(no subject)
First attempt at Vam fanfic... all comments/feedback much appreciated.
Title: The Second Hand
Pairing: None, really.
Category: Light angst / unrequited love.
Disclaimers: DK DO NH
He lay his hand flat on his bare stomach in the dark, feeling the ridges of muscle there, faint but impressive considering that only a few years ago he'd just been Brandon, skinny pale kid with messy dark hair and a skateboard, the sort of smile that promised trouble and fun all at once. To think, eleven years ago he'd been hanging around skate shops trying to run with the big dogs. And now he'd skated with his heroes, but not just skated... he was friends with them. There were names in his cell phone that the most reputable journalist wouldn't be able to get, contacts in his Sidekick that could have a helicopter in his backyard or deliver a live camel with only an hour's notice. If they were worth knowing, he'd met them.
Fingers traced the geography of his abs, the slight raised Braille scars of the intricate tattoo he'd gotten. He could still remember that night, HIM blasting in the tattoo parlor just to help him keep in the mood, his head thrown back as he lay on that pleather chair and the guy crouched there beside him on a low barstool, hunched over his unzipped shorts, the whine and buzz of the needle penetrating tender pale skin just below his navel as he etched in the tribal spirals, the tendrils coming off that heartogram.. and then calling Ville, four a.m. in Finland but he knew the bastard would be awake. Sure enough, Ville'd been smoking a cigarette and drunk when he called, nothing new there, and they'd laughed about it, Ville calling him his twin. The tattoo had hurt like a bitch but every time he looked in the mirror naked he would touch it, feel a faint thrill. He would stick his hands in his pockets, pull his shorts down until they barely rode his narrow hips just to give himself another glimpse of the delicate black design. When he did that, it was so easy to pretend that from the navel down he was Ville, scrawny pale Finnish boy with tousled dark hair and wild green eyes. But then his gaze would lift and no, no gothic singers there, just a fair-skinned Pennsylvanian skateboarder with curly brown hair and big blue eyes that couldn't look mischievous even though his smile certainly did.
But now... he sighed, rolled over to look at the clock. Glowing green numbers across the expanse of Jenn's back, her face buried in the pillow, a tangle of dark hair concealing her features that were undoubtedly relaxed, peaceful in sleep. Something was wrong with them, but he had no idea how to go about telling her. It wasn't Jenn's fault; she was the same girl he'd met when he was a gangly little kid, albeit more tanned, tattooed, and pierced since then. She could still make him laugh, and put up with his many flaws that most people disbelieved were even there. It was he who was changing; they hadn't had sex in a week, and she was starting to get her feelings hurt when they went to bed together. Tonight he'd really felt horny when they lay down, HIM on the stereo as usual, listening to Ville purr words of seduction.. but then when she went to undo his shorts, kissing down his belly, he had gently told her he wasn't in the mood anymore, that he felt sort of sick. The hurt in her eyes had been bad, but then she'd been a good sport, curled up next to him and turning off the light, and that had stung almost just as much. She wanted to sleep beside him... and here he wasn't even slightly tired, just feigning it so that she wouldn't catch on that he wasn't really sick.
3:02, the clock mocked him.
Swallowing, he eased out of the bed, careful not to make the mattress move more than necessary. She groaned very softly, didn't stir. He was a restless sleeper, got up a lot during the night, so she had learned to ignore things like his cell phone ringing or him flicking on the lamp.
He scooped up his cell from the nightstand where it was plugged into the charger, the bright blue light coming from the small screen as he disconnected it and used it to light his way into the bathroom just outside the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief, flicking on the overhead light. It dazzled his eyes for a moment, made him squeeze them shut and exhale in pain before he opened them cautiously, adjusting. He leaned in close to the mirror, examining himself critically. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and his trademark goatee was becoming indistinguishable from the rest of the scruff on his jaw. His eyes looked exhausted; he hadn't slept well in days, though he'd spent a lot of time lying in bed trying to get some rest. The bruises and scrapes on his arms and knees, old hat for someone skateboarding as long as he'd been, looked grayish purple or bright red in comparison to how pale his skin was.Jesus Christ, he mused without humor, scrubbing a hand through his long, uncombed brown hair, I look like a fucking zombie.
