With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept; Brendon/Shia LaBeouf; pg-13
|With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept|Brendon/Shia LaBeouf|1320 words|PG-13|
A conversation about a house, in a car. Beta-read by wordsalone.
This is written for gigantic, who is endlessly patient with my bull, helps me spin crazy stories and whom I totally flaked out on by falling asleep last night.
She's already read it, because I wasn't planning on posting it, but it should be known, it's all for her. This ficlet started as a sort of meta at five this morning as a result of a 'fan report' that Shia LaBeouf was a jerk to his fans, because he didn't stop and take a picture with this girl while both being mobbed by paparazzi and standing on an already-crowded street. If I were a famous dude, I probably wouldn't have the patience to stop and smile after being mobbed, either.
Shia's running late, which is pretty unusual, but he's also swarmed, cramped on the street and dodging camera flashes, and that's right on target.
His phone is buzzing in his back pocket, but there are too many people around, and his non-bandaged hand is holding up his cigarette.
He really needs a cup of coffee and possibly a body guard. Maybe Zack has a brother; or an equally large friend who'll carry Shia around when he doesn't want to deal with foot traffic or the paparazzi or -
Someone shrieks his name, a girl, but not one as young as he'd originally thought. She's pushing through the crowd, camera already up, snapping candids like they're going out of style and letting out a near constant stream of chatter he can't understand over the music blaring in his ears.
This week's mix tape features the musical stylings of Otis Redding, John Coltrane and random bursts of salsa infused dance music Brendon picked up when he was in Spain last summer. It's not great, but it's better than the books-on-tape he's been sending for the last little while. Shia likes David Sedaris as much as the next guy, but the morbidly ironic prose gets sort of overwhelming after a while.
"SHIA!" The girl is shrieking now, coming closer, and it's a testament to how good her camera lens is that he can't differentiate between it and the regular flashing bulbs of the guys that already follow him everywhere. The skin on his hand itches, but there's not even enough room to stub out his cigarette, let alone scratch.
He ignores the girl once he manages to get past the throng. It's a crowded street on a crowded night and this is Hollywood. There are always eyes somewhere. Still, he breathes, deep now that there's room and heads to the car. He's winded by the time he gets there, which is lame, considering how many hours a day they had him working out on the Transformers set.
His phone buzzes again, weakly, and he has both hands free when he answers. "You suck at answering calls," Brendon says cheerfully. Shia's Bluetooth's been missing - crushed, presumably, since the car accident, so he doesn't put the car in drive right away.
"Are you talking to me now?" He asks around another mouthful of smoke. At some point in his life, he should stop smoking, his mother made him promise. This is not that point.
"That depends," Brendon says, and over the line, Shia can hear him exhaling all on his own, puffing out little Nicotine-infused breaths. "Are you done being an asshole?"
Shia takes another drag from his cigarette, newly lit, and doesn't even try to stop from rolling his eyes. The salsa beat is still playing his his other ear and he resists the urge to shimmy against his seats. Mostly.
"That depends on you," he says. He can hear Brendon smirk. "Are you done being a loser who won't relocate?" He's going for cheeky, but he doesn't know how well he succeeds.
In quick succession, Brendon says,"It doesn't make sense to," and, "I'm barely here, half the time. What's the point in getting a whole other house someplace else?" It's a valid point. And then, "Why won't you move to Nevada? It's really nice. There are casinos, and oh, did you hear? We got an inch of snow this year." He pauses, and in his Radio Voice says, "Patrons were asked to please refrain from leaving their hotel rooms as there was danger lurking on the streets." He stops, and they take drags from their cigarettes in tandem. After a minute, he says, "You're being such an asshole about this."
He sounds upset, but not overly so. It's a cue, of sorts. Shia says, "I miss you." He's pretty sure it's the most honest thing he's said all day - maybe all week. "I really fucking miss you." The light is waning, and even California isn't exempt from the early loss of sunlight. He doesn't mean to sound as desperate as he does, but every day is that much harder to get through without the chaser of Brendon's skin. "I'm kind of a selfish asshole."
Brendon stays quiet.
"It just doesn't make sense for me to move, B. My mom is here, my job is here. My life is here." He doesn't want to be having this conversation. There's a pile of scripts for him to read at home, and Theresa's been making noise about breaking into a new genre. ("Think comedies, Shia. Think wedding rings and big eyes, and making little girls believe in fairytale princes. Think about working on sets where you don't hurt yourself.")
