goshdarnspam | (no subject)

I think that depends on how much you drank, pal.

[ Because it's easier to pretend this didn't happen than anything else. And don't think I didn't see that tag there.

He leans against the car, not giving a shit about the filth. ]

You had way too much. Do we need someone to take the car?

Probably. I can drive, but we'd be in trouble if I got pulled over.

[ Everything's normal. Everything's fine. Shit he admits to himself in the privacy of his head when he's spent too much time alone doesn't matter.

Maybe if he tells himself that enough, he'll believe it. ]

Just ... call a cab home, pal. I'll get the car back in the morning. [ Also, spending time in an enclosed space with Mitch pretending everything is okay seems just about the worst idea right now. ]

[ He should leave him. He really should. Just. Go home, and pretend this didn't happen. That's the safe, the logical thing to do. He could have a cab swing by, and get him, and none would be the wiser. But... even if he can't say it, because goddammit, he can barely admit it to himself without the threat of death over his head (or a drunken night that he knows Rick won't remember because he's painfully incoherent as it is) he just can't leave him.

Maybe it's his way of showing him that he cares, after a fashion. He can't speak it, he can never admit to it, but he can do something small for his friend. Because it's a way of showing it, without actually... showing him. Subtle in his actions, and forever veiled behind a wall of subtext, he puts his hand on the car door. ]

UNLOCK. Come on. You're in a worse place than I am, let's get you home first.

[ Mitchell Hundred is the most terrible excuse for a human being Bradbury knows.

He decides this is a fact, with uncharacteristic vindictiveness and a startling clarity for the current concentration of alcohol in his blood. His hand rests on the edge of the open window, as if that might somehow keep Mitch from actually opening the door; if he does so now, in fact, Bradbury's likely to fall right out. The radio's still going softly in the background - all my instincts, they return, and the grand facade, so soon will burn - but he doesn't pay it any attention. ]

You don't need to do this. [ Stating a fact, or a question, or maybe just reminding Mitch what they are. He leans against the door a little. It's a cold night out. Mitch should be home. ]

Edited 2012-10-09 06:09 (UTC)

I know.

[ He opens the door, giving him a look. One of those, "you're drunk and being stupid" looks. ]

Come on, you're not sleeping in the car, you might fucking blow chunks in it.

[ Wow, that's not exactly sexy, is it? He shook his head, tugging on the door. ]

[ He starts to roll his eyes, winces, and stops.

Thanks, asshole. [ But he lets Mitch get the door open (though they'll have to roll up the window, he thinks distantly, well, Mitch can just tell the damn car to lock itself, can't he?) and manages not to fall out. The coffee cup and his suit jacket get left behind, and he hauls himself to his feet, then leans against the car waiting for the vertigo to wear off.

Other people are lucky enough to lose any sense of what's going on when they're intoxicated; Bradbury wishes he was one of them. ]

Satisfied?

[ He not only tells the car to lock itself, but also roll up the window, and he pulls the keys from the ignition after shutting it off via his green-tinted voice. He pauses for a moment, reaching out to clasp Rick on the shoulder with a familiar friendliness.

It's a clumsy attempt at being his friend, he knows. It's really all he can offer right now. He just hopes Rick can hold off from this shit for a while longer. After an awkward pat, he pulls out his cellphone. ]

Let me call a cab.

Yeah, okay. [ He doesn't react much to the hand on his shoulder, because really, what can he say? Sorry for the awkward drunken confession, man, I don't know what got into me?

Apologizing for something that's true is stupid, anyway. He starts to reach for his cigarettes, then remembers that he left them in the car, and ends up just crossing his arms and shutting his eyes. ]

[ He steps aside, calling one of the cab companies. He doesn't know which one, he just gets one out here, pronto. He doesn't really know what else to say, but he's not going to exactly leave him until he sees him in a cab.

Wow, he really is a great friend, Rick. Just remember this. It's not like he just spurred you because of his political aspirations and no other reason, right? It's not like he's pretending he doesn't care with his mouth, but still trying to show you that he's your best friend forever by getting you a cab to take you home in. ]

There, it'll be a few. Your head starting to clear?

Mm. [ He murmurs a vague affirmative. He understands, vaguely, that this is supposed to be the gentle letdown, the let's just be friends talk that he's been on the receiving end of more times than he cares to remember.

Mitch is being particularly confusing right now, though, and with a little less alcohol in his body, it's worse. Rick can think more clearly than he wants to, go over that awful five seconds two hours earlier and pick the moment apart again and again in his head. Seriously, he's being way too nice about this, and Rick's sure what the fuck he's supposed to take from that. ]

Well, at least you're going back to your native tongue of grunts.

[ He's trying so hard to keep the banter up. Right now, he really, really wants to get home, take a blunt, and just forget this happened, but maybe a part of him is too fucking nice. No, that's not it. It's the fact that he feels like shit.

So he just waits, shoving his slightly cold hands in his pockets while he considers how to handle this. How to preserve loyalty without being a fucking moron. Not admitting the same was the first step, it seemed. His jaw was intact.

