the stage is set. [6/?]
TITLE: The Stage Is Set. [6/?]
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R/possible NC-17 overall.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: I can’t tell you yet; it’s complicated!
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot. Please wait for the slash. =]
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
INTRODUCING MY NEW BFF, THE OMC! His name is Shane. I hope you like him. I happen to think he's wonderful. You'll see some more of him later. =]
Secondly, okay, okay. You guys caught me. I don't think I'm actually going to stop writing. I don't know if I could. If I wasn't writing fic, I'd be writing really terrible poetry and thinking obsessively about gay men, anyways, so I may as well translate this into slash, mm? I thought so. I was having (am having, if we're being honest, which we may as well) a moment of temporary insanity. It has not been the best week for me. I plead crazy, and ask your forgiveness?
Last of all, before you ask: if you don't understand by the end of this part (which you probably should), all will be made plain-english, black-and-white clear by part eight; that is, two parts after this. However, my posting may slow down a little bit after this part, meaning I'll only post a part every two to three days. Considering, however, I still think that's a pretty decent rate of speed. Don't you? =]
///
Walking through the halls of some guy’s house, arms raised to avoid bumping and spilling drinks, Jon navigates through the sea of drunk kids like he hasn’t been out of practice for, oh, say, five or six years. He sees Brendon across what used to be the living room and is now one giant trash pile, talking animatedly to some old high school friend (“I haven’t seen you in years! What have you been up to? God your hair is long,”) and holding steadfastly onto a plastic cup full of rum and Coke.
He sits in a chair (though God knows who or what has been in it before him) and sips his drink, listening to a song he doesn’t recognize and tapping his toe on the floor. Someone taps his shoulder, and he turns around, intending to either backhand them or smile, depending.
“Oh, hey. You’re the kid from the bus the other night,” and it isn’t a question.
The boy bites his lip and sits in the chair next to Jon, nodding.
“I’m Ryan.” He extends his hand to Jon, who shakes it gently, because the kid looks like he has bird-bones, hollow and pencil-thin. “Look, I need to talk to you,” he glances in Brendon’s direction and then back down to his lap, “about your friend.” Jon laughs and takes a swallow of his drink, screwing his eyes up as it burns down his throat.
“Oh, what did Brendon do now? Get your sister pregnant or something?” The boy winces, and Jon isn’t sure why, so he says, “I’m just kidding you know - he wouldn’t do that.”
“No, I know,” the boy says, and his words are hushed and hurried. Something about this kid, Jon thinks, but he can’t put his finger on it yet, can’t quite reach it. “I just…”
Jon glances up and sees Brendon coming their way, motions with his hand and yells over the noise, “Hey Bren, this is…” and Brendon comes up, drink in hand, and says, “Uhm, your new imaginary friend?” Jon’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks over at where the kid had been sitting - and finds the chair empty, and he thinks the foam of the cushion is still rising from the imprint of his tiny ass and his tiny, tiny legs.
“What the hell?” he mutters. “I swear to God this kid just came over and started talking to me and…” he glances around, catches a glimpse of the boys retreating back, scurrying out the front door and onto the darkened lawn. “Fucking weird,” he says, and Brendon laughs.
“Come on, man. Let’s go refill these glasses, hm? Not that you need any more to drink.” Jon nods, standing up, and he feels uneasy, a little off balance, and he doesn’t think it’s because of the liquor, not yet.
----------
Brendon finds himself hung over. Hung over, in a bed. A very nice, warm, comfortable bed, with - oh, well, that’s definitely someone behind him, and uhm, this…this isn’t his bed. With red sheets and a black velour blanket, this definitely isn’t his bed. With memory foam instead of old pokey springs, this definitely isn’t his bed. He opens his eyes. Red walls? Not his. The body pressed against his back? Yeah, not his, unless he’s suddenly someone else, in which case - whoa. Body swap? Is this, like, sci-fi or something?
He comes to the conclusion, through the pounding roar of the blood in his ears, that this is not - not even close to - anything or anywhere belonging to him. Uh. What?
It (he hasn’t assigned a gender to the warmth against his back yet, because, well, he isn’t exactly sure at this point) moves behind him, the sweet slide of skin against skin, and it feels so nice, waking up like this, that he almost forgets the total weird factor of waking up in a strange bed with a stranger. Oh, and he’s pretty sure he’s naked. Yep. And that the - oh, okay, definitely a guy - behind him is pretty much in his birthday suit, too.
