Alphabet meme ficlets 2/2

[turps]

Z is there btw, I just can't get it to show in the cut text for some reason. I fail. It's Chris/Justin, z is for zill.


M is for Manicures, Brian/Kevin nopseud

"I'm just saying, a good manicure is essential," Kevin says, wiggling his fingers in front of Brian's nose. "They need to be smooth, because snagging isn't fun for anyone."

Brian frowns and moves back a little. "Seriously, Kev, I know this..."

"What you need to do is a test, your bottom lip's close." Demonstrating, Kevin runs his finger nails over his own bottom lip. Left to right, then raises an eyebrow when all Brian does is look. "Come on, cuz, this is basic ass play etiquette, you have to get with the programme."

"First. I never want to hear you mention ass play etiquette again. Second. My nails are fine. Third. I hope you're going to pay for my therapy because I'm now scarred for life."

Kevin shrugs. "You can afford it." He taps his fingers against the bed, and fixes his expression into the patented Kevin Richardson expression of understanding ^TM. I think this is a sign. If you can't talk about ass sex you shouldn't do ass sex."

Resisting the urge to adopt his own 'my cousin is a moron ^TM expression, Brian takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. "For your information, that horse has bolted, the stable door is shut, locked and triple secured."

"Do I need to have a talk with someone?"

"What?" Confused, Brian thinks back on their conversation. "Who would you need to talk to?"

"The person who took your ass virginity of course," Kevin says, and when Brian is gaping at him he grabs hold of Brain's hand, examining his nails. "I knew it, you've got rough edges."

Brian's reply is more a high pitched squeak than any actual words. Kevin nods and smiles.

"It's okay, I can fix it." Still holding onto Brian's hand, Kevin reaches for his bag. One handed he rummages inside and pulls out a small wash bag. Unzipping it with his mouth he takes out a selection of condoms, a small bottle of lube, wet wipes and a packet of nail files, each one pink with yellow flowers. "My ass play bag, I never leave home without it." Snapping off a file he looks intently at Brian's nails, says. "Once we've done this I'll help you assemble your own. I think I've some spare anal beads."

All Brian can do is whimper




N is for Nigels 11, TrickC musiclover03


It's strange, just the two of them. The sound of the ocean, a solitary kite high overhead, dipping and swooping in the breeze. JC squints his eyes, follows the faint line of the string to the small boy that holds it, looking to the sky and laughing as he runs across the sand.

"Does it feel different," JC asks. He turns back to Chris, looks at him across the table -- half empty glasses of water, a sandwich ripped apart on a plate.

"You need to be more specific," Chris says, his expression set behind his sunglasses, the lenses large and dark, covering half of his face.

JC bites back his irritation, refusing to play this particular game. "Performing with Nigels 11."

"I'm still singing, just not at the back." Chris picks up his glass and takes a long drink, sets it back down and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's not a big deal."

"Saying that doesn't make it true." A flash of colour in the sky and JC looks up, sees the kite plummeting toward the ground. The boy starts winding the string, walking slowly forward. The tail of the kite flutters, wanting to be free of the sand.

"It does if it's the truth."

The boy picks up his kite and holds it in the air. He begins to run. JC keeps watching, says, "It should matter."

"I never said it didn't," Chris says. "I said the differences aren't a big deal."

JC shades his eyes against the sun. "You sound good as a front man."

"I know." Chris grins, then says hesitantly, "Some things do feel different."

"Yeah?"

"Not the singing, I'd do that anywhere." Chris takes off his sunglasses and hooks them over his t-shirt. "The guys are awesome, the best, but...."

"They're not the band you need," JC finishes, his stomach twisting as Chris doesn't reply, just stands.

"Do you know how to fly kites?"

"Sort of," JC says, standing too. "You hold it up and run, yeah?"

"I guess." Chris looks toward the beach, at the kite flying high in the sky. "Want to find out?"

JC smiles, says, "Sure."




