platonic boyfriends play guitars!
Playing Guitars (Mike/Michael, 1821, pg)
A story about guys playing guitars in the Hot RA Tom au (you need to read that for this make sense, sorry) by order of dreamofthem because of this photo from belle_bing. GUYS. YOU'RE KILLING ME.
Butcher walks in while Brendon’s studying and hisses, “Dude, Mike and the Chiz are playing guitars.”
Butcher walks in while Brendon’s studying and hisses, “Dude, Mike and the Chiz are playing guitars.”
“What,” says Brendon, without looking up - he’s memorizing theorems, dammit - “they always play guitars, so what.”
“No,” says Butcher, “they’re playing guitars. Come listen.”
Brendon decides he needs a break anyway. He gets up and follows Butcher down the corridor. They lean casually against the wall outside Mike and Michael’s room.
“Whoa,” says Brendon. They are playing guitars. It’s loud and passionate guitar playing, the way Brendon plays when he’s very upset, or thinking about Ryan. “Whoa.”
“I know,” says Butcher. “Crazy, huh.”
Brendon puts his head against the wall. He doesn’t think anyone’s singing. It’s just noise, chords back and forth that don’t make him want to dance or sing along, just be still and listen. He doesn’t recognise the song. He doesn’t think it is one.
Butcher says, “ooh, wait, Iero.” He walks down the corridor and knocks on Frank’s door. Frank, like Butcher and Bob and Spencer, has a single. Brendon does not envy them. Frank is also a senior, so his life sucks.
Frank opens the door with a glass in hand. “Dude, the Mikes.”
Butcher and Brendon nod, eyes wide.
Frank opens his door wider and they crowd on the bed, heads pressed against the wall. Brendon fidgets. He kind of wants a visual. The harmonies are really intense.
“What are you doing?”
They turn. Hot RA Tom is standing in the doorway, looking at them like they’re crazy. They’re all so taken by the music that Brendon and Butcher can’t even feign swooning and Frank merely waves him in. “Dude, check this out.”
Tom climbs on the bed next to them and takes the glass from Frank, pressing his ear against it. His eyes widen. “Whoa.”
Frank opens his window and music fills the room. Butcher and Brendon sag against the wall. Brendon really wants to hug someone, all of a sudden. He puts his head on Butcher’s shoulder.
“What-” It’s Spencer. Brendon and Butcher wave him silent. He steps in the room. His eyes widen. “Whoa.”
Frank takes his arm and pulls him all the way in. The two of them stand by Frank’s desk, heads inclined towards the window. Hot RA Tom puts the glass down and settles on the bed, staring into space.
Bob knocks on the door frame. Frank waves him in and Sisky follows, climbing onto the bed next to Butcher. The room is very crowded now, and very still.
The guitars continue, ripping at each other, against each other. Brendon didn’t know acoustics could sound that hard.
“Ow-shit,” says Mike suddenly. “I broke a string.”
Michael laughs at him, a single sound, and the entire room exhales at once. Brendon doesn’t want to move.
There’s the sound of a door opening and then Mike sticks his head in the room. “Um.”
Everyone stares at him, wordless. Then Hot RA Tom straightens and says, “and that is why only three people are allowed in single bedroom, as per fire safety laws. Because in the event of a fire, we would all die. Now everyone get the fuck out. I have popcorn downstairs and I bet it’s burning now.”
“Ooh,” says Sisky, Butcher, and Brendon and they leap off the bed, out the door past Mike. Hot RA Tom and Spencer follow at an altogether more leisurely pace, but not all that much leisurely.
“I had no idea,” says Brendon, once they’re all in the kitchen, ripping open bags of perfectly popped popcorn. “No idea.”
“Me either,” says Butcher, his mouth full of popcorn.
“Yeah,” says Hot RA Tom.
“It was so obvious,” says Sisky, rolling his eyes. Butcher hits his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me!”
“It was right there,” says Spencer. “I’ve been cramming for exams and even I saw it coming.”
Brendon puts a handful of popcorn in his mouth and decides to pay attention more. If Spencer can, he can. And he does. He watches Mike brush his teeth in the bathroom. He watches Michael hum as he tunes his guitar in the basement. He watches Mike argue with Sisky about the microwave. He watches Michael read in the common room.