He starts to think, hey, this is kind of cool, because the guy snakes an arm around his waist and nestles his face into his back and, mm, yeah, comfortable. Warm. Very, very nice. But still, how is he going to talk his way out of here when he doesn’t even know the guys name? Or what happened? Or if he wants to leave this guy with no parting address? Uhh.
He’s about to open his mouth and say something that would probably be really, really dumb, but then he looks back at the guy and, oh, you’re the boy from the club that one time, right. Except, I still don’t know your name.
“Shane,” the boy says, smiling, and Brendon thinks, oh. “And no, I’m not psychic - I don’t know if we ever got to names, so, I’m just letting you know before the awkward fumbling for the right name thing sets in.”
“Oh, right. I’m Brendon,” he says, like he isn’t fazed at all, and the boy - erm, Shane - just laughs a little bit and slides out of bed.
“No strings, no bullshit,” he says, “in case you’re wondering.” Brendon opens and shuts his mouth.
“That’s…” he says, and then stops. “Good, ‘cause, well. I’m gonna be honest, here. I have no idea what happened, or where I am, and you telling me your name was a really awesome idea, because I wasn’t sure of that, either.” He frowns, and Shane laughs again, head thrown back, and pulls on a t-shirt.
“I figured. You were pretty hammered, but then, so was I. You can go whenever you like, or you can stay if you want. Oh, and…when you stand up, you’ll figure out exactly what happened.” And with that, he opens the heavy wooden door leading into the (god damn, massive and adjacent and tiled in what appears to be marble) bathroom, and walks in, closing it softly behind him.
“When I stand up?” Brendon says to the ceiling, shifting sideways, throwing his legs off the side of the bed (where his clothes are waiting, conveniently piled on the thick carpeting), and a sharp ache cracks up his spine, settling in his tailbone. “Oh,” he says to no one, wincing when the ache turns into a full-force burning as he reaches for his clothes. “Right.”
From the other side of the door, he hears Shane laugh.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R/possible NC-17 overall.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: I can’t tell you yet; it’s complicated!
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot. Please wait for the slash. =]
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
INTRODUCING MY NEW BFF, THE OMC! His name is Shane. I hope you like him. I happen to think he's wonderful. You'll see some more of him later. =]
Secondly, okay, okay. You guys caught me. I don't think I'm actually going to stop writing. I don't know if I could. If I wasn't writing fic, I'd be writing really terrible poetry and thinking obsessively about gay men, anyways, so I may as well translate this into slash, mm? I thought so. I was having (am having, if we're being honest, which we may as well) a moment of temporary insanity. It has not been the best week for me. I plead crazy, and ask your forgiveness?
Last of all, before you ask: if you don't understand by the end of this part (which you probably should), all will be made plain-english, black-and-white clear by part eight; that is, two parts after this. However, my posting may slow down a little bit after this part, meaning I'll only post a part every two to three days. Considering, however, I still think that's a pretty decent rate of speed. Don't you? =]
///
Walking through the halls of some guy’s house, arms raised to avoid bumping and spilling drinks, Jon navigates through the sea of drunk kids like he hasn’t been out of practice for, oh, say, five or six years. He sees Brendon across what used to be the living room and is now one giant trash pile, talking animatedly to some old high school friend (“I haven’t seen you in years! What have you been up to? God your hair is long,”) and holding steadfastly onto a plastic cup full of rum and Coke.
He sits in a chair (though God knows who or what has been in it before him) and sips his drink, listening to a song he doesn’t recognize and tapping his toe on the floor. Someone taps his shoulder, and he turns around, intending to either backhand them or smile, depending.
“Oh, hey. You’re the kid from the bus the other night,” and it isn’t a question.
The boy bites his lip and sits in the chair next to Jon, nodding.
“I’m Ryan.” He extends his hand to Jon, who shakes it gently, because the kid looks like he has bird-bones, hollow and pencil-thin. “Look, I need to talk to you,” he glances in Brendon’s direction and then back down to his lap, “about your friend.” Jon laughs and takes a swallow of his drink, screwing his eyes up as it burns down his throat.