"You're right," Brendon says, but he doesn't sound happy about it. Shia isn't happy about it either. He doesn't say anything, just tips his head back and wonders if smoking the last cigarette in the pack is worth the annoyance of getting back out of his car when he's finished. He's contemplating the merits of buying a whole carton when Brendon says, "Vegas just sucks without you in it."
Shia blinks and stares out past his dash to the street, to the alley perpendicular to where he's parked. He wants to say something like, "Why are we having this conversation, then?" He wants to speak calmly, to measure his words. He's older. He wants to be the adult in this situation. He lets out a breath messily, and just says, "Okay."
"I don't want to buy a place in a city I'm not even in that much." Shia rolls his eyes and blinks down at the time. He's still late for his meeting.
"You are here that much. You're here almost as much as I'm here." It's a pretty reasonable response, but it doesn't come out sounding like one. He sounds angrier than he really is. He's probably angrier than he thinks he is.
"And you want to live with me?" Brendon's talking like Shia hasn't spoken. He's not trying to engage, not really. He's trying to work out the scenario, and he's bad at doing it inside the confines of his brain. Shia stays quiet, listening to Brendon's voice, to his little puffs of breath. "You want to deal with my shit all over your clean kitchen counter? In your bathroom - Shia, what're you gonna do when I don't make my side of the bed in the morning?"
Shia tosses the nub of his cigarette out the window, and for a second, contemplates not lighting the last one in his pack. He lights the last one. Stronger men have fallen from greater heights for less. He inhales once, then exhales, letting his wrist flick the ash out the window. There are bits on his upholstery, and he'll care later, but he's tired now, and the skin of his arm still itches under his cast.
"Are you going to answer my question?" Brendon's voice is tight, the sound thin and reedy. Shia exhales and says, "Are you going to ask it for real?"
He's been around Brendon long enough to know when he's rolling his eyes. Shia glances up. The meter's about to run out. He can't remember the last time he got a parking ticket he had to pay. He wonders if having Michael Bay on speed dial gets you out of having to deal with fines.
"Brendon," he says, voice dripping with sarcastic sincerity. "Will you give up your life of leisure and come and play house with me in LA?" He's laughing by the end, expecting Brendon to join in, but he doesn't.
"Will you answer my phone calls if I say yes?" Shia's chest aches a little - a lot, and he closes his eyes against the rays of the sunset. The alley will be dark in a minute, maybe less, decked in twilight.
He snorts without meaning to, says, "I wasn't avoiding your calls in the first place."
"You said," Brendon's voice has gotten some of its fullness back. "You said maybe we 'needed some space to figure out if this was something we wanted to pursue.' You said it, not me."
"I meant about buying the house, Brendon!" He's a lot angrier than he thought he was. He takes a drag from his cigarette, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the rest. His earbud has fallen out, but he can still hear the tinny sounds of the music. "I didn't mean I wanted to reevaluate you."
Brendon hisses. He says, "Maybe we should have this conversation when you're less pissed." He's the one that sounds calm now, and that's not fucking fair, because Shia's ready to punch things.
"Brendon," he says, and wishes he weren't smoking the cigarette. Wishes he had two working hands. Wishes that Brendon was here so he could punch him in the face, and then kiss him, maybe in reverse order. "My hand hurts like a fucker, my hip is still bruised and if I want another cigarette I'm going to have to get back out of my car and deal with the screaming people on the street." He pauses and spares a thought to why he hadn't been followed. "I haven't seen you in almost - "
Brendon hisses again, says, "Don't say it." It stops Shia in his tracks, but it doesn't make him stop.
"Why? I haven't seen you in almost a month. It's not your fault, it's not my fault, it's just life. It makes sense that you'd want a breather after being on tour for the entirety of the fall. It makes sense that you'd want to spend the holidays with your family. It makes fucking sense that you couldn't come out for New Year's."
Brendon interjects with, "We were playing a show. We were in Florida. You can't be mad at me - "
Shia clears his throat. He shuts his eyes. He takes a drag from his cigarette. He says, "You're the last person I want to see when I close my eyes. You're the first person I want to see in the morning. You're the only one I want to argue over breakfast food and coffee drinks with. I fucking, like. I fucking love you. So if you want to buy the house with me? I want to buy the house with you. If you don't, then you should renew the lease on your place and in two years, we'll talk about it again."
Brendon breathes. Shia listens for it. Brendon breathes and Shia waits, and after what feels like twelve years but roughly clocks out to four minutes, he says, "I want to buy the house. If. If that's still an option on the table."
