Happy Birthday!
Aug. 24th, 2007 10:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsI have some birthday greetings. First, happy birthday for yesterday to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lincolnkw and today for satsuma77
It's alsomilosflaca's birthday today, which is what this post is about. Now, Aurea loves the Chris/Howie pairing, a lot "". So luxshine suggested we make today an unofficial Chowie day, which was fine by me.
So, behind the cut is a little bit of Chris/Howie. Happy birthday, Aurea! I hope you have a fantastic day, and enjoy the story.
Thanks go tovaudevilles who despite being mega busy and in Justin ticket woe still read this over.
It’s raining, which seems fitting somehow, the sheeting downpour an accompaniment to something that maybe should have ended years before. If Chris was a poetic man -- which he doesn’t profess to be, especially at three am when he’s at the tail end of five hours on the road and he’s sipping at cold coffee that clings to his teeth with each sip – he’d say the rain was washing the slate clean. As he isn’t he just hunches forward, his fingers wrapped tight around the wheel as he listens to the radio talk show host discuss erectile problems with some doped up stoner from LA. It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.
He parks up on a deserted section of coast road. Uncurling his hands, he rotates his shoulders and watches as the wipers swish against the windshield. There’s a clear space for all of a second, then the view of crashing waves is concealed by yet more rain. Streaming rivulets that bump, jostle and join together as they tumble toward the ground.
The stoner’s replaced by a woman who whispers into her phone. Chris imagines her sitting on the edge of her bed, her voice quiet as she stutters through her problems, as if cleansing her hurts over the open air. Chris emphasises, he’s tried the same.
She’s talking about lost dreams and how life isn’t fair, and Chris wants to phone in and tell her life’s never fair. Even if you’re a multi millionaire life isn’t fair. He doesn’t. He’s back in the public eye and the last thing he needs is to be heard giving advice on some radio show in the middle of the night, and he would be. Chris knows the reach of fans is wide and if he phoned now his words would be captured and shared within hours.
Instead he opens his window, shivering as cool air ruffles through his hair and rain splatters against his skin. Eyeing the remainder of his coffee, he compares the remaining journey time against the caffeine hit gained by finishing something that’s cooled to a substance resembling tar. On one hand, he’s nearly there, on the other, caffeine and sugar are vital to get past the next hour. Quickly deciding, Chris grimaces as he swallows, then throws the empty cup toward the backseat.
He drives away with the window open and the host’s insincere platitudes drowned under the sound of rain.
~*~*~*~
The beach hut isn’t a hut at all. It’s a good sized house, one story, the deck leading down onto peddle strewn sand. The light is on over the front door, and there’s a stone lying on the ground. It’s been rubbed smooth with countless hands over almost ten years, and when Chris picks it up it’s familiar against his touch. Stooping, he looks into a terracotta pot filled with nine other stones. Selecting one he places it on the ground, the other to its side, relieved that they’ve been granted this time alone. Not that he expects the others to come. Not now.
It’s been a long time, and when he digs out his key, the lock is stiff, resisting until he uses his hip to press against the door.
It’s warm inside. There’s a lamp turned down dim and a coat hanging from the hook. Chris hangs up his own coat, one arm dripping water, dampening the tiled floor. He kicks off his shoes and looks around, taking it all in. It’s been too long since he’s been here and it’ll be a long time before he comes again. If he ever does.
“Hi,” Howie says. He sits up from the sofa and his hair is rumpled as he rubs his eyes, a book sliding from his chest to the floor. He’s smiling and there’s something jostling for space in Chris’ chest, a nervous-happy-I love you-I miss you already something that’s intimidating in its intensity.
“Hey,” Chris says, and he’s walking forward, his mouth curling up into a smile, because despite everything, this is Howie, and it feels like he’s loved him forever.
“I’ve missed you.” Howie is warmth and comfort and gentle strength. They fit perfectly, they always have, Howie’s arms around Chris’ waist, his hair brushing against Chris’ cheek. Just like that things are easy, like they’ve been minutes apart and not months.
“I’ve been busy,” Chris says, and he can feel the silent approval, that this time that’s the truth and busy isn’t a code word for partying his life away.
“I know, I’ve seen.” Howie’s still smiling but there’s a set to his shoulders and his eyes are narrowed just enough to show he’s pissed about something, some slight he’s seen, but Chris has spent months dealing with those problems and he distracts Howie in the easiest way he knows.
He wraps his hand in Howie’s shirt, holding on and pulling him in so they’re pressed even tighter. Free hand against Howie’s back, Chris leans in for a kiss, slow at first, reclaiming old ground with lazy swipes of his tongue. The something in his chest expands, becoming more want at the feel of Howie’s tongue against his own, the sting as his bottom lip is nipped then soothed, and the kiss is speeding up. It becomes faster, deeper, and if this were a song it would be harmonising notes based on a solid speeding beat.
It’s a song that leaves Chris breathless, and Howie’s mouth is open, his eyes glinting when they step apart.
“You’re getting married.” It wasn’t what Chris planned to say. Not yet. He planned time in bed, time to talk, because it’s been years. College and then fame, and they’ve been together all the while. Never totally, but the love was always there. Shown with frequent meetings and a beach hut that shares their names.
“I am.”
Howie’s still smiling, softer now and Chris knows him. Knows that while Howie can and has loved two people, it’s finally time to step away.
“I love you.”
“I know,” Howie says, and he steps forward, putting himself between Chris and the door. “Stay. For tonight. For me.”
