goshdarnspam | (no subject)

[ 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.

[ Shame hits him like a punch to the gut, and all he can do is nod, numbly. It takes coordination, and steadier hands than he seems to have right now, but Bradbury manages to unlock the door and fumble it open - somehow - just in time to catch the flash of headlights coming down the road.

He's never been so happy to see a taxi in his life.

Bradbury doesn't run to it, but it's a near thing. He certainly doesn't stumble. But as he walks towards it, he seems somehow diminished, shoulders hunched like he's expecting another hit and face fixed firmly on the ground.

And he never, ever looks back. ]

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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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