AAR ficlet
Mike/Chris, AAR!group!love, ~900 words, R-ish, but mostly just sweet.
There’s a difference between being a dealer and a pusher. Chris was… okay, Chris was technically pretty awesome at both, but he’d only done the latter a few times and it left him feeling pretty skeeved, so. He stuck to being the dude to know, the one who stood in the back of the venue looking bored, sipping a beer, and let the kids come to him.
He never pushed. He didn’t. Drugs were bad news, everyone from your mom to your health teacher to Nancy fucking Reagan would tell you that. Chris wasn’t going to argue-not after the shit he’d seen-but he was all about free choice. Free market. In a democracy, if you wanted to get stoned out of your mind and watch twelve hours of monster truck rallies, that should be your choice. If you want to do a few lines in the bathroom so that you can dance for another three hours to shitty club music, Chris was only doing his American duty by making sure that choice was available to you. Personal choice, man. Part of the American Dream. That was Chris Gaylor’s motto.
But it was one am, and one of his best friends had just turned twenty-one, and since they were wasted six days out of seven most weeks anyway, a trip to the bar just wouldn’t cut it. So he was pushing. He was a little drunk and a lot rolling on some serious ecstasy that he’d scored just for this and the birthday boy just wasn’t having it.
“I have plenty of water, man, it’s totally safe, come on,” he said, trying to sound smooth and not whiny, not like, “Come on Nick, Jesus,” Tyson piped up from the floor. He was laying on the rug in Mike and Chris’s shitty apartment living room, petting it absently. “Mmmm, I love this rug,” Tyson added and Nick just arched his eyebrows in Chris’s direction.
“I’m fine, man, seriously,” he said for the tenth time, and Chris wasn’t sure if it was the exasperation in his voice or the bemusement that did it, but it was officially war. Nick was going to take the fucking ecstasy and have a fucking awesome time on his goddamned birthday if Chris had to hold him down and force it down his motherfucking throat.
“Nick. Nick, Nicky, Nick, baby, come on,” Chris said, sliding closer and slipping an arm around his shoulder. Nick’s shirt was just cotton, worn and soft and under Chris’s fingers it felt like down, like feathers and perfect blankets and he ran the material through his fingers as he talked. “You know we’d never let anything happen right? It’s just us, just us, right?” he asked the room. Tyson sighed. Mike looked up from their cushy pleather recliner and nodded. He licked his lips and his pupils were blown and Chris had to do this fast because oh, god, he really wanted to fuck Mike in that chair.
“I know,” Nick nodded, resting his head on Chris’s shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t. I just,” he shrugged and Tyson reached out with one bare foot and kicked his shin.
“Don’t be a pussy!” he drawled, and stuck his toes up under the cuff on Nick’s jeans. Nick huffed and Chris would have rolled his eyes but Nick’s breath on his neck tingled in a million places and made him shiver. “Come on, Nicky,” Ty said again, rolling his hips and slipping his hand up under his own shirt. “We love you, man.”
Chris actually felt a small lump in the back of his throat at that. He did love them, god damn it! He loved this band! He loved this band, and his tattoo and Nick’s soft, soft shirt, and the way Tyson was sliding his shirt off to rub his back on the carpet, and Mike… the way Mike was sliding into his lap, straddling him, all warm and boneless and smiling. God, he loved Mike’s smile.
“Leave him be,” Mike whispered, and he did that thing were he looked at Chris and Chris just couldn’t look away, not up or down or to where Nick’s cheek was pressed to his shoulder, grinning so wide Chris could feel it. “You’re not that guy,” he said, or almost said because his lips were so so close, and Chris had to taste them, had to tuck his hands around Mike’s hips and tug him closer, had to touch skin-his wrists, his cheek, just under his collar at the nape of his neck. “Right?” Mike pulled back just a fraction and Chris nodded, sure, of course, but he’d already forgotten the question.
Mike smiled, and Chris felt the world right itself again. Nick slipped off the couch to the floor and he could hear Tyson giggle and then sigh. He leaned in as Mike’s fingers laced through his hair. Mike wasn’t a pusher, but he would have been great at it, Chris thought. Chris didn’t remember having a choice when he fell for Mike Kennerty, not ever, and he was pretty sure Mike spiked his coffee, his six-packs, his pizza, with pure Kennerty charm, and he didn’t even care. He was in, addicted, hardcore, and as Mike’s tongue traced hot patterns on his neck, he was pretty sure he was okay with that.
