laughed. “Why? You don’t think they’d get along okay?” He glanced back with a grin. “I mean, who wouldn’t hit that?”
Ricky shook his head, drops falling on his shoulders from the bottle of water he’d dumped on himself the second he’d walked offstage. His tie was still tied, though barely, and Pete could see the outline of words on the t-shirt under his white Oxford. “That’s a relationship doomed to failure, I’m telling you,” Ricky nodded back toward the side stage. “She’s fucking insane.”
Pete looked back in time to see Karen O. slip her hand into Stuart Murdoch’s front pocket for a moment and laugh along with Bobby and Richard at his shocked expression. “I’ve dated insane before. It can be fun,” Pete noted, maybe a little too wistfully. When he glanced back again, Ricky was looking at him.
“Insane is fun until the first time she attempts to behead you with your NME award,” he slung an arm companionably around Pete’s neck and tugged until Pete’s nose was almost pressed to Ricky’s collar. “I much prefer interesting. Interesting doesn’t usually end in bloodshed. Interesting is good conversation and damn good sex and no crying jags in my bathroom.”
Pete laughed and leaned into Ricky’s side as Belle & Sebastian took the stage to a roar from the crowd. They stood like that for three songs, Pete’s side warm against Ricky’s even through the cool damp of his shirt. Patrick’s voice cut through the crowd behind them.
“Pete! Come on, dude! We’ve got to tune,” he said with the slight agitation Patrick always wore when faced with festival crowds. Joe was behind him, his guitar in one hand and Pete’s bass in the other.
“Sorry,” he blinked up at Ricky. “On next.”
“Of course,” Ricky let go easily, taking a few backward steps. “I’d say break a leg, but I’ve had too much experience with that so…,” He grinned and waved, finally turning to join his bandmates in packing up the remainder of their gear.
Pete spent the rest of the set with Patrick’s head basically in his lap as they tried to tune over the sounds coming from the various stages. They lined up sidestage as Stuart started his last song. Ricky walked past with his drummer and gave him an over-the-top thumbs up. Pete flipped him off, laughing.
“What was that?” Pete heard the drummer ask, smiling but incredulous.
“He’s a good guy,” Ricky replied as they walked out of earshot. “Really… interesting.”
2. Ricky Wilson and Spencer Smith (PG)
“Is that a sheep?” Spencer asked, gritting his teeth as he jumped yet another mud puddle and pointing past a large wooden fence. If he’d known it was quite this much of a dirty hike, he wouldn’t have worn his Italian loafers. “Where the fuck are we?”
“Leeds?” Ricky replied with a grin, picking his way gingerly across the grass. He jeans were pegged a little higher then normal and his knee was muddy from slipping a few yards back.
Maybe five hundred yards back. Maybe a few miles, as far as Spencer knew. They were past the crush of people at the main stage and around to the side areas where the smaller acts played. Spencer could see a vast tent city off to his left.
“You people are clearly insane?” he muttered as Ricky pointed to the tents with glee. “These festivals are breeding grounds for disease.”
“Mostly just crabs,” Ricky noted happily and Spencer rolled his eyes. Ricky gazed to his right and stopped. “Huh. It has to be over there somewhere.”
Spencer looked at him, then at the sea of people and canvas and mud. “’Over there somewhere?’ Fuck. You have no idea where it is, do you?”
“Nope!” Ricky grinned and laughed. “But we’ll find it!”
“How do you know that, you crazy bastard?” Spencer couldn’t help but laugh. He clearly should have brought snacks on this outing.
“Because my girl is there, and I can find her anywhere,” he sighed overdramatically and Spencer kicked him in the shin.
“Come on, infant,” Ricky slung an arm around Spencer’s shoulder and marched them forward into the crowd.
The farther they got from the main stage, the less they were asked for autographs. The crowd was cooler out here. Less outwardly drunk, more outwardly disdainful. Spencer heard a group of girls in fedoras laugh as they passed. Spencer made a mental note to tell Ryan about it later. Ryan would want to meet those girls. He always was a masochist.
