Fic! (for real this time)
If you got here by googling yourself, please go no further. The fourth wall is a friend to all!
Title: My City's Still Breathing
Bandom: This is Ivy League, pre-Cobra Starship
Pairing: Ryland/Alex (see primer for basics!)
Rating: R
Word count: ~800 words
Notes: Thanks to wasoncedelight for the beta. For _icewater. ♥
::
The evening goes like this.
Alex shows up at seven and dumps two full bags of grocery on Ryland's kitchen counter, sending the take-out menus fluttering to the floor. Ryland is still getting used to this grown-up Alex, who wears discount designer jeans and thick glasses and would rather spend three hours cooking in Ryland's tiny kitchen than go out and eat in the Village. The first time Ryland knew him, Alex talked a lot about food he'd make, but always ended up in a booth at Joe's with Ryland and the rest of their friends after school.
Ryland munches on the discarded ends of celery stalks and sits on his counter by the microwave and watches, talks about how famous-yet-indie they'll be, and tries to want a cigarette instead of the other things his fingers itch for.
Alex's shoes scuff over the linoleum quietly, in arches between the stove and the cutting board, and the stove and Ryland.
The night goes like this.
They never plan on him staying, but somewhere in the four hours he spends at Ryland's piano or on Ryland's couch scribbling in pencil over Ryland's notes, Alex always seems to just forget to go home. He has graphite along the side of his hand and marinara on the cuff of his shirt and two measures of something promising stuck in his head. He can't stop humming them, and he goes willingly when Ryland pushes him up against the shaky bookcase, making the picture frames on top of it rattle. Alex tastes like fresh garlic and nine-dollar Merlot and a little like ballpoint pen, the kind Alex keeps by the dozen in his bag, tucked between the pages of novels or clipped to notebooks with curling corners.
They go through all 300 square feet of Ryland's place and hit switches, turn off lights. Alex trips over the edge of a rug and Ryland steadies him with a hand on his elbow, where his sleeve is rucked up his forearm. Alex does that when they argue about progressions. And it's dark but Ryland knows Alex's hair is disheveled, like he ran both hands through it. He did, earlier, when he'd pushed up his sleeves. Those two measures were hard-won.
Ryland does it again for him by the bed, when Alex pulls off his shirt without unbuttoning it. He tips his head back to let Ryland bite at his jaw, where he's never clean shaven anymore. That's new, too.
There isn't much space around Ryland's bed, since he'd rather be able to stretch out once he's in it than have the option of floorspace. It would come in handy now though, as they knock shins into the boxspring and elbows into the dresser. But it doesn't matter much once he follows Alex under the sheets, still crisp from the laundromat, a little scratchy against bare skin. Alex's knees part like an invitation; Ryland pulls the blanket over them like a fort, the kind you make with blankets and chairs.
Still he sees the flash of Alex's grin in the faint light from the too-bright neon sign outside Ryland's window. The whites of Alex's eyes flash blue, then pink, until Ryland fists Alex's dick tightly between their bellies, and then Alex just closes his eyes and Ryland can't see much of anything anymore, can only feel his way along with mouth and fingertips.
They fuck spooned up, Ryland the bigger spoon, digging crescents into Alex's hip like notches in a bedpost only much more significant. At the prickly angle of his jaw, Alex smells like shampoo and too much bad coffee. When Ryland asks him what he smells like, Alex calls him a girl then says, Brooklyn. Ryland wonders if he said it because neither of them knows which of the two to call "home": the then or the now. Or this nebulous near-future they're planning out.
The morning goes like this.
Alex puts on one of Ryland's shirts and his own shades and they go down to the deli for coffee and one and a half bagels apiece. It's Alex's turn to talk big, and Ryland nods along, not a doubt in his mind, just blanks to fill in as they go. He definitely does want a cigarette when Alex's fingers tuck themselves near the knee-crease of Ryland's jeans, as reckless as Ryland feels.
He doesn't know how the rest goes. He's got guitar picks in his pocket and Alex's ballpoint pens and a nine-dollar Merlot hangover. The rest is a cakewalk.
