Vocabulary Soup #14: Egregious
e·gre·gious /ɪˈgridʒəs, -dʒiəs/ [i-gree-juhs, -jee-uhs] -adjective
e·gre·gious·ly, adverb; e·gre·gious·ness, noun
1. extraordinary in some bad way; conspicuously bad or offensive; glaring; flagrant: an egregious mistake; an egregious liar.
[Origin: c.1534, from L. egregius, from the phrase ex grege "rising above the flock," from ex "out of ( Read more... )
e·gre·gious·ly, adverb; e·gre·gious·ness, noun
1. extraordinary in some bad way; conspicuously bad or offensive; glaring; flagrant: an egregious mistake; an egregious liar.
[Origin: c.1534, from L. egregius, from the phrase ex grege "rising above the flock," from ex "out of ( Read more... )
Ryan reached up a hand to adjust his hat, tilting it precisely over his ear. God, no matter where you were, line ups at Starbucks were all the same, people in suits and ties rattling off their usual, kids babbling into their cell phones, bouncing around like Brendon on Red Bull. He really hoped that girl with the piercing giggle was getting decaf, she did not need to be revved up any higher. At least the music today was semi-decent. Ryan glanced behind the counter to see if he could figure out which barista might have picked it.
"Jon?"
Sure enough, when the scruffy guy manning the blenders looked over his shoulder, he turned out to be none other than Jon Walker.
"Ryan!" He ambled over and Ryan fought the urge to lean over the counter so he could see his feet. Did Jon get away with flip flops even at Starbucks?
"What are you doing here?" Last time Ryan had seen Jon, he'd been teching for the Academy on tour. But here he was pulling shots in a Chicago coffee shop, wearing an *apron* and maybe, probably *real shoes*. Spencer would die when Ryan texted him.
"Well, you know, tour's over. Dylan gets hungry. And they like me here, I add a certain je ne sais quoi to the scene."
"The coffee scene." Ryan glanced around the room then back at Jon, who was smiling gently and looked just as at home here as he had backstage or on the bus or anywhere else Ryan had ever seen him. "OK, then you can get me a couple coffees."
"Sure thing. So who brings you to Chicago?"
Ryan just tilted his head at the grin on Jon fucking Walker's face. Fucking grapevine. Ryan was going to murder Pete in his sleep, he'd probably posted about sleepovers on his blog again or something. He let one of his shoulders shrug slightly and said as evenly as he could manage (which was pretty damn even, thanks), "Pete."
And then he ducked his head to hide his stupid, stupid smile. Thank god for hats.
Jon just laughed and grabbed some cups. "Venti, right? Oh, and awesomesauce of course!"
For once Ryan felt as blank as he sounded. "Awesomesauce?" He looked at the menu board -- maybe it was a seasonal item.
"A Wentz favourite, guaranteed. Your prince will thank you, Ross."
Knowing Pete, it was probably urine or something even more putrid. Ryan opened his mouth to turn down Jon's very kind offer, then thought of possibly naked pictures of his own ass on the internet or whatever ridiculous thing was Pete was doing right this second to declare his love for Ryan to the entire world.
"Sure, awesomesauce. Perfect. And can I get a photo of your feet?"
****
Yeah, WTF, I know.
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OKAY, I DON'T KNOW WHY I WAS AVOIDING MY INBOX, BECAUSE IT CONTAINED INSANE AWESOMENESS LIKE *THIS*, AND WHAT THE HELL, HOW IS THIS SO AWESOMESAUCE?
"Awesomesauce?" He looked at the menu board -- maybe it was a seasonal item.
BWAHAHAHAHA. OH, RYAAAAAAN MOTHERFUCKING ROSS.
then thought of possibly naked pictures of his own ass on the internet or whatever ridiculous thing was Pete was doing right this second to declare his love for Ryan to the entire world.
I AM SLAIN.
(AND NOT AT ALL PATIENTLY WAITING FOR THE SEQUEL WHERE PETE GETS TO TASTE HIS AWESOMESAUCE!)
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(MAYBE YOU SHOULD WRITE THE SEQUEL? BECAUSE I CANNOT MAKE IT GO ANYWHERE. At least, not anywhere worthwhile.)