Chris does, vowing to himself he’ll leave the next day.
lincolnkw and today for satsuma77It's also
milosflaca's birthday today, which is what this post is about. Now, Aurea loves the Chris/Howie pairing, a lot "". So luxshine suggested we make today an unofficial Chowie day, which was fine by me.So, behind the cut is a little bit of Chris/Howie. Happy birthday, Aurea! I hope you have a fantastic day, and enjoy the story.
Thanks go to
vaudevilles who despite being mega busy and in Justin ticket woe still read this over.It’s raining, which seems fitting somehow, the sheeting downpour an accompaniment to something that maybe should have ended years before. If Chris was a poetic man -- which he doesn’t profess to be, especially at three am when he’s at the tail end of five hours on the road and he’s sipping at cold coffee that clings to his teeth with each sip – he’d say the rain was washing the slate clean. As he isn’t he just hunches forward, his fingers wrapped tight around the wheel as he listens to the radio talk show host discuss erectile problems with some doped up stoner from LA. It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.
He parks up on a deserted section of coast road. Uncurling his hands, he rotates his shoulders and watches as the wipers swish against the windshield. There’s a clear space for all of a second, then the view of crashing waves is concealed by yet more rain. Streaming rivulets that bump, jostle and join together as they tumble toward the ground.
The stoner’s replaced by a woman who whispers into her phone. Chris imagines her sitting on the edge of her bed, her voice quiet as she stutters through her problems, as if cleansing her hurts over the open air. Chris emphasises, he’s tried the same.
She’s talking about lost dreams and how life isn’t fair, and Chris wants to phone in and tell her life’s never fair. Even if you’re a multi millionaire life isn’t fair. He doesn’t. He’s back in the public eye and the last thing he needs is to be heard giving advice on some radio show in the middle of the night, and he would be. Chris knows the reach of fans is wide and if he phoned now his words would be captured and shared within hours.
Instead he opens his window, shivering as cool air ruffles through his hair and rain splatters against his skin. Eyeing the remainder of his coffee, he compares the remaining journey time against the caffeine hit gained by finishing something that’s cooled to a substance resembling tar. On one hand, he’s nearly there, on the other, caffeine and sugar are vital to get past the next hour. Quickly deciding, Chris grimaces as he swallows, then throws the empty cup toward the backseat.
He drives away with the window open and the host’s insincere platitudes drowned under the sound of rain.
~*~*~*~
The beach hut isn’t a hut at all. It’s a good sized house, one story, the deck leading down onto peddle strewn sand. The light is on over the front door, and there’s a stone lying on the ground. It’s been rubbed smooth with countless hands over almost ten years, and when Chris picks it up it’s familiar against his touch. Stooping, he looks into a terracotta pot filled with nine other stones. Selecting one he places it on the ground, the other to its side, relieved that they’ve been granted this time alone. Not that he expects the others to come. Not now.
It’s been a long time, and when he digs out his key, the lock is stiff, resisting until he uses his hip to press against the door.
It’s warm inside. There’s a lamp turned down dim and a coat hanging from the hook. Chris hangs up his own coat, one arm dripping water, dampening the tiled floor. He kicks off his shoes and looks around, taking it all in. It’s been too long since he’s been here and it’ll be a long time before he comes again. If he ever does.
“Hi,” Howie says. He sits up from the sofa and his hair is rumpled as he rubs his eyes, a book sliding from his chest to the floor. He’s smiling and there’s something jostling for space in Chris’ chest, a nervous-happy-I love you-I miss you already something that’s intimidating in its intensity.
“Hey,” Chris says, and he’s walking forward, his mouth curling up into a smile, because despite everything, this is Howie, and it feels like he’s loved him forever.
“I’ve missed you.” Howie is warmth and comfort and gentle strength. They fit perfectly, they always have, Howie’s arms around Chris’ waist, his hair brushing against Chris’ cheek. Just like that things are easy, like they’ve been minutes apart and not months.
“I’ve been busy,” Chris says, and he can feel the silent approval, that this time that’s the truth and busy isn’t a code word for partying his life away.
“I know, I’ve seen.” Howie’s still smiling but there’s a set to his shoulders and his eyes are narrowed just enough to show he’s pissed about something, some slight he’s seen, but Chris has spent months dealing with those problems and he distracts Howie in the easiest way he knows.
He wraps his hand in Howie’s shirt, holding on and pulling him in so they’re pressed even tighter. Free hand against Howie’s back, Chris leans in for a kiss, slow at first, reclaiming old ground with lazy swipes of his tongue. The something in his chest expands, becoming more want at the feel of Howie’s tongue against his own, the sting as his bottom lip is nipped then soothed, and the kiss is speeding up. It becomes faster, deeper, and if this were a song it would be harmonising notes based on a solid speeding beat.
It’s a song that leaves Chris breathless, and Howie’s mouth is open, his eyes glinting when they step apart.
“You’re getting married.” It wasn’t what Chris planned to say. Not yet. He planned time in bed, time to talk, because it’s been years. College and then fame, and they’ve been together all the while. Never totally, but the love was always there. Shown with frequent meetings and a beach hut that shares their names.
“I am.”
Howie’s still smiling, softer now and Chris knows him. Knows that while Howie can and has loved two people, it’s finally time to step away.
“I love you.”
“I know,” Howie says, and he steps forward, putting himself between Chris and the door. “Stay. For tonight. For me.”
Chris does, vowing to himself he’ll leave the next day.
