asimplechord (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asimplechord) wrote2008-05-07 12:03 am
asimplechord) wrote2008-05-07 12:03 am
they'll all get done sooner or later. :)
I'm slow. But the meme-related ficlets and drabbles will eventually get posted. Promise.
So. Here, the first one.
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fleurdeliser requested Gerard/any Panic boy being domestic together, and the song number corresponded to The Messenger by Thrice.
I'm not sure this is quite the domesticity she was hoping for, but, well. Here. Entirely unbeta'd by anything but spell-check. 550 words. So fluffy and sweet, you could make a Fluff-N-Nutter with it. Also, totally fake.
I lean in closer and I close my eyes/Kiss the coals; breathe in smoke
If he wasn't utterly exhausted, Brendon would probably get a kick out of checking into The Palms under an alias. As it is, he's about ten seconds from face-planting at the registration desk, and it's all he can do to mumble, "Arthur Boyd," at the concierge.
The man doesn't even blink at Brendon's sunglasses (at 3am, no less) and the ID that clearly does not match the name he's just given, just hands over an envelope and keycard. He's paid for his discretion as well as his ability to handle whatever weird emergency needs the hotel's patrons might have, Brendon supposes.
Brendon takes them and hefts his carry-on back over his shoulder, waving the bell-boy off. He left the rest of his stuff on the bus; Spencer would make sure it got delivered to his and Shane's apartment.
He tries to be quiet when he gets to Gerard's room, because he knows that Gee has an early radio interview and he can be a pain in the ass when he's woken from a sound sleep. The bathroom light is on and the door's cracked; in the dimness, Brendon can see a lump under the blankets on one side of the bed. He doesn't even pause, just drops his bag and starts tugging off clothing as he moves across the room, so that he's naked by the time he gets to the side of the bed.
He lets himself fall onto the mattress and wriggles under the blankets, not caring that he's still gross and disgusting from tonight's show, from rushing from the stage to the end-of-tour afterparty to LAX for the red-eye home. Like Gerard would care. Or have room to criticize. He rolls until he's aligned with Gerard and throws an arm over his waist, pushes his face against Gerard's shoulder, and sighs. He breathes in, out, the smell of sweat and stale smoke, and lets sleep pull him under.
The room is bright when he wakes. There is a blueberry muffin and a Starbucks cup set on the bedside table, but no Gerard. Brendon drags himself up enough to snag the coffee, which is warm but no longer scald-every-tastebud hot. Gerard can't be far, then. When the caffeine has kicked in, he looks around and realizes: along with no Gerard, there's no ashtray in the room. He sees movement from the corner of his eye, and turns to see that Gerard is out on the balcony, a cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, leaning against the railing. While Brendon watches, he takes another drag and taps the ash into the overturned cup-lid.
Gerard. Is standing in the sunshine, in the summer heat. Outside his hideously expensive hotel room. A non-smoking hotel room. Because he knows that Brendon doesn't smoke anymore, worries what it does to his voice and his lungs, to Gerard's voice and lungs.
Brendon has the balcony door open before he even realizes that he's moving. Gerard turns at the sound, exhaling a stream of smoke, moving to stub out the cigarette.
"No, don't."
Brendon pulls Gerard's back to his front, and rests his hand against the balcony railing so that they can stand comfortably and watch the mid-morning traffic below. He tucks his chin against Gerard's neck and breathes in the scent of home.
So. Here, the first one.
fleurdeliser requested Gerard/any Panic boy being domestic together, and the song number corresponded to The Messenger by Thrice.I'm not sure this is quite the domesticity she was hoping for, but, well. Here. Entirely unbeta'd by anything but spell-check. 550 words. So fluffy and sweet, you could make a Fluff-N-Nutter with it. Also, totally fake.
I lean in closer and I close my eyes/Kiss the coals; breathe in smoke
If he wasn't utterly exhausted, Brendon would probably get a kick out of checking into The Palms under an alias. As it is, he's about ten seconds from face-planting at the registration desk, and it's all he can do to mumble, "Arthur Boyd," at the concierge.
The man doesn't even blink at Brendon's sunglasses (at 3am, no less) and the ID that clearly does not match the name he's just given, just hands over an envelope and keycard. He's paid for his discretion as well as his ability to handle whatever weird emergency needs the hotel's patrons might have, Brendon supposes.
Brendon takes them and hefts his carry-on back over his shoulder, waving the bell-boy off. He left the rest of his stuff on the bus; Spencer would make sure it got delivered to his and Shane's apartment.
He tries to be quiet when he gets to Gerard's room, because he knows that Gee has an early radio interview and he can be a pain in the ass when he's woken from a sound sleep. The bathroom light is on and the door's cracked; in the dimness, Brendon can see a lump under the blankets on one side of the bed. He doesn't even pause, just drops his bag and starts tugging off clothing as he moves across the room, so that he's naked by the time he gets to the side of the bed.
He lets himself fall onto the mattress and wriggles under the blankets, not caring that he's still gross and disgusting from tonight's show, from rushing from the stage to the end-of-tour afterparty to LAX for the red-eye home. Like Gerard would care. Or have room to criticize. He rolls until he's aligned with Gerard and throws an arm over his waist, pushes his face against Gerard's shoulder, and sighs. He breathes in, out, the smell of sweat and stale smoke, and lets sleep pull him under.
The room is bright when he wakes. There is a blueberry muffin and a Starbucks cup set on the bedside table, but no Gerard. Brendon drags himself up enough to snag the coffee, which is warm but no longer scald-every-tastebud hot. Gerard can't be far, then. When the caffeine has kicked in, he looks around and realizes: along with no Gerard, there's no ashtray in the room. He sees movement from the corner of his eye, and turns to see that Gerard is out on the balcony, a cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, leaning against the railing. While Brendon watches, he takes another drag and taps the ash into the overturned cup-lid.
Gerard. Is standing in the sunshine, in the summer heat. Outside his hideously expensive hotel room. A non-smoking hotel room. Because he knows that Brendon doesn't smoke anymore, worries what it does to his voice and his lungs, to Gerard's voice and lungs.
Brendon has the balcony door open before he even realizes that he's moving. Gerard turns at the sound, exhaling a stream of smoke, moving to stub out the cigarette.
"No, don't."
Brendon pulls Gerard's back to his front, and rests his hand against the balcony railing so that they can stand comfortably and watch the mid-morning traffic below. He tucks his chin against Gerard's neck and breathes in the scent of home.