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ALSO: HELLO, YOU LIED ABOUT NOT BEING A WRITER. BECAUSE CLEARLY YOU WROTE THIS AND CLEARLY IT WAS FANTASTIC AND CLEARLY YOU SHOULD WRITE MORE.
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INSTEAD:
Ryan shoved at the door with his hip, using his elbow to push down on the handle as he sent off his message to Spencer. ("DOC MARTENS WTF? jwalk + 1992 = xo" Spencer would probably text back to say he needed to stop reading Pete's blog, like, two years ago. And also :( -- Spencer disapproved of most people's shoes at the best of times.) He shoved his Sidekick into his jacket, transfered the coffees to his right hand, and peered warily around the door into the Wentz family home. It wasn't that Pete's mom wasn't cool with him being here. More the opposite, really. Ryan just preferred to make a clean break to Pete's room without stopping for any awkward maternal conversation.
The entranceway was dim and quiet, and he couldn't hear any activity from the kitchen or the living room. He slipped in, pushed the door shut with a soft click and headed up the stairs. At the top, he paused. Not to collect himself or take deep breaths or anything like that. He checked to see if the coffee had spilled. It hadn't. He stalked into Pete's room.
Pete was lying on the bed furthest from the door, typing on his laptop and listening to A Fever You Can't Sweat Out at low volume. He was also naked except for a ratty, navy bathrobe. Ryan shut his eyes reflexively.
"Pete. Pants."
"Ryan! With coffee!"
He heard Pete catapult himself off one bed and onto the bed closest to Ryan. He backed up into the doorway and held the Starbucks tray high above his head.
"Seriously, Pete, put on some pants or you won't get a single drop of Jon's awesomesauce."
"Awesomesauce?" Pete's voice was full of his toothy grin. Ryan did not slit his eyes open even a little. He stood stoically, arms raised, until he heard Pete shuffle into some clothes.
"You can open your virgin eyes now, Ross, but I'm pretty sure that sleepovers without nakedness aren't real sleepovers at all."
The thing was, Ryan wasn't really sure what Pete meant by sleepovers. A year ago it had meant pancakes and makeup tips and swapping clothes. Then last week Pete had murmured into the phone "Come sleep beside me," and Ryan had hoped for... something more. But last night he'd arrived to twin beds. Twin beds and action figures and Pete's mom sleeping somewhere in the same house. And Pete definitely hadn't been naked then. He had no idea what it meant that Pete was suddenly trying to be naked *now*, at ten in the morning after a night spent a careful four feet apart.
****
WHAT? I have set this in Pete's parents' house! And Pete is already confusing me at least as much as Ryan!
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Pfff, yes, yes it is. Besides which, it will fail to convince me at all, because, HI, I read this when my friend was over and she can totally attest to all the loud-squeaking-fangirling noises I made over it. !!
Spencer disapproved of most people's shoes at the best of times.
HAHAHA WHAT YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO HAVE SPENCER APPEAR TO CHARACTERIZE HIM PERFECTLY.
Not to collect himself or take deep breaths or anything like that.
*makes grabbyhands at Ryan* You're reading my mind, aren't you? You know how much I love awkward fumbling denial and you're PUSHING ALL MY BUTTONS ON PURPOSE, AREN'T YOU?
"Seriously, Pete, put on some pants or you won't get a single drop of Jon's awesomesauce."
YOUR BABIES. HOW MANY OF THEM CAN I HAVE? A HORDE, PERHAPS?
Also? Pete lounging around naked while waiting for Ryan? YES.
A year ago it had meant pancakes and makeup tips and swapping clothes.
♥ ♥ ♥
Then last week Pete had murmured into the phone "Come sleep beside me,"
Oh, Jesus. Jesus.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH I NEED MORE OF THIS? DO YOU? <-------------------THISMUCH----------------------------->
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I can't believe I forgot to amend that bathrobe sentence before I posted -- the robe is totally open down the front from neck to knee. Pete is classy.
I think we are reaching my creative limits. This is probably going to end one of two ways: I simply stop posting more and it just drops off, unfinished, or I post increasingly awful bits until one of us cries mercy and I force them to kiss even if I've somehow locked one of them in an asylum along the way.
Here we go!
(Oh, and it goes without saying that I have absolutely no idea when exactly this is set or how it fits into the RL timeline, right? It's not like there is any research going on here.)