There was a beep from his cell, and he looked over at it where it lay on the counter, lit up like misplaced Christmas lights, a beacon of hope. No way was Ville up this early, and yet there the text message was, Willa Walo on the recipient line, "I miss you" the entire body of the text. He read it twice, blinking in a mix of sleepy-haze and confusion, and then replied quickly "Call me?"
It was less than ten seconds later when the phone rang, and he thumbed the key to answer ti before the jangly tone could echo off the walls and wake anyone up, alert them to his presence in the bathroom. He walked over to the door, pressed the lock into place.
"Bam," the hoarse voice on the other end said, quiet. Distance between them made Ville's tone even thicker than usual, his accent not helped by the faintly drunken slur to his voice. You know I talk to him a lot if I can tell the difference between drunk and just Finnish, Bam realized with a faint grin.
"What're you doing up?" he replied, sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet, a stifled yawn. It would be... Christ. Damned early in the morning for Ville to be up. "Is something going on?"
A brief pause, the connection stretching thousands of miles, and then the singer responded. "We were supposed to do an interview at fucking six in the morning," he sighed, "but when we got there the reporter didn't show up. So we went back home, and I figured you'd be asleep but I was thinking about you."
"I was thinking about you, actually, too," Bam confessed, leaning his head back until the rear of his skull hit the wall behind the toilet gently.
"What about?"
"Just thinking... I was looking at my tattoos, remembering when I got them."
"I remember when you got the one on your ribs," Ville replied, and laughed, a soft sound like slowly running water. "And you kept hissing and the guy was asking if you wanted to stop... I thought you were going to break my fucking hand squeezing."
"That would've been a big loss," Bam laughed quietly in response. "Daniel Lioneye'd be hard-up for a drummer, wouldn't they?"
"Wanker," Ville said affectionately.
"There's been no wanking on this end," Bam pointed out, a faint dismal sigh escaping before he knew it was going to.
"Problems with Jenn?" Ville asked, sympathy in that deep voice, and suddenly Bam just wanted to be held. Not by Jenn, and not even by his mother. He just wanted a pair of arms around him, to be told that things would sort themselves out, the way Ville had held him one night when Bam had heard that a friend had died. Ville had been so compassionate, the two of them binging on alcohol and holding each other like life preservers, like nothing would ever be so stable again as each other's skin. He wanted that kind of security now, the tangle of tattooed arms and warm flesh.
"I don't know," Bam exhaled, the hand not occupied holding the phone burying itself in his thick mop of hair. "I don't, seriously. One minute everything's perfect... then... I don't know. She wants to get married."
"Up until recently, so did you," Ville reminded him gently, and there was the distinct click of a lighter, a slow inhale. Trust Valo to be chainsmoking before he even ate lunch.
"I know, man. I don't know what happened. I seriously thought she was the one."
"Like me and Jonna."
"At least you and Jonna are doing alright," Bam said softly, and then he was struck with a suspicion. "Oh... you and Jonna are doing good, right?" He suddenly felt desperate to know; he needed to know that Ville and Jonna were still pristine, the untouchable couple, all dazzling smiles and kisses and hand-holding. Something still needed to be stable.
"I don't know either," Ville replied, though he didn't sound as morose as Bam had. "We're just sorting it all out... in between right now. You know."
"Wow. You didn't tell me, what's up with that?"
"I haven't talked to you in a while. This happened last week. I tried to call but..."
"Oh, shit. I forgot to call you back. I got your voicemail and I was gonna call, dude, I swear."
"It's alright." Slow exhale, and Bam could picture the plume of smoke coming from between those parted lips, gorgeously pink without the aid of cosmetics. "I know you get busy."
"What happened with you and Jonna?"
"Ah, Bammy," and there was a soft laugh that somehow sounded sadder than a sob. "Women confuse me. We just don't get along so well anymore... I think it's the touring, taking stress out on her. You know. I try to bring her along on tour but she doesn't like it... she'd rather stay here in Finland."
"You think it's over?"
"Who knows? I don't fucking know anything anymore for sure."