Baby steps. ]

Come on, pal, speak up. You need to be conscious enough to give them your address, I don't even fucking know where you live. [ Not true, but he needed to erect a barrier between them, however small and weak it was. ]

[ His eyes are half-lidded, but he's watching Mitch from under his lashes. It's not... forward planning isn't his strong suit, not really, and Mitch has always been difficult to read. His shirt sleeves are a bit shorter than they should be, exposing his wrists to the cold - yeah, taking off his jacket wasn't the smartest move, but it had seemed a lot better in the car - and he shivers a little as the wind picks up, fingers spreading against the surface of the car. ]

M'fine. [ The words are still a little slurred, but that's calculated, now, and his heart's beating faster in his chest, ears straining for the sound of a cab pulling up, something to tell him he has his escape route worked out. He's not sure how much longer he has before he does something phenomenally stupid and desperate again. Maybe if he telegraphs get the fuck away from me, this is a bad idea loudly enough, Mitch will listen this time. ]

[ Except Mitch can be incredibly stupid when it comes to cues, especially when they don't agree with what he wants them to be. Right now, he just wants Rick to forget, and pretend this doesn't happen with the quiet desperation of someone trying to forget and pretend themselves. He looks at Rick with all the intensity that his eyes can speak, and he was well known for having one of those gazes that just shot into someone.

He just wished it could speak what he wanted it to. He was looking at him like he'd jump out of his skin, like he'd do something stupid again, but he couldn't just leave him. Not right now, and not while he was vulnerable. It was fucking stupid. Especially while drunk. That was the last thing he needed was an article about his head of security, drunk, proclaiming feelings and all sorts of fucking things on the street. ]

Good. Come on, you want your coffee from the car? I can unlock it.

[ Shit, don't give him that look. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that look? ]

... Sure. [ He shifts his weight uneasily, moving aside - though of course, it's not like Mitch needs him to move to unlock the car, right? ]

[ He doesn't, and he unlocks it from the safe distance of wherever the fuck he's standing, using his voice instead of the keys. Yeah, he knows better than that. He edges on the outside of Rick's vision, watching him with his hands still buried in his pockets, a wind picking up enough to blow his hair about into a mess, flips of it going every which way. ]

There. Hopefully it's still hot.

[ Instead of getting in on the front seat, though, it's the back door Bradbury opens, scooting in out of the wind and dropping unceremoniously onto the seat Mitch usually parks his ass on. He reaches into the front for the coffee, which is more lukewarm than hot right now, but he knocks back a shot before he drops it back into the beverage holder and just sprawls onto his back, legs hanging out the door. Crisis averted.

And now he just doesn't feel inclined to move. ]

Lemme know when the cab's comin' up. [ He says, lazily, arm slung over his eyes. Christ, is it really only a Monday? He feels like he's ready to quit the week. ]

You're in my fucking seat! [ He says it incredulously, watching him for just a few moments for any signs that he should be wary of. Rick was calmed down now, right? The wind blew again (as if perfect for the situation) and Mitch shivered, his coat and pockets not nearly enough protection.

But was he willing to risk it? This could go beyond badly, but he didn't want to be either mug bait (with a drunk bodyguard) or fucking cold. Or the object of his friend's intentions. ]

Move the fuck over, I'm cold too, and you're still in my seat.

[ Seriously, Mitch, learn to shut up and leave a guy in peace with his gay crisis, would you?

Listening to Mitch is a habit he's long past breaking by now, though, and he does kind of look pathetic out in the cold. Bradbury grumbles in protest, but he's already moving, sitting up and sliding his weight over until he's leaning against the far door, as far from Mitch as possible. The door whose window Mitch spends most of their car rides brooding out of. ]

It's a car seat, not your personal princess port-a-potty. [ He rests his head against the glass, feeling the cold bite into his skin; he still slurs the words, but he's conscious of the distance - lack thereof - between them. He's even more aware of how difficult it is to keep himself from closing it, and his hands twitch in his lap, restless. ]

Edited (idek okay) 2012-10-09 10:17 (UTC)

Oh come on, I don't make a habit of shitting up the car. [ He says it, hoisting himself into the normally empty passenger seat, very pointedly remaining as far from Rick as he possibly can. He shuts the door, though. Just in case. He listens for a moment, waiting to hear for the sounds of paparazzi, just in case. He was nothing if not cautious, and just because nothing was happening didn't mean it couldn't be assumed.

He sight in the seat, slumping a little downward, cheeks stinging a bit from the chill wind. Nights were getting colder, and the winds always picked up in the middle of the City, the high rises creating just that sort of environment.

He tapped a finger on his thigh, in time with the closest clock that nobody else could hear. ]

It shouldn't be long, Pal. Then you can get home and sober up proper.

[ With the door shut, the interior lights go out, and all that's left to light the darkness is the streetlight filtering in through the darkly tinted windows. Bradbury grunts a vague affirmative in acknowledgement, but he's studying his own reflection, watching his breath fog up the glass. He feels sober already, though maybe he's not in the best state to judge that either. ]

So this is what it looks like from your side. [ He means the seating arrangement, mostly, but he's not sure what makes him say that. Then he makes the mistake of looking over, and finds himself caught off guard by the way Mitch looks, half-tousled by wind and cheeks flushed.

