FIC: Nascent [Star Trek RPS, 1/1]
Title: Nascent
Fandom: Star Trek RPS
Disclaimer: This did not happen. This is not real. This is a piece of fiction.
Rating: PG
Length: ~1200 words
Pairing: Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto
Summary: "There's irony in the fact that the word 'moribund' is responsible for the shiny new feelings in Zach."
Notes: Written for this prompt at trek_rpf_kink. Beta-ed by yesdrizella. <3!
There's irony in the fact that the word "moribund" is responsible for the shiny new feelings in Zach. Life in death, he supposes, if he wants to be poetic about it, but Zach would rather be cranky. Mostly because this is yet another example of Chris Pine being contrary, even if it's not intentional. While Zach may not be a man of rigid definitions, he felt like he'd had Chris pegged. Instead, Zach has come to realize that he's never met a more contradictory man in his life.
Chris is a delectable sight, blue eyes and lean hips and lush mouth, like the man was crafted solely from wicked fantasies. He's a pretty thing, through and through, but Zach has learned to be wary of pretty things. Glossy lacquers hide rotten cores. Except Chris was friendly enough when they met, bright and bold, gleaming with the qualities that made him Kirk, but with 75% less asshole. Chris made himself difficult to dislike, which was acceptable enough to Zach. Being gorgeous doesn't preclude you from having a decent personality.
But then came the press tour.
God had the good sense to make the smart people smart and the pretty people pretty, and never shall the twain meet. Leave it to Chris to upset the natural order of things. Zach never thought Chris was dumb. He knows about Berkeley, about the English degree. But the fourteen hour workdays during filming didn't leave much time or brain power for intellectual conversations. Zach would rather have a confederate to laugh with than a cerebral powerhouse. Chris has the same sense of humor as he does, the same work ethic, the same outlook on their profession. They ended up being better friends than Zach ever expected, which is already a strike against preconceptions. But the press tour, oh the press tour.
Chris wasn't just professional; Zach had counted on that. No, Chris was downright eloquent. Maybe not always. First thing in the morning after a long night or just coming back from a too-heavy lunch. Not so much then. But most of the time, enough of the time. The man who sat next to him was a revelation.
Little by little, then lots by lots, Zach let himself go, and Chris matched him word for word, line by line, like they were a two-man one-act-play. Then they headed home, but the play didn't end, hasn't ended. They hang out at Chris' place or at Zach's, grab coffees, go bowling, and Zach discovers, almost to his chagrin, just how ridiculous Chris Pine really is. A man who keeps Virginia Woolf next to the Zombie Survival Guide. A man just as likely to be chatting up a vacuous blonde at a bar as he is curling up at home with a volume of Whitman.
It doesn't seem fair.
Worse still is this knot inside Zach's chest, like anticipation and anxiety all rolled up, a nebula of want and frustration. And sitting on Chris' couch right now, staring at a copy of Slaughterhouse-Five on the coffee table? Really not helping things.
Zach had popped over on a whim, caught Chris coming back from a run, and now Zach waits as Chris showers and changes. This may speak to Zach's twisted mind, but somehow the mental image of Chris sprawled on the couch with Vonnegut is a thousand times more appealing than the thought of a wet and naked Chris, especially when he can see that the book is a well-thumbed copy, edges yellowed and spine cracked. Chris loves his books, not a pristine, careful affection, but an ardent, shameless passion.
Zach wants, more than ever, to see how Chris reads. Does he lick his fingertip to turn the page? Dog-ear his favorite passages? Would he ever put highlighter to paper or scribble notes on the side? There's a notebook, plain black, next to the novel, with a capped ballpoint pen. Is that what Chris does? Scribble down lines?
Curiosity overtaking better judgment, Zach plucks the notebook from the coffee table and flips it open to a random page. Zach has seen Chris' handwriting before, notes jotted down on the margins of his script, instructions on Post-Its, short-handed scrawls here and there. But in this notebook is long, elegant script, pages upon pages of it, and Zach has the sudden and gut-wrenching realization that this is Chris' journal. He nearly drops the damn thing like his fingers will be scalded, but he hangs on. He grips this book, because in this age of blogs and video diaries on YouTube, who the hell keeps a private long-hand journal anymore?