***
Ryan opened his eyes, regretting it almost immediately. Pete's idea of pants was a pair of purple boxers and white knee high socks. No shirt, and he was still wearing the bathrobe. Ryan wasn't sure if that made the outfit more or less offensive. The bartskull stood out in stark relief on Pete's smooth skin, and Ryan could see drops of water, probably from the shower, glinting from the thorns on Pete's collarbone. He shifted his hips back against the door frame, lowering the coffees to his waist and hunching his shoulders slightly.
"I'm pretty sure the sleepovers you're talking about only happen in porn." Porn. Why had he brought up porn? He wished he could let his head drop back against the wall and stare at the ceiling for a while. Think blank thoughts. He tightened his grip on the tray and kept his eyes on Pete's face.
Which was suddenly alarmingly close to his. Ryan blinked, but held himself casually still, avoiding rigidity by the smallest margin. Pete's arm was snaking toward him, going for his stomach, and he barely suppressed a helpless twitch.
A cup was plucked out of his tray. Ryan didn't sigh in relief.
"Hey, did Jon disappear into the back for a while before he passed these to you? Or, um, crouch down for a couple minutes?" Pete's voice was loud beside Ryan's head.
"What. No. What -- why?" They weren't going to talk about porn. Ryan couldn't believe his luck. He straightened out of his uncomfortable slouch.
"No reason. Have you read The Great Gatsby?" And Pete was back on the far bed, grabbing a book from the nightstand.
Ryan let the tray fall to the floor and sipped at his coffee. A bit sweeter than he was used to, but good. Hot. This conversation was already too hard to follow without caffeine and it wasn't even noon yet. Did coffee promote blood flow to the brain?
"Yeah, we read it in, like, school. Three years ago?" Three years felt like a lifetime. It also felt far too close for comfort right now; fourteen was just a strip of exposed skin away. At least in high school he'd had plenty of textbooks handy. He wondered if he'd been too quick to get rid of the tray, but he couldn't think of a good reason to hold onto it for the next two days.
"Cool, yeah, me, too. C'mere, let's read together," Pete said, patting the narrow inches of mattress beside him.
Definitely too quick with the tray.
***
It looks like Ryan is going to be the one in the asylum soon. I think I need to find a Pete/Ryan icon.
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Somehow this bit is too long for a single comment? Jesus.
***
When Ryan had woken up that morning, he'd gone from unconsciousness to full awareness without separation. Pete's room. He felt it in the stillness of his limbs and the feel of the sheets, like his entire body had catalogued and assimilated his surroundings while he slept. He clung for a few seconds to the simplicity of purely physical awareness, absent of the usual jumble of emotion and analysis. Then he noticed the quiet of the room, silent in the spaces between his breaths.
He sat up and examined Pete's very messy and very empty bed. It looked like someone had fought a rhinoceros for dominance in there during the night. There were books and papers spread over the knot of tangled blankets and all but one pillow lay scattered on the floor around the bed. The remaining pillow was crushed up against the wall, dented and collapsed in on itself, covered in black smudges and blue penmarks. Pete probably hadn't slept at all.
The house felt abandoned and cold, and Ryan suddenly wanted to be back in Vegas. This had been a huge mistake. Last night, he'd thought it was his exhaustion that had made Pete's full body bear hug and blinding smile seem paradoxically distant. He'd stumbled through hot chocolate in the kitchen with Pete and Pete's mom, practically fallen up the stairs to get the tour of Pete's domain, and finally collapsed pitifully into bed. It had been a long week, a long flight. He vaguely remembered that Pete had perched beside him, touched his wrist, whispered, "I'll be right back." But now here he was, alone in a tiny bed. He couldn't smell coffee, let alone pancakes. He wanted to go home.
He took a shower. The only shampoo was pink and smelled like strawberries. There were six kinds of conditioner, though, and Ryan tried three of them at once. There was no soap at all. Typical. Ryan smirked to himself and rolled his eyes then soaped up with strawberry-scented foam.
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"Morning, Ryan, say cheese! And turn a little more this way."
Ryan could feel his eyes going wide with horror and kept his jaw clamped shut with an effort. He tried to spin away from Pete, tripped over the tub, and ended up hunched over, hands braced low on the opposite edge of the bathtub, ass in the air.
