We're not going nowhere without our friends
title: we're not going nowhere without our friends
rating: pg
pairing: william/gabe
warnings: mention of sex, ungraphical.
summary: first floor window opened up, as you tip-toe on the back porch to meet the new girl on the corner. make your big plans for the summer. no one's gonna stay inside, we're singing. we are finally here and we're not going nowhere without our friends and we can't stop singing. everybody's making sure we stay up till sunset but we can't forget.
a/n: so i've had this idea for a while, back from when i used to listen to tai non-stop and i was in love with "toasted skin". this isn't quite what i had in mind all those months ago, but i think about a fic like this every time i walk up the stairs at night and have to dodge the stair that creaks. i'm very glad to have written it, finally. apologies if it's a bit confusing with the vague characterisation. also because i've always wanted to be a part of night culture but where i live just makes it impossible pm :c
He’s well practised in lying, although he’d prefer to give it a more poetic name, like acting, or pretending. He has a shelf of smiles to choose from when he hums through his teeth, wishes his parents goodnight and apologises sincerely (yeah, ha) for staying out late the night before. He knows what time his parents go to bed and he knows how many minutes later do they actually fall asleep. And still, he waits an extra five before rolling back the bedsheets and crawling back out.
He drops his pyjama pants, slides into his jeans and stands on his toes to fit into the tight denim, just right. He combs his hair with his fingers and picks out a shirt, picks out a jacket to hide the shirt and dips his toes into shoes. He walks from his room, knows which steps to avoid in order to keep the house silent, knows which floorboards protest to his step the loudest.
And he knows how much money he can take from his mother’s purse without being noticed. He knows the door creaks when it opens, so he knows to exit via window instead. He knows how long he’s got to crawl through before the pane snaps shut, locking him out until he climbs the lattice to his bedroom; but not yet.
The front porch creaks like the inside of his house but not as much, not as obviously. He knows the time already, knows it’s past midnight, but he never knows where Gabe will show up.
He jumps back when he sees his friend jump up from the side of the porch, only to grin a second later. He laughs, quietly and under his breath, covering his mouth with his hand; the one that clutches the money tightly.
“You’re up late,” Gabe whispers, like any other night as he leans up against the porch and looks up at him with wide eyes. “Should you be out at a time like this? Never know who could be roaming the streets.”
He lowers himself down to his knees and hands Gabe the money without a verbal response. Gabe looks at it, counts it, then stands up and takes his hand. “Reggie’s?”
Gabe doesn’t need a confirmation. They walk down the front drive, keep on walking down the block side by side, hands brushing every now and then from their swaying hands. He keeps looking down at his money in Gabe’s hands, smiling, because he trusts his friend. A block later, as always, they stop walking and get into Gabe’s little Ford Laser, belting up and driving off.
The night ends up being spent, mostly, sitting in the local skate part with super-sized jumbo slurpees between their palms, slurpees that Gabe bought with the money he’d been given. They watch the neighbour kids - Carden, his friends Adam Young and Siska - who also come out at night, as they flip their skateboards in the half pipes and rails. He and Gabe sit with their legs dangling off the edge of an unused half pipe, studying the graffiti within between slurps of their drinks.
They’ll talk, sometimes, but mostly laugh at the skater kids’ stacks and curses. The skater kids actually talk more than they do, but sometimes when they stop to take a break and sit down for a while, they’ll talk to him and Gabe, treat them like good friends.
It’s like a sub-culture. A class of society that no one pays attention to, that the uppers and the middles and the lowers can all be apart of, because it doesn’t matter what you like or where you live, it just matters if you’re willing to be apart of it. He never intended to lose himself to a part of society like this, to blend in with a crowd by accident. But he’s not complaining, and he’d rather not leave.
At the end of the night though, Gabe, this guy who is like a brother, but also so much more than that, will drive him home. They’ll get into the car and throw their empty drinks on the floor and Gabe will drive, and he will look through Gabe’s wallet. Trace his fingers over the picture on his driver’s license, the birthdate, and sometimes sigh to himself at the six years he has on him.