O is for Oral Ray/Bob paperdollkisses


Bob was watching TV the first time Ray walked into the room and dropped to his knees. It was some kind of clip show, people falling from roofs or into the sea and Bob was feeling good, his face aching with laughter. He kept laughing when Ray went down, thinking that somehow he'd fallen. He hadn't, the move had been deliberate and Ray knee-walked forward, put his hands on Bob's thighs and said, Please.

Bob didn't know what he wanted, not at first. It wasn't something they did. They talked about music and TV shows and hung together when all around them the rest of the band seemed to be losing their minds.

Ray said, "I want, let me suck you. I'll make it worth your while."

And Bob had said yes, had slid down his pants and slumped down. Had curled his fingers against the cushions as Ray licked his lips, nodded once then bent down.

He'd been good. Better than good.

They never talked about it again.


Until the next time.

When Mikey was gone and everything around them felt unsteady and wrong.

Bob had been lying in his room, on the comfortable bed with his things around him, the door to the bathroom open, his own version of showing he wasn't afraid.

Ray had walked into the room, shut the door behind him and said, please as he dropped to his knees.

Bob tried to say no, but was helpless when faced with such obvious need.

That time Bob had sat on the side of the bed. His pants around his ankles, his fingers tangled in Ray's hair.

When they were done Bob had tried to say, stay, Ray was already leaving before he finished the word.


The third time and Ray was about to get married.

He was happy, humming under his breath as he walked through the bus, through venues and onto the stage.

He came to Bob after the show, sweat soaked and buzzing, retaining the energy of the crowd.

Ray had slammed the door behind him, pulled across the lock and then stalked towards Bob, intent obvious as he dropped to his knees, said please.

Backed against a wall, Bob had kept looking forward, had breathed hard, his fingers pressed against cold concrete.

After, when Ray had stood, Bob had said why?

He hadn't expected a reply, but Ray had pressed his lips against Bob's, pulled back and said, Think of it as a goodbye.



P is for: P is for Pot, Frank/Ray. maryangel200

Frank heads into the utility room and grabs his bong, the cheap one that reminds him of countless nights back in Jersey, too many people crowded in too small of a room. Other supplies next and over the years his mental list has been perfected so it doesn't take long to gather a lighter, the good weed, a huge assortment of munchable snacks. He piles everything on the low coffee table, pushing aside Jamia's magazines and a well-chewed dog toy, the rope wet through with spit.

The packet of Cheetos falls to the ground and immediately Mikey grabs the bag, pulling it open and taking a handful of the chips. Orange dust falls on his t-shirt and he tries to wipe it off while trying to fend off Bob who's intent on taking the bag. In the end he grabs it from Mikey's hand, looking victorious as he tucks it between his knees.

"Chip stealing bastard," Mikey says, but he's leaning back against the sofa, looking amused as Frank packs the bowl and takes the first hit.

He's done this hundreds of times now and he can never predict the results. It's part of the process that Frank loves and he inhales, drawing the smoke into his lungs and keeping it there until he exhales with a long breath. Eyelids heavy, Frank leans against the table, watching as Ray moves forward, ready to take his own hit. Frank blinks, chin propped on his hand and tilts his head, needing the perfect angle to see, because Ray's mouth always looks fucking obscene.

"Jesus fuck, could we do this once without the commentary about Ray's cock sucking lips?" Bob says, and waves his hand in front of Frank's face. "Quit it."

"You're just jealous," Frank says, torn between watching Ray and the way Bob's fingers sail through the air, like a bunch of pale sausages in free flight.

"Yeah, that's it exactly," Bob says, and moves forward as Ray sits back, last wisps of smoke escaping his mouth.

"That is so fucking hot." Frank launches himself forward and grabs hold of Ray's shoulders, holding on as he presses their mouths together -- hard. Ray's mouth tastes of smoke, the distinct taste of weed, and Frank needs more, runs his tongue over Ray's bottom lip and pushes into his mouth before pulling back slightly. "So fucking hot."

"Are you done?" Bob asks, looking between Frank and the window.

Frank squirms until he's sitting in Ray's lap, says, "For now," already giggling at the feel of Ray's laughter and the gust of breath close to his ear.