Shia wouldn't say he was crying, but it's a pretty close thing.
A conversation about a house, in a car. Beta-read by wordsalone.
This is written for gigantic, who is endlessly patient with my bull, helps me spin crazy stories and whom I totally flaked out on by falling asleep last night.
She's already read it, because I wasn't planning on posting it, but it should be known, it's all for her. This ficlet started as a sort of meta at five this morning as a result of a 'fan report' that Shia LaBeouf was a jerk to his fans, because he didn't stop and take a picture with this girl while both being mobbed by paparazzi and standing on an already-crowded street. If I were a famous dude, I probably wouldn't have the patience to stop and smile after being mobbed, either.
Shia's running late, which is pretty unusual, but he's also swarmed, cramped on the street and dodging camera flashes, and that's right on target.
His phone is buzzing in his back pocket, but there are too many people around, and his non-bandaged hand is holding up his cigarette.
He really needs a cup of coffee and possibly a body guard. Maybe Zack has a brother; or an equally large friend who'll carry Shia around when he doesn't want to deal with foot traffic or the paparazzi or -
Someone shrieks his name, a girl, but not one as young as he'd originally thought. She's pushing through the crowd, camera already up, snapping candids like they're going out of style and letting out a near constant stream of chatter he can't understand over the music blaring in his ears.
This week's mix tape features the musical stylings of Otis Redding, John Coltrane and random bursts of salsa infused dance music Brendon picked up when he was in Spain last summer. It's not great, but it's better than the books-on-tape he's been sending for the last little while. Shia likes David Sedaris as much as the next guy, but the morbidly ironic prose gets sort of overwhelming after a while.
"SHIA!" The girl is shrieking now, coming closer, and it's a testament to how good her camera lens is that he can't differentiate between it and the regular flashing bulbs of the guys that already follow him everywhere. The skin on his hand itches, but there's not even enough room to stub out his cigarette, let alone scratch.
He ignores the girl once he manages to get past the throng. It's a crowded street on a crowded night and this is Hollywood. There are always eyes somewhere. Still, he breathes, deep now that there's room and heads to the car. He's winded by the time he gets there, which is lame, considering how many hours a day they had him working out on the Transformers set.
His phone buzzes again, weakly, and he has both hands free when he answers. "You suck at answering calls," Brendon says cheerfully. Shia's Bluetooth's been missing - crushed, presumably, since the car accident, so he doesn't put the car in drive right away.
"Are you talking to me now?" He asks around another mouthful of smoke. At some point in his life, he should stop smoking, his mother made him promise. This is not that point.
"That depends," Brendon says, and over the line, Shia can hear him exhaling all on his own, puffing out little Nicotine-infused breaths. "Are you done being an asshole?"
Shia takes another drag from his cigarette, newly lit, and doesn't even try to stop from rolling his eyes. The salsa beat is still playing his his other ear and he resists the urge to shimmy against his seats. Mostly.
"That depends on you," he says. He can hear Brendon smirk. "Are you done being a loser who won't relocate?" He's going for cheeky, but he doesn't know how well he succeeds.
In quick succession, Brendon says,"It doesn't make sense to," and, "I'm barely here, half the time. What's the point in getting a whole other house someplace else?" It's a valid point. And then, "Why won't you move to Nevada? It's really nice. There are casinos, and oh, did you hear? We got an inch of snow this year." He pauses, and in his Radio Voice says, "Patrons were asked to please refrain from leaving their hotel rooms as there was danger lurking on the streets." He stops, and they take drags from their cigarettes in tandem. After a minute, he says, "You're being such an asshole about this."
He sounds upset, but not overly so. It's a cue, of sorts. Shia says, "I miss you." He's pretty sure it's the most honest thing he's said all day - maybe all week. "I really fucking miss you." The light is waning, and even California isn't exempt from the early loss of sunlight. He doesn't mean to sound as desperate as he does, but every day is that much harder to get through without the chaser of Brendon's skin. "I'm kind of a selfish asshole."
Brendon stays quiet.
"It just doesn't make sense for me to move, B. My mom is here, my job is here. My life is here." He doesn't want to be having this conversation. There's a pile of scripts for him to read at home, and Theresa's been making noise about breaking into a new genre. ("Think comedies, Shia. Think wedding rings and big eyes, and making little girls believe in fairytale princes. Think about working on sets where you don't hurt yourself.")