Title: My City's Still Breathing
Bandom: This is Ivy League, pre-Cobra Starship
Pairing: Ryland/Alex (see primer for basics!)
Rating: R
Word count: ~800 words
Notes: Thanks to wasoncedelight for the beta. For _icewater. ♥
::
The evening goes like this.
Alex shows up at seven and dumps two full bags of grocery on Ryland's kitchen counter, sending the take-out menus fluttering to the floor. Ryland is still getting used to this grown-up Alex, who wears discount designer jeans and thick glasses and would rather spend three hours cooking in Ryland's tiny kitchen than go out and eat in the Village. The first time Ryland knew him, Alex talked a lot about food he'd make, but always ended up in a booth at Joe's with Ryland and the rest of their friends after school.
Ryland munches on the discarded ends of celery stalks and sits on his counter by the microwave and watches, talks about how famous-yet-indie they'll be, and tries to want a cigarette instead of the other things his fingers itch for.
Alex's shoes scuff over the linoleum quietly, in arches between the stove and the cutting board, and the stove and Ryland.
The night goes like this.
They never plan on him staying, but somewhere in the four hours he spends at Ryland's piano or on Ryland's couch scribbling in pencil over Ryland's notes, Alex always seems to just forget to go home. He has graphite along the side of his hand and marinara on the cuff of his shirt and two measures of something promising stuck in his head. He can't stop humming them, and he goes willingly when Ryland pushes him up against the shaky bookcase, making the picture frames on top of it rattle. Alex tastes like fresh garlic and nine-dollar Merlot and a little like ballpoint pen, the kind Alex keeps by the dozen in his bag, tucked between the pages of novels or clipped to notebooks with curling corners.
They go through all 300 square feet of Ryland's place and hit switches, turn off lights. Alex trips over the edge of a rug and Ryland steadies him with a hand on his elbow, where his sleeve is rucked up his forearm. Alex does that when they argue about progressions. And it's dark but Ryland knows Alex's hair is disheveled, like he ran both hands through it. He did, earlier, when he'd pushed up his sleeves. Those two measures were hard-won.
Ryland does it again for him by the bed, when Alex pulls off his shirt without unbuttoning it. He tips his head back to let Ryland bite at his jaw, where he's never clean shaven anymore. That's new, too.
There isn't much space around Ryland's bed, since he'd rather be able to stretch out once he's in it than have the option of floorspace. It would come in handy now though, as they knock shins into the boxspring and elbows into the dresser. But it doesn't matter much once he follows Alex under the sheets, still crisp from the laundromat, a little scratchy against bare skin. Alex's knees part like an invitation; Ryland pulls the blanket over them like a fort, the kind you make with blankets and chairs.
Still he sees the flash of Alex's grin in the faint light from the too-bright neon sign outside Ryland's window. The whites of Alex's eyes flash blue, then pink, until Ryland fists Alex's dick tightly between their bellies, and then Alex just closes his eyes and Ryland can't see much of anything anymore, can only feel his way along with mouth and fingertips.
They fuck spooned up, Ryland the bigger spoon, digging crescents into Alex's hip like notches in a bedpost only much more significant. At the prickly angle of his jaw, Alex smells like shampoo and too much bad coffee. When Ryland asks him what he smells like, Alex calls him a girl then says, Brooklyn. Ryland wonders if he said it because neither of them knows which of the two to call "home": the then or the now. Or this nebulous near-future they're planning out.
The morning goes like this.
Alex puts on one of Ryland's shirts and his own shades and they go down to the deli for coffee and one and a half bagels apiece. It's Alex's turn to talk big, and Ryland nods along, not a doubt in his mind, just blanks to fill in as they go. He definitely does want a cigarette when Alex's fingers tuck themselves near the knee-crease of Ryland's jeans, as reckless as Ryland feels.
He doesn't know how the rest goes. He's got guitar picks in his pocket and Alex's ballpoint pens and a nine-dollar Merlot hangover. The rest is a cakewalk.