"Ville?" Hesitation... he was looking at himself in the mirror again, not meeting his own eyes--- why couldn't blue magically transform into jade-green, his facial hair vanishing, his own hair darker and shorter... his body thinner, less defined... why not? Why did he have to say this to his own reflection instead of the singer himself?
"Yeah?" Exhale.
Breathe. Keep breathing.
"Do you ever think maybe..."
Pause.
"Think what?"
"Do you ever think maybe I... oh, fuck, I don't know. Nevermind."
"No, tell me. What's on your mind?" Inhale. Slow exhale.
Silence.
Shudder.
This will all end badly.
Don't ask me to do this.
Don't make me say it, you already fucking know what I want to ask.
"Do you love me?"
"Of course I love you, Bam, what---"
"No, not like that, man. Like... do you love me? Love me like Jonna? Maybe like that?" Biting his lower lip, it might be split and chapped and bloodied tomorrow but he couldn't make himself care.
"Bam..."
Please God don't say it.
"I don't... I don't know, alright, Bammy? I do love you, but... I don't know." Exhale. "Listen, I should go. S'early here, and you ought to be in bed."
"Just answer---"
"I can't. I... don't know. G'night, Bam."
The silence is deafening.
And then his hand on his cock, he didn't even remember getting out the lube but he must have because there's some of Jenn's expensive lotion on the counter, everything smells like fucking lavender or something but he's jerking himself off, his hand tight around his dick but he's thinking exclusively of Ville, of glossy pink lips and bright green eyes and painfully sharp hipbones digging into his side, and when he comes he is thinking of lines from Razorblade Romance being sung in a very growly Finnish slur.
When he finished and the tissues damp with his come were flushed down the toilet, he washed his hands, picked up his cell phone, sent a text. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything, I'm just fucked up right now. Call you later."
And then.
"I do love you. I'm just not ready to do anything about it yet. Wait for me."
And then, back into the bedroom. Jenn still asleep, tangled in their sheets, oblivious to everything that was happening around her. On her hand, the promise ring he'd given her a few years ago. He lay down, put his hand flat on his belly, felt the tattoo there.
4:02, the clock mocked him.
Title: The Second Hand
Pairing: None, really.
Category: Light angst / unrequited love.
Disclaimers: DK DO NH
He lay his hand flat on his bare stomach in the dark, feeling the ridges of muscle there, faint but impressive considering that only a few years ago he'd just been Brandon, skinny pale kid with messy dark hair and a skateboard, the sort of smile that promised trouble and fun all at once. To think, eleven years ago he'd been hanging around skate shops trying to run with the big dogs. And now he'd skated with his heroes, but not just skated... he was friends with them. There were names in his cell phone that the most reputable journalist wouldn't be able to get, contacts in his Sidekick that could have a helicopter in his backyard or deliver a live camel with only an hour's notice. If they were worth knowing, he'd met them.
Fingers traced the geography of his abs, the slight raised Braille scars of the intricate tattoo he'd gotten. He could still remember that night, HIM blasting in the tattoo parlor just to help him keep in the mood, his head thrown back as he lay on that pleather chair and the guy crouched there beside him on a low barstool, hunched over his unzipped shorts, the whine and buzz of the needle penetrating tender pale skin just below his navel as he etched in the tribal spirals, the tendrils coming off that heartogram.. and then calling Ville, four a.m. in Finland but he knew the bastard would be awake. Sure enough, Ville'd been smoking a cigarette and drunk when he called, nothing new there, and they'd laughed about it, Ville calling him his twin. The tattoo had hurt like a bitch but every time he looked in the mirror naked he would touch it, feel a faint thrill. He would stick his hands in his pockets, pull his shorts down until they barely rode his narrow hips just to give himself another glimpse of the delicate black design. When he did that, it was so easy to pretend that from the navel down he was Ville, scrawny pale Finnish boy with tousled dark hair and wild green eyes. But then his gaze would lift and no, no gothic singers there, just a fair-skinned Pennsylvanian skateboarder with curly brown hair and big blue eyes that couldn't look mischievous even though his smile certainly did.