“Here we go, this will do nicely!” Ricky stopped and placed his hand on his hips. They were standing in front of a run down building that was clearly out of place. Spence was pretty sure it was usually the only thing on this road for miles.
“…It’s a bar.”
“It’s a pub! It’s Jackie Whittaker’s pub, actually. This guy would serve me when I was still in grade ten. Good man. Also makes damn good chips.” He patted Spence on the back and opened the door.
“But,” Spence paused, looking over his shoulder, “what about Amanda’s show?” The Dolls were set to go on in (he checked his watch) ten minutes and they were nowhere near, well, ANY stage.
“If we’re going to face that lady’s wrath, I’d rather not do it sober.”
Spencer looked back toward the sea of humanity and forward into the dark, cool of the pub. The smell of French fries made his mouth water. “Okay, but just five minutes.”
Four hours later, they managed to find Amanda and Brian in the mess tent. “You smell like a brewery,” she said fondly, slipping her hand in Ricky’s.
“Bastard spilled his drink on me while I was dancing to your set, love,” he said with a perfectly straight face. Spencer was full of potatoes and a little in love.
3. Spencer Smith and Nick McCarthy
“Those are great shoes.”
Spencer looks up from his kit and his mouth goes a little dry. Christ, it’s Nick McCarthy, his brain screams. The man leaning on his speaker case is dressed in a button down from Pete’s school of ‘always buy a size too small’ and pants tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. He’s dressed like a rockstar but his expression is anything but. He leans forward and Spence almost flinches back, blushing. “Thank you.”
“Italian, yes? Gott, the Italians make the best shoes. Alex would kill for those shoes.”
“Really?” And Spence is smiling, grinning like an idiot and oh god he really hopes Brendon can’t see them because he would never hear the end of it. Brendon is the only person alive who knows about this stupid, stupid crush. He would have told Ryan, but Ryan is the irrationally jealous type.
He wasn’t going to talk to Nick at this festival. No matter how many magazine articles Brendon left on his bunk, no matter how fucking gorgeous he looked on stage, Spencer watching from behind the curtain, he was not going to do it. It was a Good Plan. Don’t talk to Nick, don’t sound like an asshole.
But Nick was grinning at him and asking things like “Did you get these here?” and “Do you have a group stylist?”
“Um, not really,” Spencer manages at that one. “Ry pretty much sets the tone. We all just try to keep up.”
“Oh, he’s the one with the makeup and the…” Nick makes a hand gesture that can only mean “crazy lady hair” and Spencer laughs.
“Yeah, him. He’s always been a fashionista, even when we were kids.”
“You’ve been friends for a long time?” Nick has his arms crossed now, leaning on the stack of speakers and smiling broadly. Spencer’s heart is beating a mile a minute.
“Yeah, forever basically.” And its weird, talking to Nick Fucking McCarthy about Ryan.
“That’s great, yeah? Touring with your best mates?” Nick’s smile is contagious, infectious. Spencer blushes and Nick tilts his head a bit. “Maybe more,” he says quietly, still smiling. Spencer isn’t certain who he’s talking to.
“Yeah?” he says, nervously, stupidly, and closes his eyes for a moment. Nick laughs and when Spencer opens his eyes Nick is bending closer. Spencer stops breathing.
“Tour secrets are the best kind,” he whispers with a wink. He stands suddenly and wanders off, distracted by someone in the crowd. Spencer’s breathing again, hard, and he knows Nick didn’t mean…
Later, he sees Nick again through the crowd. He’s standing with Alex and Stuart, drinking a bottle of beer and laughing. His shirt is hiked up a little and there are long, pale fingers splayed over his back, the bottom few resting on bare skin. It’s nothing, a meaningless gesture between bandmates, but Spencer notices the way Nick leans into the touch and thinks of Ryan and small touches and warm skin and soft cries muffled by bunk curtains.
Maybe Nick did mean… and when Nick catches his eye and nods, raising his bottle in a salute, Spencer turns suddenly to Jon and asks “Hey, where’s Ry? I need to see him.”