They don’t look any different than usual, but he know the change is there, he heard it himself. Brendon decides he needs to see them together, in action. He knocks on their door early one morning, with the perfectly legitimate excuse that Butcher used up all of his black and blue pens to make outsider art on the pavement outside. It’s legitimate, but it’s also too early on a Saturday morning for Brendon to care, generally. But he does care about Mike and Michael. And he heard soft, happy acoustic noises coming from their room.
Michael answers the door shirtless, in jeans, barefoot, clutching a cup of coffee. He smiles at Brendon; a sleepy, content smile.
“Uh,” says Brendon. He says, “uh, good morning.”
“Good morning,” says Michael, nodding. He sips his coffee, eyebrows raised
Brendon frowns. He digs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He nods.
Michael opens the door all the way and leans against the frame. Behind him, Mike is sitting on the wrong bed. He is also only wearing jeans, is barefooted and shirtless, a cup of coffee within reach. He has a guitar in his lap and he smiles at Brendon.
“So,” says Michael. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it? Everything alright?”
Brendon can’t remember his excuses. He stares and stares and says, “oh, yeah, pens. Black and blue pens. Butcher took all of ours, and I needed some for review.”
“Oh, for that awesome drawing outside?” says Mike from the bed.
“The outsider art,” says Brendon, nodding.
“I thought Tom made him wash it off the wall,” says Michael, frowning. “He said we were all going to lose our deposit.”
“Sisky and I waged peaceful protest,” says Brendon. “Butcher’s art lives on. For another two weeks anyway. He needed it for a class.”
Michael walks, no, wanders, no, saunters, to his desk and pulls out a couple of ballpoint pens. “Are these alright?”
“Yeah,” says Brendon, “yeah, thanks. Cool.” He takes them from Michael. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“No problem,” says Michael. “You can keep them.”
Brendon hesitates in the doorway, staring another second longer, and then takes off in a manner that he hopes is both speedy and subtle.
“Freshmen,” he hears Mike say, with a laugh that is low in his throat.
“It was a brilliant drawing,” says Michael, and then the door shuts. Brendon, paused by his own room, throws open the door to his own room and jumps onto his bed.
“What,” says Sisky, buried under the covers of his own bed.
“It’s true,” says Brendon. He drops the pens to the floor and crawls headfirst under the covers, pausing only to kick off his jeans. “It’s all true. How could I be so blind.”
“What.”
“Mike and Michael.”
Sisky shuffles around so he’s facing Brendon, eyes barely visible between the blankets. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” says Brendon. He wiggles around and picks up his jeans, shaking them until he can get his cell phone loose from his pocket. He hits call.
“What.”
“It’s true, Butcher,” says Brendon, sighing. Sisky snorts, and pulls the covers back from over his head.
“No,” says Butcher. He sound astonished, or very tired.
“It’s all true,” says Brendon. “About the Michaels, it’s all true.”
“No, surely not, no,” says Butcher.
“You heard the music,” says Brendon. “And I just saw them in jeans. And no other clothes. Drinking coffee. In the morning.”
There is no answer.
“In the morning, Butcher,” says Brendon, “making music.” He glances over at Sisky’s bed. Sisky has his phone out, texting quickly.
Butcher says, “You should totally tell Hot RA Tom Conrad.”
“Why should I tell Hot RA Tom Conrad?”
“Because he’ll want to take a picture.” Butcher yawns. “You gotta call him.”
“He could photograph it,” Brendon says. “Butcher! They would be on film!”
“Call him, dude.”
Brendon hangs up and starts scrolling through his contact list. Sisky looks over. “I just texted Spencer,” he says. “He says you owe us pizza for being so stupid.”
“Damn,” says Brendon. He hits call.
“You had better be dead or dying,” says Hot RA Tom, voice muffled.
“You better get down here,” says Brendon. “The Michaels are,” he pauses, “Mike and Michael are making music.”
There is again, a pause, before Hot RA Tom says, “oh, damn.”
“Yeah.”
Brendon listens to Hot RA Tom shuffle around, kick off the covers, reach for a camera. “What’s a legit excuse to go into their room?” asks Hot RA Tom.