"Good," Bob says, and looks over his shoulder toward the front door. "You locked it, right?"

"I did." Frank leans back against Ray, feeling heavy and sleepy, looks up and says, "You have amazing lips."

Ray beams, his teeth white and his lips amazing. "Thank you," and presses a kiss against the top of Frank's head as the watch Mikey crawl to the table.




Q is for Quilt, Bob/Mikey. arsenicjade

Disobeying a guard is strictly forbidden, the inevitable result a beat-down with fists and sticks.

Mikey knows that, he's knows, but there's no way he can keep watching as the kid is beaten within an inch of his life. Already he's watched too many people die, from starvation and illness and ill treatment, Mikey can't see that happen again. It's why he jumps forward, screaming obscenities as he charges the guard who stands over the kid, hand raised for one final brutal blow.

Not that the guard goes down, there's no way he would, Mikey knew that too. But that's fine, because as he's forced to the ground Mikey sees the kid's friends pick him up and hide him away. Which makes it worthwhile, even as he gasps from the first vicious hit. A fist to his jaw, a boot to his side, a dark blur as a stick flashes past his face and impacts against his collar-bone with a dull thud of sound.

Mikey gags then, fights for breath against the pain in his chest, the blood that trickles down his throat. Whimpering, face pressed against the dirt, a knee against his spine and his arms forced up and back, blackness crowding in as he hears a shout and sees Gerard attempt to run forward, but be held back by Ray and Frank.

Mikey's glad about that, this is his stand, his punishment to take.

~~~

Usually punishment is swift and brutal, this time they're making a point.

Mikey's held up by two guards, their fingers digging cruelly into the muscles of his arms as another snaps thick metal bracelets around both wrists. Chains hang from both, heavy and swaying as Mikey's dragged forward, his feet leaving furrows in the dirt. He's taken to the center of camp, where the ground has been turned over and a tall pole erected, a metal ring hammered in high overhead -- Gerard's nearby, deathly white, a spade lying on the ground to his side. The perfect sadistic touch.

Grabbing the chains, a guard feeds them through the ring, tugs hard until Mikey's arms are pulled up over his head, and keeps tugging, until Mikey's on his tip toes only and he feels like he's being split into pieces, his bones separated, his muscles torn. Tears flow down his face as he frantically tries for purchase, panic rearing as the guards laugh as they secure the chains, then walk away, leaving Mikey to fight and scream and finally still.

Gerard keeps watch until nightfall, then he's forced away, leaving with a mouthed I'm sorry.

He doesn't come back, nobody does and the loneliness is maybe the worst of all, when all Mikey can do is listen to the frantic beat of his heart and his own ragged breath. The clatter of his teeth as the moon rises and the icy winds whip up the dirt. It's then it would be easy to give up, when he's so cold, so done, but Mikey doesn't. He keeps on breathing, keeps on living, until finally, when the sky is blushed pink, someone appears between the huts and strides forward.

Mikey tries to tell Bob to go, forcing slurred words, but Bob keeps on coming, anger apparent in the set of his shoulders and the way he walks, like he's itching to take somebody apart.

"You're an idiot," Bob says when he's close, anger replaced by gentle concern. "You don't take on the guards like that." He reaches up and starts to unfasten the chains, shaking his head when Mikey tries to protest. "They said I could, probably worried about their fucking numbers."

His arms being lowered hurts worse than anything he's felt before and Mikey's sobbing as Bob holds on and then sits, pulling Mikey into his own lap.

"You have to stay here for now, they said a day in chains, but at least you're down." Bob's running his hand over Mikey's back, his touch gentle. "Gee's going frantic, we all were. You shouldn't have done it."

Mikey shakes his head then, the tiniest of movement because he's got no regrets, and Bob needs to know that.

"Brave bastard," Bob says, and cradles Mikey as much as he can, his body used as a human quilt. He presses a kiss to Mikey's forehead. "Next time warn us, we'll have your back."

"Promise," Mikey says, and he knows Bob hears the lie, but he says nothing, just holds on, silent as the sun rises and the camp begins to wake.




R is for: R is for Right, Justin&Chris for indicinderelly

"I want to go back to my room," Justin says, attempting to get back inside.

"I'm not letting you back in, J," Chris says, physically blocking the door. "You haven't been outside in weeks, you look like a ghost."

Justin waves his stump, the empty sleeve of his t-shirt flapping. "Would you go out if you looked like this? At least I can cover my eye, this, this makes me look like a freak!"

"You don't look like a freak. You just look like Justin,"

"How can you say that?!" Tearing off his sunglasses, Justin throws them to the ground "I've only got one eye, one arm, I'm not Justin anymore, I'm half a Justin!"

"Technically you'd need to lose a leg to be half a Justin," Lance says, appearing from inside, a basketball tucked under his arm. even then it wouldn't be completely a half. Maybe if you lost a ball."

"Haven't I lost enough!?" Shaking, Justin presses his hand against his face, trying to hide his tears.

"There's no need to be upset," Lance says, and steps forward, patting Justin's back. "You know what'll make you feel better? A little game of one on one."

"Are you kidding?" Justin looks up, his eye rimmed with red. "JC's missing presumed dead, I've lost my right arm and you want me to play ball?"

"Don't forget your eye," Lance says, and bounces the ball on the ground. "You always said you could beat me one-handed."

"That...that's... no." Deathly white, Justin backs away, unable to look away from the ball that Lance keeps bouncing. "I need to go inside. Now."

Justin runs.




S is for Snuggling (Patd), Brendon - the band castalie

"More clothes came in yesterday," Mikey says. He holds up his hands, strings of cookie dough falling from his fingers into the orange-striped bowl. "I saw hoodies."

Brendon puts down his pen, lying it on top of his open math book. "I like this one."

"It's a good hoodie," Mikey agrees, shaking his hands slightly as he tries to dislodge the dough. "I saw one with silvery bits."

"I don't... I mean..."

"Are you talking about that sweet hoodie?" Pete's carrying a stack of files and he drops them onto the table, making the pages of Brendon's book flutter. "It was made for you, B."

"It was," Mikey says, and he's about to wipe his hands on a dish cloth when Pete jumps forward.

"Stop!"

Brendon makes his escape before he has to see Pete suck Mikey's fingers -- again.