Chris Pine does apparently. Zach inwardly groans. It's like the world is conspiring against him. There's no way he ought to read a word further, but the temptation is near overpowering. As Zach skims the writing, however, he's getting the sense that this isn't a diary after all.
Late afternoon melts into cool, crisp night. Empty beer bottles form an uneven chorus line on the coffee table. He wonders if it's wise to have drunk so much. Alcohol warms the senses, thickens the mind, plays tricks on perception until the wildest impulse becomes the most logical course of action. He shouldn't dare to dream while awake.
This isn't a personal account of events. It's a story. Chris writes.
Zach is doomed.
He consumes a few more pages, not entirely sure what the narrative is about, but he is enraptured anyhow. The story is of a man who wants, shapeless desire that curls and coils, light as smoke at first, then cruel like barbwire at last. Chris can use a lot of editing, but there is no denying the basic raw power behind the prose.
Zach very nearly flings the book from his hands when he hears the telltale catch of the bathroom door opening. His heart pounds in his chest, dull roar in his ears. He's never been so terrified of being caught in his life. But he's an actor, goddammit, and he's nothing but poise and calm when Chris returns. Except not so much, because Chris comes back wearing a threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants that ride indecently low. Zach apparently didn't know just how unfair it can get.
But he can tough this out. They catch up over beer, chitchat, all sorts of casual conversation that doesn't involve words containing more than three syllables. But Zach can't get the writing out of his head. He stares at Chris and thinks: you're not fooling anyone, pretty boy.
Soon enough, Zach is four beers down and so is Chris. That's when Zach considers the possibility that Chris is a prophet. Because the sun has set, there are bottles on the coffee table, and Zach feels the warmest flush in his face and the wildest impulse in his heart.
Chris probably has no idea, but he wrote about a wanting that aches down to the bone. Zach knows better than to conflate an author with his prose, but words don't taste what their author has never felt. Their conversation has lulled. It's quiet and space between them. Zach reaches out -- dares to reach -- and touches his fingertips to Chris' cheek. A look crosses Chris' face. Something like longing, like relief.
"I think I'm a little bit in love with you, Chris."
There are dozens of words that can be applied to the expression on Chris' face, $10 words, SAT words, but the best one, Zach thinks, is joy.
Fandom: Star Trek RPS
Disclaimer: This did not happen. This is not real. This is a piece of fiction.
Rating: PG
Length: ~1200 words
Pairing: Chris Pine/Zachary Quinto
Summary: "There's irony in the fact that the word 'moribund' is responsible for the shiny new feelings in Zach."
Notes: Written for this prompt at trek_rpf_kink. Beta-ed by yesdrizella. <3!
There's irony in the fact that the word "moribund" is responsible for the shiny new feelings in Zach. Life in death, he supposes, if he wants to be poetic about it, but Zach would rather be cranky. Mostly because this is yet another example of Chris Pine being contrary, even if it's not intentional. While Zach may not be a man of rigid definitions, he felt like he'd had Chris pegged. Instead, Zach has come to realize that he's never met a more contradictory man in his life.
Chris is a delectable sight, blue eyes and lean hips and lush mouth, like the man was crafted solely from wicked fantasies. He's a pretty thing, through and through, but Zach has learned to be wary of pretty things. Glossy lacquers hide rotten cores. Except Chris was friendly enough when they met, bright and bold, gleaming with the qualities that made him Kirk, but with 75% less asshole. Chris made himself difficult to dislike, which was acceptable enough to Zach. Being gorgeous doesn't preclude you from having a decent personality.
But then came the press tour.
God had the good sense to make the smart people smart and the pretty people pretty, and never shall the twain meet. Leave it to Chris to upset the natural order of things. Zach never thought Chris was dumb. He knows about Berkeley, about the English degree. But the fourteen hour workdays during filming didn't leave much time or brain power for intellectual conversations. Zach would rather have a confederate to laugh with than a cerebral powerhouse. Chris has the same sense of humor as he does, the same work ethic, the same outlook on their profession. They ended up being better friends than Zach ever expected, which is already a strike against preconceptions. But the press tour, oh the press tour.
Chris wasn't just professional; Zach had counted on that. No, Chris was downright eloquent. Maybe not always. First thing in the morning after a long night or just coming back from a too-heavy lunch. Not so much then. But most of the time, enough of the time. The man who sat next to him was a revelation.