Pete choked with laughter behind him, his braying overlaid with the alarming sound of digital clicks. "Oh, god, Ryan, Ryan, you're a fucking freak show. Dude, your *ass*. I love you, man. Yes!"
Ryan felt his neck burn with a hot blush. "Are you done yet? I could use a towel."
Pete was still gasping for breath when he tugged Ryan up by his shoulder and thrust a towel at him. Ryan grabbed at it and wrapped it around himself like a cape, clutching the ends at his chin and using his elbows to force a little space between their bodies. He could see actual *tears of joy* in Pete's eyes. There were beads of sweat on Pete's temples and the sharp odour of sweat cut through the perfumed shower steam.
"Where were you?" Thankfully, it didn't come out as accusingly as Ryan meant it.
"Out for a run. Had a shitty night, whatever. But man, best morning ever! You should come out every weekend, flash your junk in my shower."
Ryan snorted and pushed past Pete to walk back to the bedroom. The air outside the bathroom was cold and he was almost grateful for the extra body heat when Pete caught up and slung an arm around his waist. Things felt almost normal again, with none of the strangeness Ryan had maybe hallucinated last night. He'd obviously been wrong to expect to be greeted with kisses and cuddling, had obviously misinterpreted all those phone calls and breathy sighs. He was young and stupid and confused, but he could do this, at least. Hang out with Pete, write some shitty lyrics, try to avoid getting caught naked *ever again*.
Oh, god. Naked. He was still mostly naked, and Pete was clinging like a limpet to his side, sweaty and hot. Ryan squirmed free and headed toward his bag, pulling the towel tight around his shoulders.
"I'm just gonna get dressed and, ah, go pick up some coffee. Want coffee?"
"Sure," Pete shrugged, looking at him strangely. "There's a Starbucks not too far from here. Take my car."
***
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Hee! When I can, I love to give very detailed feedback :D I used to be able to do it for long stories, too; I've been known to break up feedback across 2 - 3 comments before. I mostly stopped doing that because it made me look really scary, though. *g*
...the robe is totally open down the front from neck to knee. Pete is classy.
\o/ My mental images did not lead me astray! Pete, you are the classiest princess in the kingdom, yes, yes you are.
Oh, and, y'know, research. It's not as if I could tell the difference anyway. ;)
I think we are reaching my creative limits.
New evidence would attest to this being a DIRTY LIE. FOR WHICH I AM VERY GRATEFUL.
MOVING ON.
Then he noticed the quiet of the room, silent in the spaces between his breaths.
I love the little quiet Ryan moments in here. ♥
The only shampoo was pink and smelled like strawberries. There were six kinds of conditioner, though, and Ryan tried three of them at once.
AHAHAHA YES. A) Totally how I would imagine Pete's shower, because, dude, pink and strawberries, how could he pass that up? and B) RYAN WOULD SO TRY ALL THREE AT ONCE. THIS IMAGE MAKES ME SO RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY.
...and a flash illuminated the scattering steam.
Again, you lie about not being a creative writer. LIE.
He could see actual *tears of joy* in Pete's eyes.
*FUCKING DIES* Oh, Pete. Pete motherfucking Wentz.
You should come out every weekend, flash your junk in my shower.
I AM SO ON BOARD WITH THIS PLAN. Your Pete voice sounds so spot-on to me, too.
And, dude, was Pete up all night pining after Ryan? Because in my head he was! Oh, God. And Ryan was totally in that shower pining after him, and HE TOOK PICTURES OF RYAN'S ASS WHAT, and oh, God, they're reading the Great Gatsby right now, aren't they?
He was still mostly naked, and Pete was clinging like a limpet to his side, sweaty and hot.
*whimpers pathetically*
*clings to you and your STORY OF AWESOME*
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Again, you lie about not being a creative writer. LIE.
Hee, no I really do not. This entire process is basically me playing a torturous game of chicken with myself. Pretty imagery is the least of my worries, though, it's true. That part I can handle. It's keeping the character motivation in line that torments me. And also making things interesting and organic, as opposed to my natural tendency toward boring and mechanical. If I have to write sex? Things are going to get HILARIOUS. (In a bad way. But still hilarious. Because do you see how two sections up I managed to have Ryan thinking constantly about erections without ever once using that word or mentioning any piece of below the waist anatomy? Ahahahaha, oh, my brain.)