~~~~

Brendon likes the storage room. All the racks of clothes and supplies are reminders that somewhere other people care. What he hates is the full length mirror that's mounted on the back wall. He keeps away from that, his back turned as he rummages through the new clothes.

It doesn't take long to find the hoodie Mikey means. It's a creamy white with streaks of shining silver on the pocket, but best of all it's soft, and Brendon rests it against his cheek, breathing in the scent of detergent.

"It's very you," Ryan says, appearing in the doorway. It's no surprise that he's there -- that all of them are there -- and if Brendon's honest with himself, he breathes a little easier when they are.

"Mikey seems to think I need more clothes."

"He's right." Spencer walks into the room, pushing past Ryan with a bump of his hip. "I like it. You should try it on."

Brendon shrugs and pulls off the hoodie he's wearing, folding it up and placing it on a shelf before pulling on the new. It's slightly too big, the sleeves almost concealing the silvery scars on his palms. He strikes a pose, arms outstretched, says, "What do you think?"

"It looks good," Ryan says. He takes hold of Brendon's arm, holding on gently. "Come see for yourself."

He starts to lead Brendon toward the mirror, but Brendon hangs back, pulling on his best smile. "No, no. I'll take your word for it. C'mon, I've homework to finish."

"You need to see," Spencer says, taking a step so he's behind Brendon. Not close enough to trap, but enough Brendon knows he's there.

It's that freedom that gives Brendon the strength to finally say, "Okay."

He walks to the mirror and looks up -- and this time he keeps looking, at Spencer, Ryan and Jon who have all moved in close, at his back and each side, his own solid band of support.

At that moment, Brendon feels safe.




"T is for: Tea, Howie/Nick for ravenbat

"I bought you something," Nick says. He shifts awkwardly in place, his hands behind his back. "It's not much, just, I saw, and I thought..."