“Oh, what did Brendon do now? Get your sister pregnant or something?” The boy winces, and Jon isn’t sure why, so he says, “I’m just kidding you know - he wouldn’t do that.”
“No, I know,” the boy says, and his words are hushed and hurried. Something about this kid, Jon thinks, but he can’t put his finger on it yet, can’t quite reach it. “I just…”
Jon glances up and sees Brendon coming their way, motions with his hand and yells over the noise, “Hey Bren, this is…” and Brendon comes up, drink in hand, and says, “Uhm, your new imaginary friend?” Jon’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks over at where the kid had been sitting - and finds the chair empty, and he thinks the foam of the cushion is still rising from the imprint of his tiny ass and his tiny, tiny legs.
“What the hell?” he mutters. “I swear to God this kid just came over and started talking to me and…” he glances around, catches a glimpse of the boys retreating back, scurrying out the front door and onto the darkened lawn. “Fucking weird,” he says, and Brendon laughs.
“Come on, man. Let’s go refill these glasses, hm? Not that you need any more to drink.” Jon nods, standing up, and he feels uneasy, a little off balance, and he doesn’t think it’s because of the liquor, not yet.
----------
Brendon finds himself hung over. Hung over, in a bed. A very nice, warm, comfortable bed, with - oh, well, that’s definitely someone behind him, and uhm, this…this isn’t his bed. With red sheets and a black velour blanket, this definitely isn’t his bed. With memory foam instead of old pokey springs, this definitely isn’t his bed. He opens his eyes. Red walls? Not his. The body pressed against his back? Yeah, not his, unless he’s suddenly someone else, in which case - whoa. Body swap? Is this, like, sci-fi or something?
He comes to the conclusion, through the pounding roar of the blood in his ears, that this is not - not even close to - anything or anywhere belonging to him. Uh. What?
It (he hasn’t assigned a gender to the warmth against his back yet, because, well, he isn’t exactly sure at this point) moves behind him, the sweet slide of skin against skin, and it feels so nice, waking up like this, that he almost forgets the total weird factor of waking up in a strange bed with a stranger. Oh, and he’s pretty sure he’s naked. Yep. And that the - oh, okay, definitely a guy - behind him is pretty much in his birthday suit, too.
He starts to think, hey, this is kind of cool, because the guy snakes an arm around his waist and nestles his face into his back and, mm, yeah, comfortable. Warm. Very, very nice. But still, how is he going to talk his way out of here when he doesn’t even know the guys name? Or what happened? Or if he wants to leave this guy with no parting address? Uhh.
He’s about to open his mouth and say something that would probably be really, really dumb, but then he looks back at the guy and, oh, you’re the boy from the club that one time, right. Except, I still don’t know your name.
“Shane,” the boy says, smiling, and Brendon thinks, oh. “And no, I’m not psychic - I don’t know if we ever got to names, so, I’m just letting you know before the awkward fumbling for the right name thing sets in.”
“Oh, right. I’m Brendon,” he says, like he isn’t fazed at all, and the boy - erm, Shane - just laughs a little bit and slides out of bed.
“No strings, no bullshit,” he says, “in case you’re wondering.” Brendon opens and shuts his mouth.
“That’s…” he says, and then stops. “Good, ‘cause, well. I’m gonna be honest, here. I have no idea what happened, or where I am, and you telling me your name was a really awesome idea, because I wasn’t sure of that, either.” He frowns, and Shane laughs again, head thrown back, and pulls on a t-shirt.
“I figured. You were pretty hammered, but then, so was I. You can go whenever you like, or you can stay if you want. Oh, and…when you stand up, you’ll figure out exactly what happened.” And with that, he opens the heavy wooden door leading into the (god damn, massive and adjacent and tiled in what appears to be marble) bathroom, and walks in, closing it softly behind him.
“When I stand up?” Brendon says to the ceiling, shifting sideways, throwing his legs off the side of the bed (where his clothes are waiting, conveniently piled on the thick carpeting), and a sharp ache cracks up his spine, settling in his tailbone. “Oh,” he says to no one, wincing when the ache turns into a full-force burning as he reaches for his clothes. “Right.”
From the other side of the door, he hears Shane laugh.