And, dude, was Pete up all night pining after Ryan?
HE TOTALLY WAS. Not to spoil it or anything, but Pete invited him out to sex him up and then COULDN'T GO THROUGH WITH IT. NIGHT OF ANGST.
and oh, God, they're reading the Great Gatsby right now, aren't they?
They so are.
*clings to you and your STORY OF AWESOME*
Hee, you are the only thing holding us afloat! <3
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It's keeping the character motivation in line that torments me.
Really? Well, even though this isn't a 16-chapter epic story, I wouldn't immediately pick that out as your weak point. Ryan and Pete both seem very consistent to me, here.
And also making things interesting and organic.
Ah, yes, that's tough. I worry about that pretty much every second I'm writing. You know what I've realized, though? If something is in your head or types itself out, it's probably going to be both those things. Inspiration happens for a reason. :) And even things that have to be tweaked and played with usually come out sounding okay, too, because they're building around that kernel of inspiration. I think it's okay to have lulls in-text, because not every part of a story necessarily has to be interesting. Er, that may not sound right. But for anything longer than a drabble, I think, having connecting bits and parts where the text slows a bit is fine and can add to the pacing for a lot of narratives.
Also, I have an extreme sensitivity to writing that comes across as mechanical, and you don't strike me as such. What I consider mechanical writing doesn't get inside a character's head very well; a well-done limited third person POV just couldn't be mechanical because if it's capturing the flavor of the character, it'll have that humanizing effect.
MY DISORGANIZED THOUGHTS ON WRITING, LET ME SHOW YOU THEM.
(And I did notice, and liked that you didn't use that word! It fits perfectly in your Ryan POV! Because if he thought the word erection he'd scare himself, just a little. OH, RYAN.)
Not to spoil it or anything, but Pete invited him out to sex him up and then COULDN'T GO THROUGH WITH IT. NIGHT OF ANGST.
OMG WHAT ARE WE GOING TO GET TO HEAR ABOUT THIS NIGHT OF ANGST? PLEAAAAASE SAY YES! I don't know why, but Pete angsting over Ryan is possibly the best thing that could ever happen between these two. Because in my headcanon IT'S SO TRUE.
They so are.
*wantswantswants*
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Ryan and Pete both seem very consistent to me, here.
That is good! I will try to keep it up. Right up until one of them goes insane, that is!
If something is in your head or types itself out, it's probably going to be both those things. Inspiration happens for a reason.
You are assuming I am blithely typing out inspired sentences, which is a good sign I suppose, but so false. :(
MY DISORGANIZED THOUGHTS ON WRITING, LET ME SHOW YOU THEM.
I love your thoughts! They are very encouraging in that you seem to think I am not sucking. It is all by accident. MY WRITING INSECURITIES, LET ME SHOW YOU THEM. Not now, though -- when (if) it gets done there will be plenty of time to rip things to shreds. :)
Because if he thought the word erection he'd scare himself, just a little.
And me. OH, ME.
OMG WHAT ARE WE GOING TO GET TO HEAR ABOUT THIS NIGHT OF ANGST? PLEAAAAASE SAY YES!
No promises. I have a tight Ryan POV, so getting the full angsty picture will probably have to come through dialogue, either with Ryan himself or overheard as a phone call to, say, Patrick or something. You may just have to remix it in your head. ;)
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...but so false. :(
Oh, honey. *hugs* Even if it feels slow and painful, that doesn't mean it isn't inspired! Inspiration isn't just speed; it's content and characterization and all that. :)
...either with Ryan himself or overheard as a phone call to, say, Patrick or something.
Hahaha, I'm totally picturing Pete calling up Patrick for advice and Patrick being like, "Wait, what? You're calling *me* for advice on your love life? What the fuck is going on here?"
And, yeah, true about the Ryan POV. *smishes Ryan's little erection-less POV*
I wouldn't be opposed to writing a remix of this from Pete's POV. Wait, what? IGNORE ME, CARRY ON.