"Thank you," Howie says.

"You don't even know what it is." Nick frowns slightly. "What if I'd like, bought you a rubber snake?"

"It would still be a gift from you, I'd say thanks."

"Even if it's something you didn't want?" Nick asks, remembering pushed aside gifts and perfunctory smiles.

"Even then." Howie holds out his hand. "Well, do I have to wait all day?"

Nick brings around his hand, displaying a small blue box. "I was going to that shop we saw, you know, the one with the cool computer games and there was this tea shop. It had, like, all these loose teas and I know you like it."

"I do," Howie says, smiling as he takes the box. He pulls back the sticker that secures the paper, unwrapping it to look inside. "It smells delicious."

"I don't know if it's the right kind, they said it was a popular blend, but if you don't like I can take it back, it's no problem...."

"Nick," Howie interrupts. "It's perfect."



U is for: U is for Unrequited Bob/Lance. from Bob's POV. msktrnanny

"I don't understand the attraction," Frank says, thumping onto the sofa, making Bob grab for his laptop before it slides off his knee onto the floor. "You've met him once and he brushed you off."

"It wasn't a brush-off." Bob jabs his finger at a button, minimizing the screen of Google image results. "He was perfectly polite."

"Oh, right, I forgot, he had to go back to his 'friends'." Frank turns, sitting sideways, one foot jammed against Bob's thigh. "His friends, the assholes who hang around hoping for second hand fame, and it's not like he's even that famous. C level at best."

"Frank, shut up. You weren't there."

"I didn't have to be." Frank scowls, says. "Ray told me all about it, fucking boyband has been, he wouldn't know a good thing if it bit him."

"Seriously, stop." Bob shuts his laptop and sets it safely to one side. "I liked him."

"But he didn't like you."

Bob shrugs. "I'm a big boy, I know everyone in the world doesn't like me."

"Well they should." Frank stands, glaring down at Bob, before turning and stalking away. "Lance fucking Bass, he'd be so lucky."

Bob watches him go, listens to the sound of his footsteps and the slam of a door, then picks up his laptop again.



V is for Vacation, Mikey/Pete abelbell

petewentz: sleeping at the speed of light: i am right here and you miles behind.

"I don't know what I'm running from," Pete says. He tucks up his legs, knees jammed against the dashboard, feeling the warmth of the plastic through the holes in his jeans. He cups his hand over his phone, shading the screen as he types.

"Life, maybe," Mikey suggests. He's driving one handed as he tunes the radio, looking for a station that's more than static and random hissed words.

Pete thinks about that as he watches the way the wind catches Mikey's hair, the way his sunglasses cast shadows under his eyes. Finally he says, "I don't think so."

Mikey shrugs and turns off the radio, the silence abrupt. "Piece of shit rental."

"We'll exchange it in the next town." Pete wiggles his toes inside his sneakers, curling them against the damp of his socks. "I know what I'm running too."

Mikey rubs at the side of his nose, keeps looking forward as he says, "Yeah."

Pete closes his eyes. "I'm running to you."



mikeyway: @gerardway: At shitatstic motel. Trading in piece of shit car tomorrow. I'm so... I have no idea.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Mikey says. He sets his phone on the small table, next to his wallet and a handful of change, then toes off his shoes. He kicks them to one side and lifts up his feet, sits cross legged on the bed

"Does anyone?" Pete says. He's kneeling on the floor, rummaging through his open bag, leaning forward so his hair falls into his face.

Mikey wants to push it back, run his fingers along Pete's cheekbones and down to his mouth. He doesn't know if he's lost that right. "You called."

Pete looks up, his expression guarded. "You came."

"I couldn't not," Mikey admits. He takes hold of the the comforter and tugs it down, exposing the white sheets. "Sleep with me? Just sleep."

Pete stands and unfastens his belt, pushes his jeans to the floor and climbs into bed. Boxers and t-shirt damp, clinging in spots to his skin.