But all the same, Gabe doesn’t pay attention to it. He pays attention to the little things, like when he shuffles around in his car seat and folds his arms, seeming to huff a little. “If you’re hot,” Gabe says, “then don’t complain. You’re the one who wears jeans in the middle of spring.”
And he’ll only smile, maybe nudge Gabe’s arm gently but never hard enough to swerve them off the road. Despite that, Gabe will pull over, undo his seat belt and tug at the sleeve of his jacket, claiming, “It’s too hot for this, at least. Take it off.”
That’s how Gabe always gets his clothes off. It’s jacket first, then his shirt “Because we’re both boys and it doesn’t matter,” but the same excuse seems to work for his jeans. Gabe will undress along with him, and they spend the remaining hours of the night in the back seat, pressed close and flushed despite the sweat beading from their skin.
Gabe never pulls up a block away when he drops him off. It’s always right out front his house, whether he wants Gabe to or not. Gabe kisses him, really softly and slowly and enough of a promise that he’ll be there the next night. “Go on, you,” he whispers finally. “Go get some sleep before school.”
He kisses back then climbs out of the car, jogs over to the lattice on the side of the house. He avoids the thorns and flowers and climbs up, ignores the rocking of the stale wood until he gets to his window. He pushes up the frame, holds it there as he slips his legs inside to sit on the pane and look out at Gabe’s car. Gabe waits until he’s safely inside before driving away.
He closes his window, peels off his jeans and smiles to himself when he realises he’s forgotten yet another jacket in the back of Gabe’s car. He crawls into bed, covers his bare legs with the sheet and stares at the ceiling before letting his eyes fall closed.
But it’s barely a second later when his alarm clock goes off and the morning sun outside is too bright to bear.
His mother calls sharply through the walls of the house, “William! Get out of bed or you’ll be late!”
He opens his eyes, reluctantly, with not a drop of sleep, just a second of darkness and a night to remember. “Coming, mum!” he calls back, smiling wide as he stares at his ceiling and rolls the blanks back. One more day to get through, he thinks to himself. One more day and he’ll have another night to spend with his friends, with his culture.
rating: pg
pairing: william/gabe
warnings: mention of sex, ungraphical.
summary: first floor window opened up, as you tip-toe on the back porch to meet the new girl on the corner. make your big plans for the summer. no one's gonna stay inside, we're singing. we are finally here and we're not going nowhere without our friends and we can't stop singing. everybody's making sure we stay up till sunset but we can't forget.
a/n: so i've had this idea for a while, back from when i used to listen to tai non-stop and i was in love with "toasted skin". this isn't quite what i had in mind all those months ago, but i think about a fic like this every time i walk up the stairs at night and have to dodge the stair that creaks. i'm very glad to have written it, finally. apologies if it's a bit confusing with the vague characterisation. also because i've always wanted to be a part of night culture but where i live just makes it impossible pm :c
He’s well practised in lying, although he’d prefer to give it a more poetic name, like acting, or pretending. He has a shelf of smiles to choose from when he hums through his teeth, wishes his parents goodnight and apologises sincerely (yeah, ha) for staying out late the night before. He knows what time his parents go to bed and he knows how many minutes later do they actually fall asleep. And still, he waits an extra five before rolling back the bedsheets and crawling back out.
He drops his pyjama pants, slides into his jeans and stands on his toes to fit into the tight denim, just right. He combs his hair with his fingers and picks out a shirt, picks out a jacket to hide the shirt and dips his toes into shoes. He walks from his room, knows which steps to avoid in order to keep the house silent, knows which floorboards protest to his step the loudest.
And he knows how much money he can take from his mother’s purse without being noticed. He knows the door creaks when it opens, so he knows to exit via window instead. He knows how long he’s got to crawl through before the pane snaps shut, locking him out until he climbs the lattice to his bedroom; but not yet.
The front porch creaks like the inside of his house but not as much, not as obviously. He knows the time already, knows it’s past midnight, but he never knows where Gabe will show up.
He jumps back when he sees his friend jump up from the side of the porch, only to grin a second later. He laughs, quietly and under his breath, covering his mouth with his hand; the one that clutches the money tightly.