Brendon is shocked. “When did you ever, ever, need an excuse to take a photograph?” he demands. “Ever?”
“Okay,” says Hot RA Tom, yawning. “I’m going down. You and Sisky better have coffee for me when I’m done.”
Brendon hangs up and calls Jon Walker. “Jon,” he says. “We need coffee.”
“What,” says Jon.
“Tom Conrad needs coffee,” Brendon amends.
“Okay,” says Jon. “I’ll be around.”
Brendon hangs up and falls back on his pillows, staring at the ceiling. The Michaels are in love, a couple of rooms away. It’s kind of exciting. Someone knocks on the door and Sisky mumble-shouts, “it’s open.”
Hot RA Tom sticks his head in the door, then slides in when he sees them still in bed. “Check it out,” he says, sitting down next to Brendon’s stomach. Brendon sits up, legs curved around Hot RA Tom. “This is one for the portfolio.”
Brendon looks at the viewfinder and it’s exactly what he saw with his own eyes. Mike playing guitar, out of focus behind Michael in the doorway, looking sleepy and content, not at all harrassed by the rest of the world. He grins at Tom. “That’s exactly it.”
Tom settles on the bed and flips through photos. He’s taken a couple and they’re all quite good, and quite truthful, and exactly what Brendon meant. Brendon lies back down. Someone knocks on the door and Tom gets up to answer it. It’s Jon Walker with two cups of Starbucks. Tom smiles. “Brendon so called you.”
“Nah,” says Jon. “I’m just psychic. Let’s see the photos.”
Tom hands him the camera and takes one of the cups.
“Nice,” says Jon. “Are they dating?”
“No,” says Sisky. “It's bigger than that. They make music.”
“Sweet,” says Jon. He leaves with Tom. Brendon listens to them climb the stairs and the door to Tom’s apartment open and shut. The house is silent again, but when Brendon strains, he thinks he can hear guitar from somewhere in the building. Sleepy, contented sounds.
“And I think to myself,” warbles Sisky, tossing his phone to the floor and pulling the covers up over his head, “what a wonderful world.”
Brendon grins at the ceiling, pulls the covers tight to his chest, and falls asleep again.
A story about guys playing guitars in the Hot RA Tom au (you need to read that for this make sense, sorry) by order of dreamofthem because of this photo from belle_bing. GUYS. YOU'RE KILLING ME.
Butcher walks in while Brendon’s studying and hisses, “Dude, Mike and the Chiz are playing guitars.”
Butcher walks in while Brendon’s studying and hisses, “Dude, Mike and the Chiz are playing guitars.”
“What,” says Brendon, without looking up - he’s memorizing theorems, dammit - “they always play guitars, so what.”
“No,” says Butcher, “they’re playing guitars. Come listen.”
Brendon decides he needs a break anyway. He gets up and follows Butcher down the corridor. They lean casually against the wall outside Mike and Michael’s room.
“Whoa,” says Brendon. They are playing guitars. It’s loud and passionate guitar playing, the way Brendon plays when he’s very upset, or thinking about Ryan. “Whoa.”
“I know,” says Butcher. “Crazy, huh.”
Brendon puts his head against the wall. He doesn’t think anyone’s singing. It’s just noise, chords back and forth that don’t make him want to dance or sing along, just be still and listen. He doesn’t recognise the song. He doesn’t think it is one.
Butcher says, “ooh, wait, Iero.” He walks down the corridor and knocks on Frank’s door. Frank, like Butcher and Bob and Spencer, has a single. Brendon does not envy them. Frank is also a senior, so his life sucks.
Frank opens the door with a glass in hand. “Dude, the Mikes.”
Butcher and Brendon nod, eyes wide.
Frank opens his door wider and they crowd on the bed, heads pressed against the wall. Brendon fidgets. He kind of wants a visual. The harmonies are really intense.
“What are you doing?”
They turn. Hot RA Tom is standing in the doorway, looking at them like they’re crazy. They’re all so taken by the music that Brendon and Butcher can’t even feign swooning and Frank merely waves him in. “Dude, check this out.”
Tom climbs on the bed next to them and takes the glass from Frank, pressing his ear against it. His eyes widen. “Whoa.”