But now... he sighed, rolled over to look at the clock. Glowing green numbers across the expanse of Jenn's back, her face buried in the pillow, a tangle of dark hair concealing her features that were undoubtedly relaxed, peaceful in sleep. Something was wrong with them, but he had no idea how to go about telling her. It wasn't Jenn's fault; she was the same girl he'd met when he was a gangly little kid, albeit more tanned, tattooed, and pierced since then. She could still make him laugh, and put up with his many flaws that most people disbelieved were even there. It was he who was changing; they hadn't had sex in a week, and she was starting to get her feelings hurt when they went to bed together. Tonight he'd really felt horny when they lay down, HIM on the stereo as usual, listening to Ville purr words of seduction.. but then when she went to undo his shorts, kissing down his belly, he had gently told her he wasn't in the mood anymore, that he felt sort of sick. The hurt in her eyes had been bad, but then she'd been a good sport, curled up next to him and turning off the light, and that had stung almost just as much. She wanted to sleep beside him... and here he wasn't even slightly tired, just feigning it so that she wouldn't catch on that he wasn't really sick.
3:02, the clock mocked him.
Swallowing, he eased out of the bed, careful not to make the mattress move more than necessary. She groaned very softly, didn't stir. He was a restless sleeper, got up a lot during the night, so she had learned to ignore things like his cell phone ringing or him flicking on the lamp.
He scooped up his cell from the nightstand where it was plugged into the charger, the bright blue light coming from the small screen as he disconnected it and used it to light his way into the bathroom just outside the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief, flicking on the overhead light. It dazzled his eyes for a moment, made him squeeze them shut and exhale in pain before he opened them cautiously, adjusting. He leaned in close to the mirror, examining himself critically. He hadn't shaved in a few days, and his trademark goatee was becoming indistinguishable from the rest of the scruff on his jaw. His eyes looked exhausted; he hadn't slept well in days, though he'd spent a lot of time lying in bed trying to get some rest. The bruises and scrapes on his arms and knees, old hat for someone skateboarding as long as he'd been, looked grayish purple or bright red in comparison to how pale his skin was.Jesus Christ, he mused without humor, scrubbing a hand through his long, uncombed brown hair, I look like a fucking zombie.
There was a beep from his cell, and he looked over at it where it lay on the counter, lit up like misplaced Christmas lights, a beacon of hope. No way was Ville up this early, and yet there the text message was, Willa Walo on the recipient line, "I miss you" the entire body of the text. He read it twice, blinking in a mix of sleepy-haze and confusion, and then replied quickly "Call me?"
It was less than ten seconds later when the phone rang, and he thumbed the key to answer ti before the jangly tone could echo off the walls and wake anyone up, alert them to his presence in the bathroom. He walked over to the door, pressed the lock into place.
"Bam," the hoarse voice on the other end said, quiet. Distance between them made Ville's tone even thicker than usual, his accent not helped by the faintly drunken slur to his voice. You know I talk to him a lot if I can tell the difference between drunk and just Finnish, Bam realized with a faint grin.
"What're you doing up?" he replied, sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet, a stifled yawn. It would be... Christ. Damned early in the morning for Ville to be up. "Is something going on?"
A brief pause, the connection stretching thousands of miles, and then the singer responded. "We were supposed to do an interview at fucking six in the morning," he sighed, "but when we got there the reporter didn't show up. So we went back home, and I figured you'd be asleep but I was thinking about you."
"I was thinking about you, actually, too," Bam confessed, leaning his head back until the rear of his skull hit the wall behind the toilet gently.
"What about?"
"Just thinking... I was looking at my tattoos, remembering when I got them."
"I remember when you got the one on your ribs," Ville replied, and laughed, a soft sound like slowly running water. "And you kept hissing and the guy was asking if you wanted to stop... I thought you were going to break my fucking hand squeezing."
"That would've been a big loss," Bam laughed quietly in response. "Daniel Lioneye'd be hard-up for a drummer, wouldn't they?"
"Wanker," Ville said affectionately.
"There's been no wanking on this end," Bam pointed out, a faint dismal sigh escaping before he knew it was going to.