The next seconds are like watching himself from a distance, in third person, a slow-motion flip of snapshots from someone else's life. First, he's leaning away from the window, second, he's reaching out to close the distance, third, he's turning Mitchell's face towards him (is he confused? angry? his eyes are shut, he won't look), fourth, he's kissing him

He's kissing him, close-mouthed and warm, and that awareness snaps him back to the present like a shock of ice water down his spine. ]

[ It's a half second later that he catches up with what's happening, and it's a half second more before he actually manages to formulate a plan. Somewhere down the road, a streetlight's burst from an overload, and the rest are threatening to follow, before Mitchell gets himself under control long enough to think. It takes all of a moment, and good thing it does, because that shocked moment was all he was going to get, hand lifted off his knee for the briefest moment.

He plants it firmly on Rick's chest, pushing him away, trying to push him away while a litany of curses run through his mind. Everything from Cocksucker to Shit, panic welling up in his chest. Blind and total panic. He didn't know what to do, or how exactly to push him away other than push.

He couldn't--

Motherfucker, this wasn't what he wanted or needed, and no matter how much he was trying to keep his friend close, his fucking bullheaded...whatever it was kept rearing its head in the strangest of ways. Fuck. He couldn't even do anything more than make a dissatisfied grunt, belying the dual-sided conflict that waged on the internal, even while he struggled with the external stimulation. Mitch's hand scrambled for the locked handle for the door, not even thinking about that, he just needed out. ]

[ The impact of the hand against his chest makes him grunt, lips parting against Mitch's mouth. Blindly, one hand comes up to catch it, hold it right where it is - over where his heart's trying to slam its way out of his chest like a bird breaking from a cage suddenly too small to hold it. He's conscious of too much, from the warm flush of mortification on his face that just make Mitch's cheeks feel colder, to all the places they're touching and the places they aren't, the negative space formed by their bodies.

He smells like coffee, and cigarettes, and probably desperation, and oh fuck, oh fuck, he is so fucked. This is wrong, mostly for reasons that have to do with not wanting to fuck up the best thing he's ever had, partly because if this was ever going to happen, this isn't how he would have wanted it to, a moment stolen when no one else is looking.

And he still can't let Mitch go. ]

I'm drunk. [ He mumbles it against Mitch's mouth, like a mantra to ward off the inevitable, a last-ditch effort to disown responsibility for any of this. ] Really. Fucking. Drunk.

[ His breath came out in a series of sharp exhales, sharp and cold from his still cold nose, he was trying to escape in anyway he could. His fingers found the handle, and he tugged, before he remembered the car was locked and he was trapped. Fucking trapped. With his bodyguard.

Who was in love with him. (To say nothing of his opinion of the fact. There were complications that went into that sort of thing, and they were complications he didn't want to deal with anytime soon.)

He wanted to get out of this, just undo the past few hours, and remove himself from the situation entirely. Fuck picking smoking up. All it did was cause a burn in his lungs and cause trouble. Fuck it right up--

Goddamn he just needed out. He can taste alcohol escaping in when Rick speaks against his mouth, and shit. He's fucking drunk. The promise, the mantra is one he's fully willing to accept, take it by the horns and run with it. Pretend reality doesn't exist. He pushes a little harder, all too aware that he's clinging to his hand like a lifeline. ]

[ He steals a moment, and another, as long as Mitch will let him stay. It's a pathetic, dry-lipped excuse for a kiss, but he lets the memory of it sear into his brain anyway.

He'll never get another chance

This time, when Mitch pushes, Bradbury lets go, falling back against the door with a crack hard enough to make him see stars, which really isn't helping his present condition, but gives better credence to the fact that he is, in fact, completely out of it. And won't remember any of this, at all. He shuts his eyes and counts to ten before he opens them again, realizing he's half fallen into the stairwell and is gasping for air. ]

--I should go. [ His stammer is an unconscious echo of Mitch's earlier thoughts, and it's his turn to scramble for the door, for a way out. ]

[ He watches for a panicked moment, chest heaving, trying to break free of the suit he's wearing. His fingers trying to dig into the faux wood and plastic of the vehicle, if for any kind of line he can find. He doesn't want it to end like this, but...

Well, this is better than he could fucking hope for. The memory of a crack against his jaw still painful and repeating in a loop in his head. Fuck, this was better than he could hope for, honestly.

He nods slowly, and when he speaks, his voice is rough and harsh, trying to sound more like the cold, hard human he tries to be. ]

Yeah. Best idea you've had all night.

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waiting - 2012-10-09 17:31 (UTC) - Expand

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DROPPING IN THOSE ICONS AGAIN

DAMMIT!!!

NOT SORRY!!

WELL YOU SHOULD BE

I'M NOT!!

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DELICIOUS MITCH TEARS

fine then I will use my secret depressing icon

goddamn you are just a tag monster!!

Yes. Yes I am

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