Frank opens his window and music fills the room. Butcher and Brendon sag against the wall. Brendon really wants to hug someone, all of a sudden. He puts his head on Butcher’s shoulder.
“What-” It’s Spencer. Brendon and Butcher wave him silent. He steps in the room. His eyes widen. “Whoa.”
Frank takes his arm and pulls him all the way in. The two of them stand by Frank’s desk, heads inclined towards the window. Hot RA Tom puts the glass down and settles on the bed, staring into space.
Bob knocks on the door frame. Frank waves him in and Sisky follows, climbing onto the bed next to Butcher. The room is very crowded now, and very still.
The guitars continue, ripping at each other, against each other. Brendon didn’t know acoustics could sound that hard.
“Ow-shit,” says Mike suddenly. “I broke a string.”
Michael laughs at him, a single sound, and the entire room exhales at once. Brendon doesn’t want to move.
There’s the sound of a door opening and then Mike sticks his head in the room. “Um.”
Everyone stares at him, wordless. Then Hot RA Tom straightens and says, “and that is why only three people are allowed in single bedroom, as per fire safety laws. Because in the event of a fire, we would all die. Now everyone get the fuck out. I have popcorn downstairs and I bet it’s burning now.”
“Ooh,” says Sisky, Butcher, and Brendon and they leap off the bed, out the door past Mike. Hot RA Tom and Spencer follow at an altogether more leisurely pace, but not all that much leisurely.
“I had no idea,” says Brendon, once they’re all in the kitchen, ripping open bags of perfectly popped popcorn. “No idea.”
“Me either,” says Butcher, his mouth full of popcorn.
“Yeah,” says Hot RA Tom.
“It was so obvious,” says Sisky, rolling his eyes. Butcher hits his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me!”
“It was right there,” says Spencer. “I’ve been cramming for exams and even I saw it coming.”
Brendon puts a handful of popcorn in his mouth and decides to pay attention more. If Spencer can, he can. And he does. He watches Mike brush his teeth in the bathroom. He watches Michael hum as he tunes his guitar in the basement. He watches Mike argue with Sisky about the microwave. He watches Michael read in the common room.
They don’t look any different than usual, but he know the change is there, he heard it himself. Brendon decides he needs to see them together, in action. He knocks on their door early one morning, with the perfectly legitimate excuse that Butcher used up all of his black and blue pens to make outsider art on the pavement outside. It’s legitimate, but it’s also too early on a Saturday morning for Brendon to care, generally. But he does care about Mike and Michael. And he heard soft, happy acoustic noises coming from their room.
Michael answers the door shirtless, in jeans, barefoot, clutching a cup of coffee. He smiles at Brendon; a sleepy, content smile.
“Uh,” says Brendon. He says, “uh, good morning.”
“Good morning,” says Michael, nodding. He sips his coffee, eyebrows raised
Brendon frowns. He digs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He nods.
Michael opens the door all the way and leans against the frame. Behind him, Mike is sitting on the wrong bed. He is also only wearing jeans, is barefooted and shirtless, a cup of coffee within reach. He has a guitar in his lap and he smiles at Brendon.
“So,” says Michael. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it? Everything alright?”
Brendon can’t remember his excuses. He stares and stares and says, “oh, yeah, pens. Black and blue pens. Butcher took all of ours, and I needed some for review.”
“Oh, for that awesome drawing outside?” says Mike from the bed.
“The outsider art,” says Brendon, nodding.
“I thought Tom made him wash it off the wall,” says Michael, frowning. “He said we were all going to lose our deposit.”
“Sisky and I waged peaceful protest,” says Brendon. “Butcher’s art lives on. For another two weeks anyway. He needed it for a class.”
Michael walks, no, wanders, no, saunters, to his desk and pulls out a couple of ballpoint pens. “Are these alright?”
“Yeah,” says Brendon, “yeah, thanks. Cool.” He takes them from Michael. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“No problem,” says Michael. “You can keep them.”
Brendon hesitates in the doorway, staring another second longer, and then takes off in a manner that he hopes is both speedy and subtle.
“Freshmen,” he hears Mike say, with a laugh that is low in his throat.
“It was a brilliant drawing,” says Michael, and then the door shuts. Brendon, paused by his own room, throws open the door to his own room and jumps onto his bed.
