FIC: Star Trek RPS -- Tennis, Anyone?
Title: Tennis, Anyone?
Author: the_deep_magic
Pairing: Pinto
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 549
Disclaimer: Untrue
Summary: “Can I… Can I rub your hair while you-?”
A/N: Written for orphica's prompt at pintofest: requiem for The Hair. Well, that's how it started out, anyway. Michael is Michael Greif, the director of Angels in America.
“I’m bald.”
“You are not bald. You are, however, a drama queen.”
“Okay, I’m not technically bald. But my head looks like a tennis ball.”
There was a choked snorting sound on the other end of the line.
“Chris?”
A slight squeak.
“Why are you not contradicting me?”
Muffled wheezing.
“Goddammit, Chris.”
Finally, all of Chris’ breath came out in a single guffaw that sounded like an injured donkey. “Sorry, I’m sorry, you can’t say things like that and not expect me to...”
“To what? Be a supportive boyfriend and tell me that, no, my head doesn’t look like a tennis ball and I am still devastatingly sexy.”
“You are still devastatingly sexy.”
“But…”
“But you can’t deny the textural and structural similarities, if not the color-”
“Fuck. You.”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
Zach groaned. “Michael convinced me that Louis would have a super-low maintenance haircut. And I listened to him. What the fuck was I thinking?”
“Listen to yourself, Zachary. You went around for months with half-eyebrows, and that was way worse.”
“And I bitched about that, too. Mostly to Joe, though. Didn’t know you well enough yet.”
“So this is the price I pay for all those blowjobs?”
“Damn straight. BJs for bitching, it’s in your contract.”
“I don’t remember negotiating a specific ratio.”
“Come out here to see me and I’ll give you all the head you want.”
Chris snorted again. “Can I… Can I rub your hair while you-?”
“Offer withdrawn. Sulky handjobs, if anything. And I retain the right to multitask while I jerk you off.”
“I can only imagine what those tweets will be like. raccoons in the outhouse. aloofness is the new black. stroke. stroke. spooge everywhere. Hey, wait a minute, you tweet that shit from your iPhone, don’t you?”
“Some of it, yeah.”
“And doesn’t the iPhone automatically capitalize the next letter after a period?”
“Your point?”
“So you deliberately push the button to uncapitalize every time you write a new word. You put actual effort into pretending to be unpretentious.”
“So?”
“So that’s the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Okay, you know what? I’m going to choose to ignore that and focus on the fact that you have finally come around and started reading my Twitter. A few more years and you might start thinking about getting one yourself.”
“I had to read it - you and John were talking about me behind my back like a couple of twelve-year-old girls.”
“Admit it. You hang on my every word.”
“Fine, I admit it. I hang on every perfect and mellifluous word that emerges from the profound depths of your tennis ball head.”
“Oh my god.”
“Zach?”
“What now?”
“You’re still hot.”
“Thank you, Christopher, that doesn’t sound insincere at all.”
“No, I mean it. I know you’re upset and kind of freaking out because it’s been a while since you’ve been on stage-”
“I am not-”
“-but you’re still gorgeous and sexy and you are going to fucking own that theatre. I mean it. People are going to be all ‘Angels? What angels? The only heavenly body I saw up there belonged to Zach Quinto.’”
“Have you even read the play?”
“I… skimmed.”
“Great fucking literary genius you are.”
“I love you too, baby.”
Author: the_deep_magic
Pairing: Pinto
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 549
Disclaimer: Untrue
Summary: “Can I… Can I rub your hair while you-?”
A/N: Written for orphica's prompt at pintofest: requiem for The Hair. Well, that's how it started out, anyway. Michael is Michael Greif, the director of Angels in America.
“I’m bald.”
“You are not bald. You are, however, a drama queen.”
“Okay, I’m not technically bald. But my head looks like a tennis ball.”
There was a choked snorting sound on the other end of the line.
“Chris?”
A slight squeak.
“Why are you not contradicting me?”
Muffled wheezing.
“Goddammit, Chris.”
Finally, all of Chris’ breath came out in a single guffaw that sounded like an injured donkey. “Sorry, I’m sorry, you can’t say things like that and not expect me to...”
“To what? Be a supportive boyfriend and tell me that, no, my head doesn’t look like a tennis ball and I am still devastatingly sexy.”
“You are still devastatingly sexy.”
“But…”
“But you can’t deny the textural and structural similarities, if not the color-”
“Fuck. You.”
“Hey, you brought it up.”
Zach groaned. “Michael convinced me that Louis would have a super-low maintenance haircut. And I listened to him. What the fuck was I thinking?”
“Listen to yourself, Zachary. You went around for months with half-eyebrows, and that was way worse.”
“And I bitched about that, too. Mostly to Joe, though. Didn’t know you well enough yet.”
“So this is the price I pay for all those blowjobs?”
“Damn straight. BJs for bitching, it’s in your contract.”
“I don’t remember negotiating a specific ratio.”
“Come out here to see me and I’ll give you all the head you want.”
Chris snorted again. “Can I… Can I rub your hair while you-?”
“Offer withdrawn. Sulky handjobs, if anything. And I retain the right to multitask while I jerk you off.”
“I can only imagine what those tweets will be like. raccoons in the outhouse. aloofness is the new black. stroke. stroke. spooge everywhere. Hey, wait a minute, you tweet that shit from your iPhone, don’t you?”
“Some of it, yeah.”
“And doesn’t the iPhone automatically capitalize the next letter after a period?”
“Your point?”
“So you deliberately push the button to uncapitalize every time you write a new word. You put actual effort into pretending to be unpretentious.”
“So?”
“So that’s the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Okay, you know what? I’m going to choose to ignore that and focus on the fact that you have finally come around and started reading my Twitter. A few more years and you might start thinking about getting one yourself.”
“I had to read it - you and John were talking about me behind my back like a couple of twelve-year-old girls.”
“Admit it. You hang on my every word.”
“Fine, I admit it. I hang on every perfect and mellifluous word that emerges from the profound depths of your tennis ball head.”
“Oh my god.”
“Zach?”
“What now?”
“You’re still hot.”
“Thank you, Christopher, that doesn’t sound insincere at all.”
“No, I mean it. I know you’re upset and kind of freaking out because it’s been a while since you’ve been on stage-”
“I am not-”
“-but you’re still gorgeous and sexy and you are going to fucking own that theatre. I mean it. People are going to be all ‘Angels? What angels? The only heavenly body I saw up there belonged to Zach Quinto.’”
“Have you even read the play?”
“I… skimmed.”
“Great fucking literary genius you are.”
“I love you too, baby.”