“You’re up late,” Gabe whispers, like any other night as he leans up against the porch and looks up at him with wide eyes. “Should you be out at a time like this? Never know who could be roaming the streets.”
He lowers himself down to his knees and hands Gabe the money without a verbal response. Gabe looks at it, counts it, then stands up and takes his hand. “Reggie’s?”
Gabe doesn’t need a confirmation. They walk down the front drive, keep on walking down the block side by side, hands brushing every now and then from their swaying hands. He keeps looking down at his money in Gabe’s hands, smiling, because he trusts his friend. A block later, as always, they stop walking and get into Gabe’s little Ford Laser, belting up and driving off.
The night ends up being spent, mostly, sitting in the local skate part with super-sized jumbo slurpees between their palms, slurpees that Gabe bought with the money he’d been given. They watch the neighbour kids - Carden, his friends Adam Young and Siska - who also come out at night, as they flip their skateboards in the half pipes and rails. He and Gabe sit with their legs dangling off the edge of an unused half pipe, studying the graffiti within between slurps of their drinks.
They’ll talk, sometimes, but mostly laugh at the skater kids’ stacks and curses. The skater kids actually talk more than they do, but sometimes when they stop to take a break and sit down for a while, they’ll talk to him and Gabe, treat them like good friends.
It’s like a sub-culture. A class of society that no one pays attention to, that the uppers and the middles and the lowers can all be apart of, because it doesn’t matter what you like or where you live, it just matters if you’re willing to be apart of it. He never intended to lose himself to a part of society like this, to blend in with a crowd by accident. But he’s not complaining, and he’d rather not leave.
At the end of the night though, Gabe, this guy who is like a brother, but also so much more than that, will drive him home. They’ll get into the car and throw their empty drinks on the floor and Gabe will drive, and he will look through Gabe’s wallet. Trace his fingers over the picture on his driver’s license, the birthdate, and sometimes sigh to himself at the six years he has on him.
But all the same, Gabe doesn’t pay attention to it. He pays attention to the little things, like when he shuffles around in his car seat and folds his arms, seeming to huff a little. “If you’re hot,” Gabe says, “then don’t complain. You’re the one who wears jeans in the middle of spring.”
And he’ll only smile, maybe nudge Gabe’s arm gently but never hard enough to swerve them off the road. Despite that, Gabe will pull over, undo his seat belt and tug at the sleeve of his jacket, claiming, “It’s too hot for this, at least. Take it off.”
That’s how Gabe always gets his clothes off. It’s jacket first, then his shirt “Because we’re both boys and it doesn’t matter,” but the same excuse seems to work for his jeans. Gabe will undress along with him, and they spend the remaining hours of the night in the back seat, pressed close and flushed despite the sweat beading from their skin.
Gabe never pulls up a block away when he drops him off. It’s always right out front his house, whether he wants Gabe to or not. Gabe kisses him, really softly and slowly and enough of a promise that he’ll be there the next night. “Go on, you,” he whispers finally. “Go get some sleep before school.”
He kisses back then climbs out of the car, jogs over to the lattice on the side of the house. He avoids the thorns and flowers and climbs up, ignores the rocking of the stale wood until he gets to his window. He pushes up the frame, holds it there as he slips his legs inside to sit on the pane and look out at Gabe’s car. Gabe waits until he’s safely inside before driving away.
He closes his window, peels off his jeans and smiles to himself when he realises he’s forgotten yet another jacket in the back of Gabe’s car. He crawls into bed, covers his bare legs with the sheet and stares at the ceiling before letting his eyes fall closed.
But it’s barely a second later when his alarm clock goes off and the morning sun outside is too bright to bear.
His mother calls sharply through the walls of the house, “William! Get out of bed or you’ll be late!”
He opens his eyes, reluctantly, with not a drop of sleep, just a second of darkness and a night to remember. “Coming, mum!” he calls back, smiling wide as he stares at his ceiling and rolls the blanks back. One more day to get through, he thinks to himself. One more day and he’ll have another night to spend with his friends, with his culture.