"You're right," Brendon says, but he doesn't sound happy about it. Shia isn't happy about it either. He doesn't say anything, just tips his head back and wonders if smoking the last cigarette in the pack is worth the annoyance of getting back out of his car when he's finished. He's contemplating the merits of buying a whole carton when Brendon says, "Vegas just sucks without you in it."
Shia blinks and stares out past his dash to the street, to the alley perpendicular to where he's parked. He wants to say something like, "Why are we having this conversation, then?" He wants to speak calmly, to measure his words. He's older. He wants to be the adult in this situation. He lets out a breath messily, and just says, "Okay."
"I don't want to buy a place in a city I'm not even in that much." Shia rolls his eyes and blinks down at the time. He's still late for his meeting.
"You are here that much. You're here almost as much as I'm here." It's a pretty reasonable response, but it doesn't come out sounding like one. He sounds angrier than he really is. He's probably angrier than he thinks he is.
"And you want to live with me?" Brendon's talking like Shia hasn't spoken. He's not trying to engage, not really. He's trying to work out the scenario, and he's bad at doing it inside the confines of his brain. Shia stays quiet, listening to Brendon's voice, to his little puffs of breath. "You want to deal with my shit all over your clean kitchen counter? In your bathroom - Shia, what're you gonna do when I don't make my side of the bed in the morning?"
Shia tosses the nub of his cigarette out the window, and for a second, contemplates not lighting the last one in his pack. He lights the last one. Stronger men have fallen from greater heights for less. He inhales once, then exhales, letting his wrist flick the ash out the window. There are bits on his upholstery, and he'll care later, but he's tired now, and the skin of his arm still itches under his cast.
"Are you going to answer my question?" Brendon's voice is tight, the sound thin and reedy. Shia exhales and says, "Are you going to ask it for real?"
He's been around Brendon long enough to know when he's rolling his eyes. Shia glances up. The meter's about to run out. He can't remember the last time he got a parking ticket he had to pay. He wonders if having Michael Bay on speed dial gets you out of having to deal with fines.
"Brendon," he says, voice dripping with sarcastic sincerity. "Will you give up your life of leisure and come and play house with me in LA?" He's laughing by the end, expecting Brendon to join in, but he doesn't.
"Will you answer my phone calls if I say yes?" Shia's chest aches a little - a lot, and he closes his eyes against the rays of the sunset. The alley will be dark in a minute, maybe less, decked in twilight.
He snorts without meaning to, says, "I wasn't avoiding your calls in the first place."
"You said," Brendon's voice has gotten some of its fullness back. "You said maybe we 'needed some space to figure out if this was something we wanted to pursue.' You said it, not me."
"I meant about buying the house, Brendon!" He's a lot angrier than he thought he was. He takes a drag from his cigarette, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the rest. His earbud has fallen out, but he can still hear the tinny sounds of the music. "I didn't mean I wanted to reevaluate you."
Brendon hisses. He says, "Maybe we should have this conversation when you're less pissed." He's the one that sounds calm now, and that's not fucking fair, because Shia's ready to punch things.
"Brendon," he says, and wishes he weren't smoking the cigarette. Wishes he had two working hands. Wishes that Brendon was here so he could punch him in the face, and then kiss him, maybe in reverse order. "My hand hurts like a fucker, my hip is still bruised and if I want another cigarette I'm going to have to get back out of my car and deal with the screaming people on the street." He pauses and spares a thought to why he hadn't been followed. "I haven't seen you in almost - "
Brendon hisses again, says, "Don't say it." It stops Shia in his tracks, but it doesn't make him stop.
"Why? I haven't seen you in almost a month. It's not your fault, it's not my fault, it's just life. It makes sense that you'd want a breather after being on tour for the entirety of the fall. It makes sense that you'd want to spend the holidays with your family. It makes fucking sense that you couldn't come out for New Year's."
Brendon interjects with, "We were playing a show. We were in Florida. You can't be mad at me - "
Shia clears his throat. He shuts his eyes. He takes a drag from his cigarette. He says, "You're the last person I want to see when I close my eyes. You're the first person I want to see in the morning. You're the only one I want to argue over breakfast food and coffee drinks with. I fucking, like. I fucking love you. So if you want to buy the house with me? I want to buy the house with you. If you don't, then you should renew the lease on your place and in two years, we'll talk about it again."
Brendon breathes. Shia listens for it. Brendon breathes and Shia waits, and after what feels like twelve years but roughly clocks out to four minutes, he says, "I want to buy the house. If. If that's still an option on the table."
Shia wouldn't say he was crying, but it's a pretty close thing.