His own personal American Dream.
There’s a difference between being a dealer and a pusher. Chris was… okay, Chris was technically pretty awesome at both, but he’d only done the latter a few times and it left him feeling pretty skeeved, so. He stuck to being the dude to know, the one who stood in the back of the venue looking bored, sipping a beer, and let the kids come to him.
He never pushed. He didn’t. Drugs were bad news, everyone from your mom to your health teacher to Nancy fucking Reagan would tell you that. Chris wasn’t going to argue-not after the shit he’d seen-but he was all about free choice. Free market. In a democracy, if you wanted to get stoned out of your mind and watch twelve hours of monster truck rallies, that should be your choice. If you want to do a few lines in the bathroom so that you can dance for another three hours to shitty club music, Chris was only doing his American duty by making sure that choice was available to you. Personal choice, man. Part of the American Dream. That was Chris Gaylor’s motto.
But it was one am, and one of his best friends had just turned twenty-one, and since they were wasted six days out of seven most weeks anyway, a trip to the bar just wouldn’t cut it. So he was pushing. He was a little drunk and a lot rolling on some serious ecstasy that he’d scored just for this and the birthday boy just wasn’t having it.
“I have plenty of water, man, it’s totally safe, come on,” he said, trying to sound smooth and not whiny, not like, “Come on Nick, Jesus,” Tyson piped up from the floor. He was laying on the rug in Mike and Chris’s shitty apartment living room, petting it absently. “Mmmm, I love this rug,” Tyson added and Nick just arched his eyebrows in Chris’s direction.
“I’m fine, man, seriously,” he said for the tenth time, and Chris wasn’t sure if it was the exasperation in his voice or the bemusement that did it, but it was officially war. Nick was going to take the fucking ecstasy and have a fucking awesome time on his goddamned birthday if Chris had to hold him down and force it down his motherfucking throat.
“Nick. Nick, Nicky, Nick, baby, come on,” Chris said, sliding closer and slipping an arm around his shoulder. Nick’s shirt was just cotton, worn and soft and under Chris’s fingers it felt like down, like feathers and perfect blankets and he ran the material through his fingers as he talked. “You know we’d never let anything happen right? It’s just us, just us, right?” he asked the room. Tyson sighed. Mike looked up from their cushy pleather recliner and nodded. He licked his lips and his pupils were blown and Chris had to do this fast because oh, god, he really wanted to fuck Mike in that chair.
“I know,” Nick nodded, resting his head on Chris’s shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t. I just,” he shrugged and Tyson reached out with one bare foot and kicked his shin.
“Don’t be a pussy!” he drawled, and stuck his toes up under the cuff on Nick’s jeans. Nick huffed and Chris would have rolled his eyes but Nick’s breath on his neck tingled in a million places and made him shiver. “Come on, Nicky,” Ty said again, rolling his hips and slipping his hand up under his own shirt. “We love you, man.”
Chris actually felt a small lump in the back of his throat at that. He did love them, god damn it! He loved this band! He loved this band, and his tattoo and Nick’s soft, soft shirt, and the way Tyson was sliding his shirt off to rub his back on the carpet, and Mike… the way Mike was sliding into his lap, straddling him, all warm and boneless and smiling. God, he loved Mike’s smile.
“Leave him be,” Mike whispered, and he did that thing were he looked at Chris and Chris just couldn’t look away, not up or down or to where Nick’s cheek was pressed to his shoulder, grinning so wide Chris could feel it. “You’re not that guy,” he said, or almost said because his lips were so so close, and Chris had to taste them, had to tuck his hands around Mike’s hips and tug him closer, had to touch skin-his wrists, his cheek, just under his collar at the nape of his neck. “Right?” Mike pulled back just a fraction and Chris nodded, sure, of course, but he’d already forgotten the question.
Mike smiled, and Chris felt the world right itself again. Nick slipped off the couch to the floor and he could hear Tyson giggle and then sigh. He leaned in as Mike’s fingers laced through his hair. Mike wasn’t a pusher, but he would have been great at it, Chris thought. Chris didn’t remember having a choice when he fell for Mike Kennerty, not ever, and he was pretty sure Mike spiked his coffee, his six-packs, his pizza, with pure Kennerty charm, and he didn’t even care. He was in, addicted, hardcore, and as Mike’s tongue traced hot patterns on his neck, he was pretty sure he was okay with that.
His own personal American Dream.