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Too often I forgo comments in favour of posting to Delicious, even though I *know* that a lot of people probably don't vanity search themselves there as regularly as I do. (Also, my Del posts aren't really complimentary, mostly just straightforward plot summaries. But at least they know I've read it?) Of course, I also try to write as if the authors *won't* see what I'm saying, because it isn't really for them. I want it both ways!
I wonder it it's a common enough practice now that I can assume most authors will see my Del posts? You should do a poll!
If he was in a bad mood, Patrick would give bad advice just to teach Pete a lesson. But then he would reconsider because his life is way easier when Pete is not a lovelorn mess.
Is it possible to remix something that isn't even finished and has no known end point? Hee.
And now for a very tiny update, just so I can say that they really are starting to read Gatsby.
***
Ryan sat back gingerly on the bed beside Pete, bending his knees and slipping his feet under one corner of the duvet, which was shoved halfway down the bed in a fluffy heap. Both hands wrapped securely around his cup, anchoring it against his stomach, spreading warmth through his fingers. He rested his head against the headboard and swivelled slowly right, glancing over at Pete. Instead of seeing hair and the back of Pete's bent neck like he'd expected, he was met head on by a glare. Pete's head was jerking like an epileptic puppeteer was pulling at its strings, and his arm was once again reaching out toward Ryan's midsection.
"Closer, Ryan, come here. We need to huddle for warmth," whined Pete, in one of the best Brendon imitations Ryan had ever heard. He couldn't manage the matching guileless smile, but his hangdog eyes were heavy with bags and shone with the false brightness of the over-exhausted. Even with the creepy smirk he looked strung out and pitiable. "You'll never be able to read your lines from way over there."
Ryan considered pointing out that they were in a bed with blankets that they could pull up if Pete was so cold. Blankets would provide some useful camouflage if things started to get awkward. But. Then it would be like they were really in bed, instead of just *on* bed. He inched over until their hips touched. Pete's damp hair smelled too familiar; Ryan starting taking shallow breaths through his mouth.
"Lines?" he finally remembered to ask. Fuck, was his coffee already getting cold? His fingers were cramping up. How long had he been staring at Pete's scalp?
"I'll be Daisy and Jordan. You can be everyone else," said Pete, who didn't seem to have noticed Ryan's unexplained paralysis. He opened the book to what looked like a random page and started to read out loud in his normal voice.
***
PS This has a Google Doc now. I hope you're happy. :P
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I'm one of those readers who sometimes cares more about hitcounts than feedback, and I'm always flattered that someone at least got to the end of my story, so bookmarks make me happy. Not sure that people who prefer feedback to stats would feel the same way, but I like to pretend they do to make myself feel better!
And, yeah, I want it both ways, too; I don't expect most people I bookmark to see my bookmarks, and there isn't really an account where I write my summaries in such a way that I'm anticipating that they'll read it.
You should do a poll!
Oooh, I could! I love doing polls! That would probably be more interesting than the weird Heroes poll I was planning on doing. How to word it? "Have you ever searched del.icio.us and found a bookmark of one of your fics?" or some such?
But then he would reconsider because his life is way easier when Pete is not a lovelorn mess.
Hahaha, I know, right? Pete as a mess makes everything else's life miserable by proxy, for real. He's better off helping Pete slide into Ryan's sweet and tight pants.
This has a Google Doc now. I hope you're happy. :P
I AM VERY RIDICULOUSLY HAPPY ABOUT THIS. \o/ LOOK AT MY ARMS OF JOY. I feel so proud. I bet this is what being a grandma is like!
Instead of seeing hair and the back of Pete's bent neck like he'd expected, he was met head on by a glare.
SNEAK PETE ATTACK. :O
Pete's head was jerking like an epileptic puppeteer was pulling at its strings
Ahahahaha, I have finally watched enough Pete interviews that I can fully appreciate this! IT IS SHOCKINGLY ACCURATE.
"Closer, Ryan, come here. We need to huddle for warmth," whined Pete, in one of the best Brendon imitations Ryan had ever heard.
*makes incoherent babbles* Pete! Pete trying to make up for his night of FAILED MACKING!
Pete's damp hair smelled too familiar
I... is it inappropriate that I find it really hot that Ryan finds this hot?
AHAHAHAHAHAHA PETE AS DAISY THIS JUST KEEPS GETTING BETTER.
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