“What,” says Sisky, buried under the covers of his own bed.
“It’s true,” says Brendon. He drops the pens to the floor and crawls headfirst under the covers, pausing only to kick off his jeans. “It’s all true. How could I be so blind.”
“What.”
“Mike and Michael.”
Sisky shuffles around so he’s facing Brendon, eyes barely visible between the blankets. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” says Brendon. He wiggles around and picks up his jeans, shaking them until he can get his cell phone loose from his pocket. He hits call.
“What.”
“It’s true, Butcher,” says Brendon, sighing. Sisky snorts, and pulls the covers back from over his head.
“No,” says Butcher. He sound astonished, or very tired.
“It’s all true,” says Brendon. “About the Michaels, it’s all true.”
“No, surely not, no,” says Butcher.
“You heard the music,” says Brendon. “And I just saw them in jeans. And no other clothes. Drinking coffee. In the morning.”
There is no answer.
“In the morning, Butcher,” says Brendon, “making music.” He glances over at Sisky’s bed. Sisky has his phone out, texting quickly.
Butcher says, “You should totally tell Hot RA Tom Conrad.”
“Why should I tell Hot RA Tom Conrad?”
“Because he’ll want to take a picture.” Butcher yawns. “You gotta call him.”
“He could photograph it,” Brendon says. “Butcher! They would be on film!”
“Call him, dude.”
Brendon hangs up and starts scrolling through his contact list. Sisky looks over. “I just texted Spencer,” he says. “He says you owe us pizza for being so stupid.”
“Damn,” says Brendon. He hits call.
“You had better be dead or dying,” says Hot RA Tom, voice muffled.
“You better get down here,” says Brendon. “The Michaels are,” he pauses, “Mike and Michael are making music.”
There is again, a pause, before Hot RA Tom says, “oh, damn.”
“Yeah.”
Brendon listens to Hot RA Tom shuffle around, kick off the covers, reach for a camera. “What’s a legit excuse to go into their room?” asks Hot RA Tom.
Brendon is shocked. “When did you ever, ever, need an excuse to take a photograph?” he demands. “Ever?”
“Okay,” says Hot RA Tom, yawning. “I’m going down. You and Sisky better have coffee for me when I’m done.”
Brendon hangs up and calls Jon Walker. “Jon,” he says. “We need coffee.”
“What,” says Jon.
“Tom Conrad needs coffee,” Brendon amends.
“Okay,” says Jon. “I’ll be around.”
Brendon hangs up and falls back on his pillows, staring at the ceiling. The Michaels are in love, a couple of rooms away. It’s kind of exciting. Someone knocks on the door and Sisky mumble-shouts, “it’s open.”
Hot RA Tom sticks his head in the door, then slides in when he sees them still in bed. “Check it out,” he says, sitting down next to Brendon’s stomach. Brendon sits up, legs curved around Hot RA Tom. “This is one for the portfolio.”
Brendon looks at the viewfinder and it’s exactly what he saw with his own eyes. Mike playing guitar, out of focus behind Michael in the doorway, looking sleepy and content, not at all harrassed by the rest of the world. He grins at Tom. “That’s exactly it.”
Tom settles on the bed and flips through photos. He’s taken a couple and they’re all quite good, and quite truthful, and exactly what Brendon meant. Brendon lies back down. Someone knocks on the door and Tom gets up to answer it. It’s Jon Walker with two cups of Starbucks. Tom smiles. “Brendon so called you.”
“Nah,” says Jon. “I’m just psychic. Let’s see the photos.”
Tom hands him the camera and takes one of the cups.
“Nice,” says Jon. “Are they dating?”
“No,” says Sisky. “It's bigger than that. They make music.”
“Sweet,” says Jon. He leaves with Tom. Brendon listens to them climb the stairs and the door to Tom’s apartment open and shut. The house is silent again, but when Brendon strains, he thinks he can hear guitar from somewhere in the building. Sleepy, contented sounds.
“And I think to myself,” warbles Sisky, tossing his phone to the floor and pulling the covers up over his head, “what a wonderful world.”
Brendon grins at the ceiling, pulls the covers tight to his chest, and falls asleep again.