Mikey lies down too, rests his hand on Pete's chest, says, "I've missed you."




petewentz: memories: part pain part love. mix together and wait for the new to bloom.

"You could go, I'd understand," Pete says. He pushes his phone in his pocket and sets his bag in the truck, leans against the hot metal of the car as he waits. The dust swirls around his feet and his eyes water due to dryness and sun.

"I should go home," Mikey says. He's got his bag over one shoulder and is standing with his hip cocked to one side, the wind causing his t-shirt to flap at the hem, exposing skin.

Pete remembers touching Mikey's stomach, with fingers and tongue. Long days and longer nights and the loss is a physical ache. "I won't stop you."

Mikey drops his bag, straightens as if ready to do battle. "What if I want you to?"

"I'd be terrified," Pete says. He rubs at his face, his skin gritty with dust, looks at Mikey and remembers love and heartbreak and weary acceptance. "I can't lose you again."

Mikey waits a long moment, his every thought there to see, then he picks up his bag and drops it in the trunk, says, "You won't."

Pete reaches out, wraps his arms around Mikey and holds on, says, "Stay."



W is for wanking Frank/Gerard greedy_dancer

Gerard grabs his sketch book and a handful of pens. He's thought about this all day, imagining angles and backgrounds, but now he feels nervous and a pen slips from his hand, clattering against the ground.

"Relax, Gee," Frank says. He's toes off his sneakers and pulls off his t-shirt, the light burnishing his skin, the dark lines of his ink surrounded by gold. "It's nothing new, you've seen it all before."

"Not like this," Gerard says, but Frank's nonchalance is relaxing, like this really is something they do every day. Gerard sits, cross legged on the floor. "Can you, your jeans, can you leave them on? Just sort of down your thighs."

Frank smiles, says, "Sure." He unfastens his belt, threading leather through the metal buckle and then pops open each button, putting on a show.

Gerard smiles in return, dips his head and clicks off the lid of a pen, opens his sketch book to a new page. "If you could, just lie back and do like always."

"Yeah?" Slowly, Frank pushes down his jeans, stopping at mid-thigh, then sits on the sofa, slouched back, head, spine and legs in an elongated arc. Already he's half hard, and he lazily runs his hand over his dick, watching Gerard all of the time. "You going to talk dirty to me? Urge me on."

Gerard's attention torn is torn, between the curve on the page and the way Frank licks down his own palm, slow and obvious. Gerard swallows, says, "I guess. What do you want me to say?"

Frank laughs and turns slightly, putting himself on display. "How about how much you want me? How you want to fuck me hard and make me scream."

"But you know all that," Gerard says, memories of Frank beneath him, mouth open and gasping for breath, blending with what he actually sees.

"So tell me again."

"I want to fuck you. I want to... erm..." Gerard trails off, caught by contrast between Frank's fingers and his dick, the bright of his tattoos against skin. He keeps watching, licks across his lips as he watches the drag of Frank's thumb, how he's causing ripples of skin that roll from base to tip. Pen tip digging into the paper, Gerard sees the slick surface, moisture beading as Frank slides his hand over the head of his dick.

"Gee, you stopped."

"Sorry, sorry." Gerard looks up, takes in how Frank's beginning to breathe hard, how his stomach moves slightly, his chest, the dips and shadows of his collar bone and the way Frank has his mouth slightly open, his cheeks slightly flushed. "It's just, fuck you're beautiful."

"And you suck at dirty talk," Frank says, but he still digs his heels into the cushions, bracing himself as he steps up the pace and Gerard can barely keep sketching, has to force himself to keep going as he tries to capture the way Frank tilts back his head. How his eyes flutter shut as he runs his hand over his chest and pinches his own nipples, one then the other before going back down, hand splayed against his stomach.

Gerard tries to capture it all, the subtle difference in shade between Frank's hands and his body, the curve of his hand against his pubes, lines and angles and as much as he tries there's no way he can capture it all. He gives up trying, drops the sketch book and pen and crawls over the floor, kneels up and braces his hands either side of Frank's head and leans in, sharing the same breath.