Little by little, then lots by lots, Zach let himself go, and Chris matched him word for word, line by line, like they were a two-man one-act-play. Then they headed home, but the play didn't end, hasn't ended. They hang out at Chris' place or at Zach's, grab coffees, go bowling, and Zach discovers, almost to his chagrin, just how ridiculous Chris Pine really is. A man who keeps Virginia Woolf next to the Zombie Survival Guide. A man just as likely to be chatting up a vacuous blonde at a bar as he is curling up at home with a volume of Whitman.
It doesn't seem fair.
Worse still is this knot inside Zach's chest, like anticipation and anxiety all rolled up, a nebula of want and frustration. And sitting on Chris' couch right now, staring at a copy of Slaughterhouse-Five on the coffee table? Really not helping things.
Zach had popped over on a whim, caught Chris coming back from a run, and now Zach waits as Chris showers and changes. This may speak to Zach's twisted mind, but somehow the mental image of Chris sprawled on the couch with Vonnegut is a thousand times more appealing than the thought of a wet and naked Chris, especially when he can see that the book is a well-thumbed copy, edges yellowed and spine cracked. Chris loves his books, not a pristine, careful affection, but an ardent, shameless passion.
Zach wants, more than ever, to see how Chris reads. Does he lick his fingertip to turn the page? Dog-ear his favorite passages? Would he ever put highlighter to paper or scribble notes on the side? There's a notebook, plain black, next to the novel, with a capped ballpoint pen. Is that what Chris does? Scribble down lines?
Curiosity overtaking better judgment, Zach plucks the notebook from the coffee table and flips it open to a random page. Zach has seen Chris' handwriting before, notes jotted down on the margins of his script, instructions on Post-Its, short-handed scrawls here and there. But in this notebook is long, elegant script, pages upon pages of it, and Zach has the sudden and gut-wrenching realization that this is Chris' journal. He nearly drops the damn thing like his fingers will be scalded, but he hangs on. He grips this book, because in this age of blogs and video diaries on YouTube, who the hell keeps a private long-hand journal anymore?
Chris Pine does apparently. Zach inwardly groans. It's like the world is conspiring against him. There's no way he ought to read a word further, but the temptation is near overpowering. As Zach skims the writing, however, he's getting the sense that this isn't a diary after all.
Late afternoon melts into cool, crisp night. Empty beer bottles form an uneven chorus line on the coffee table. He wonders if it's wise to have drunk so much. Alcohol warms the senses, thickens the mind, plays tricks on perception until the wildest impulse becomes the most logical course of action. He shouldn't dare to dream while awake.
This isn't a personal account of events. It's a story. Chris writes.
Zach is doomed.
He consumes a few more pages, not entirely sure what the narrative is about, but he is enraptured anyhow. The story is of a man who wants, shapeless desire that curls and coils, light as smoke at first, then cruel like barbwire at last. Chris can use a lot of editing, but there is no denying the basic raw power behind the prose.
Zach very nearly flings the book from his hands when he hears the telltale catch of the bathroom door opening. His heart pounds in his chest, dull roar in his ears. He's never been so terrified of being caught in his life. But he's an actor, goddammit, and he's nothing but poise and calm when Chris returns. Except not so much, because Chris comes back wearing a threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants that ride indecently low. Zach apparently didn't know just how unfair it can get.
But he can tough this out. They catch up over beer, chitchat, all sorts of casual conversation that doesn't involve words containing more than three syllables. But Zach can't get the writing out of his head. He stares at Chris and thinks: you're not fooling anyone, pretty boy.
Soon enough, Zach is four beers down and so is Chris. That's when Zach considers the possibility that Chris is a prophet. Because the sun has set, there are bottles on the coffee table, and Zach feels the warmest flush in his face and the wildest impulse in his heart.
Chris probably has no idea, but he wrote about a wanting that aches down to the bone. Zach knows better than to conflate an author with his prose, but words don't taste what their author has never felt. Their conversation has lulled. It's quiet and space between them. Zach reaches out -- dares to reach -- and touches his fingertips to Chris' cheek. A look crosses Chris' face. Something like longing, like relief.
"I think I'm a little bit in love with you, Chris."
There are dozens of words that can be applied to the expression on Chris' face, $10 words, SAT words, but the best one, Zach thinks, is joy.