"Problems with Jenn?" Ville asked, sympathy in that deep voice, and suddenly Bam just wanted to be held. Not by Jenn, and not even by his mother. He just wanted a pair of arms around him, to be told that things would sort themselves out, the way Ville had held him one night when Bam had heard that a friend had died. Ville had been so compassionate, the two of them binging on alcohol and holding each other like life preservers, like nothing would ever be so stable again as each other's skin. He wanted that kind of security now, the tangle of tattooed arms and warm flesh.
"I don't know," Bam exhaled, the hand not occupied holding the phone burying itself in his thick mop of hair. "I don't, seriously. One minute everything's perfect... then... I don't know. She wants to get married."
"Up until recently, so did you," Ville reminded him gently, and there was the distinct click of a lighter, a slow inhale. Trust Valo to be chainsmoking before he even ate lunch.
"I know, man. I don't know what happened. I seriously thought she was the one."
"Like me and Jonna."
"At least you and Jonna are doing alright," Bam said softly, and then he was struck with a suspicion. "Oh... you and Jonna are doing good, right?" He suddenly felt desperate to know; he needed to know that Ville and Jonna were still pristine, the untouchable couple, all dazzling smiles and kisses and hand-holding. Something still needed to be stable.
"I don't know either," Ville replied, though he didn't sound as morose as Bam had. "We're just sorting it all out... in between right now. You know."
"Wow. You didn't tell me, what's up with that?"
"I haven't talked to you in a while. This happened last week. I tried to call but..."
"Oh, shit. I forgot to call you back. I got your voicemail and I was gonna call, dude, I swear."
"It's alright." Slow exhale, and Bam could picture the plume of smoke coming from between those parted lips, gorgeously pink without the aid of cosmetics. "I know you get busy."
"What happened with you and Jonna?"
"Ah, Bammy," and there was a soft laugh that somehow sounded sadder than a sob. "Women confuse me. We just don't get along so well anymore... I think it's the touring, taking stress out on her. You know. I try to bring her along on tour but she doesn't like it... she'd rather stay here in Finland."
"You think it's over?"
"Who knows? I don't fucking know anything anymore for sure."
"Ville?" Hesitation... he was looking at himself in the mirror again, not meeting his own eyes--- why couldn't blue magically transform into jade-green, his facial hair vanishing, his own hair darker and shorter... his body thinner, less defined... why not? Why did he have to say this to his own reflection instead of the singer himself?
"Yeah?" Exhale.
Breathe. Keep breathing.
"Do you ever think maybe..."
Pause.
"Think what?"
"Do you ever think maybe I... oh, fuck, I don't know. Nevermind."
"No, tell me. What's on your mind?" Inhale. Slow exhale.
Silence.
Shudder.
This will all end badly.
Don't ask me to do this.
Don't make me say it, you already fucking know what I want to ask.
"Do you love me?"
"Of course I love you, Bam, what---"
"No, not like that, man. Like... do you love me? Love me like Jonna? Maybe like that?" Biting his lower lip, it might be split and chapped and bloodied tomorrow but he couldn't make himself care.
"Bam..."
Please God don't say it.
"I don't... I don't know, alright, Bammy? I do love you, but... I don't know." Exhale. "Listen, I should go. S'early here, and you ought to be in bed."
"Just answer---"
"I can't. I... don't know. G'night, Bam."
The silence is deafening.
And then his hand on his cock, he didn't even remember getting out the lube but he must have because there's some of Jenn's expensive lotion on the counter, everything smells like fucking lavender or something but he's jerking himself off, his hand tight around his dick but he's thinking exclusively of Ville, of glossy pink lips and bright green eyes and painfully sharp hipbones digging into his side, and when he comes he is thinking of lines from Razorblade Romance being sung in a very growly Finnish slur.
When he finished and the tissues damp with his come were flushed down the toilet, he washed his hands, picked up his cell phone, sent a text. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything, I'm just fucked up right now. Call you later."
And then.
"I do love you. I'm just not ready to do anything about it yet. Wait for me."
And then, back into the bedroom. Jenn still asleep, tangled in their sheets, oblivious to everything that was happening around her. On her hand, the promise ring he'd given her a few years ago. He lay down, put his hand flat on his belly, felt the tattoo there.
4:02, the clock mocked him.