Frank clutches at Gerard's back and holds on with one hand, gasps when Gerard says, "Come."

Frank does.



X is for xylophone! Bob/Spencer. themoononastick

"It's a xylophone," Spencer says, and bangs the stick against one of the bars, wanting to emphasis his disgust. Except this is a fucking xylophone and they don't do emphasis, all they do is a stupid ringing note that seem to go on and on and on. "You get to drum and I get this."

"There's only room for one kit," Bob says, obviously not caring about Spencer's xylophone induced pain. "If you're that bothered go bitch at Ryan, he's the one who wanted this collaboration."

"At least you're not stuck with a fucking tambourine, again." Mikey trudges past, a tambourine held loosely in one hand. "Every time, every fucking time. Give Mikey the tambourine. It's not like he plays anything else."

Spencer rests his stick -- beater -- whatever, against the bars of the xylophone, watching as Mikey settles himself on a riser, dejection seeming to roll from him in waves. "He must really hate the tambourine."

"He'll get over it," Bob says shortly, as if he doesn't keep glancing over while adjusting his kit. "And it looks like he's going to get help."

Spencer follows Bob's gaze and sees Brendon, who's carrying his own tambourine, which, unlike Mikey's, has trailing red ribbons attached to one side. "Brendon loves the tambourine."

"Yeah?" Bob watches as Brendon sits next to Mikey and immediately starts talking, each hand gesture accompanied by a chink of sound.

Spencer watches too, only turning away when Mikey smiles, more Ryan style than anything, but still, it's there.

"You know, evidence to the contrary, Mikey's quite capable of holding a conversation."

Which is something Spencer knows, it's just, Brendon. Spencer's not about to stand by and watch him get mocked or crushed by anyone, no matter how harmless they seem.

"He's not an asshole either, relax."

"I am," Spencer says, and makes a conscious effort to stop watching, turning his attention to Bob. "I'm the most relaxed fucking xylophone player in the world," and to prove it, Spencer plays a forceful tune, more random notes than any actual song.

"Impressive," Bob says, and picks up the rhythm, beating it out on his drums. "You should show Ross, xylophones can be Panic's next big concept."

"Fuck you," Spencer says sweetly, taking Bob's rhythm and making it more, faster, his hands a blur as he beats at the bars.

Bob stops playing with one last crash of sound, hands and sticks held on top of his drum. "Pity, you look good playing that."

"If you mean stupid, yeah." Spencer puts down his own sticks. "If you like them so much you should have them, let me play drums."

"In your dreams," Bob says, and he slides out from behind his kit. "How about I take you for coffee instead? If we go now we'll tragically miss the wardrobe meeting."

"That is tragic," Spencer says. "Almost as much as you using me as an excuse for an escape."

"Partially," Bob agrees, and he steps closer and rests his hand against Spencer's arm, the briefest of touch. "Mostly it's me making a move."

"That's forward of you." Spencer smiles, says, "Let's go."



Y is for yell Brendon and Mikey

Most nights Brendon wakes with nightmares, painful memories making themselves know while he's defenseless in sleep. Each time he wakes yelling, more screams caught in his throat and his heart thumping, then lies still, breathing slowly as he listens to immediate murmured reassurances. His friends announcing their intentions before they reach out, Jon's hand against Brendon's back, Ryan a ghostly shape in the dark as Spencer pushes Brendon's damp bangs from his eyes.

Usually that's enough, the knowledge that he's safe allowing Brendon to slip back into sleep, but sometimes, it's not. It can't be. Those nights Brendon's body aches, real and remembered hurts pressing in until it's impossible to lie still.

It's one of those nights tonight, and Brendon whispers reassurances as he slides out of the cot, says softly, it's okay, stay, as Ryan starts to push back the covers. For a moment it looks like he's going to refuse, but finally Ryan nods once and settles back down, keeping watch as Brendon leaves the room.

For once Clan House is silent, and Brendon can hear the pad of his own footsteps -- bare feet against the wooden floor as he walks along the corridor and downstairs. There's a light on in the kitchen, which is no surprise, most nights there's someone up and Brendon knows he'll be welcomed, given a hot drink and a listening ear. Except, when he steps into the kitchen Mikey doesn't acknowledge him at all.

Mikey's sitting, elbow on the table and resting his head against his hand. His glasses are set next to a mug of what looks like cold coffee and he's got his eyes closed, lashes dark against the pale of his skin. He looks like he's sleeping and Brendon's about to turn away when Mikey opens his eyes, says, "Hi."

"I was just. I could go," Brendon says, unsure what to do, because Mikey looks exhausted, worn down, but that isn't Brendon's thing to notice never mind say.

"No, stay." Mikey rubs at his eyes with his fisted hands and starts to stand, slowly, like each movement is taking all the effort he has to give. "Do you want painkillers? Or I could make tea."

Brendon worries at his bottom lip with his teeth before making a decision, because maybe he's not supposed to notice, but he has, and Brendon's tired of people ignoring what's so obviously there. "I can make awesome hot chocolate."

"Yeah?" Mikey says. "I like hot chocolate."

Brendon nods and looks toward the stove, says hesitantly. "I could make you some."

Mikey sits, says, "Thank you."

It's been months since Brendon's made hot chocolate and he takes each step carefully, measuring out milk and pouring it into one of the bright red pans. Setting it on the stove he lights the gas, crouching so he can adjust the flame then sets out two mugs -- one covered in tiny bats, the other singing green frogs.

"Nightmares again?"

Brendon turns and sees Mikey's watching, his exhaustion replaced by careful attention, and maybe if Brendon hadn't already seen he'd have missed the signs, but he has, and he sees the way Mikey's nails are bitten right down, how his eyes are shadowed by more than flakes of old make-up. It's why Brendon takes the chance, says, "Is everything okay?"

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" Mikey says, and he smiles slightly, which is enough to show Brendon how right he was to ask, because Brendon knows false smiles, and this one is revealing more than it could ever hope to conceal.

Turning back to the milk, Brendon stirs it once then turns back, says, "People keep telling me I should talk, but I can listen too."

Mikey looks, nods slightly but he doesn't speak, not for a long time, then he takes a deep breath, says, "I know Gee told you about his past, I've got my own stories too...."




Z is for: z is for zill chris/justin kira_j

"You're really doing this?" Chris asks. He picks up the zills, slipping them onto his fingers. "You're seriously going to walk out of here looking like that?"

"I'm embracing cultural and gender differences," Justin says.

"You're dressing up in skirt and jeweled bra,'" Chris says. "The only difference being celebrated is the fact you're cracked in the head."

"It's a traditional costume." Justin says. "One that shows I have an appreciation for all of our fans."

"Because singing and dancing for them isn't appreciation enough." Chris chimes the zills, watching as Justin stuffs his Jewelled bra with socks. "That sure looks natural."

"Fuck you," Justin says. He rearranges a sock and pulls at the material of the bra, tugging his fake breasts into place. "It's not like anyone will be getting up close."

"No shit," Chris says. "When they see you coming dressed like that they'll run a mile."

Justin frowns and holds out his skirt, swishing it around his hips as he tests the staying power of his boobs. Satisfied, he shimmies and attempts to move his stomach like he'd seen in the video.

"This has to be one of the most ridiculous things I've seen," Chris says. He's tilted his head to one side, keeps watching as Justin dances across the room. "You could have dressed as a male belly dancer, I'm sure they have them."

"But I wouldn't be embracing my femininity then," Justin says.

"Believe me, you're not doing that now," Chris points out. "You're Justin Timberlake in a skirt, and that's fucking disturbing."

"I like it," Justin says with a fierce shimmie. He looks at Chris, making direct eye contact. "I can also do this..."

"Oh," Chris says. His voice rising when Justin hitches up his skirt and sits on Chris' lap.

Justin leans forward and whispers in Chris' ear. "I'm not wearing underwear."

"Slut," Chris says, and slides his hands over Justin's thighs. "What time's your party start?"

Justin nips Chris' ear lobe, says, "What party?"