angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2006-01-22 04:20 pm
angelgazing) wrote2006-01-22 04:20 pm
Entry tags:
fic: like the adrenaline rush - love monkey - tom/wayne
title: Like the Adrenaline Rush
fandom: Love Monkey
rating: pg13
summary: Tom is not drawing inspiration from Jerry Lee Lewis. He's mostly just along for the ride.
pairing: Tom/Wayne
words: 1,550
notes: This is all![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
restless_jedi's fault. Where it not for her, then I could've forgotten it and not been dragging into hell. The cross-gen, it hurts me. The title was oh, so cleverly stolen from a line in 'Love is a Marathon'. But, aside from all that ugliness, big giant hearty thanks to luzdeestrellas, as always, for betaing when she doesn't even know the fandom.
Tom doesn't think anything as cliché as the sound of the guitar strings faded gently, because he's cooler than that. He is. Even if he's maybe, sort of, a little bit trying to figure out how he's going to explain this. It's a complicated process, deciding how to word the stories of his fuck ups to Bran in the morning, and oh god, he really hopes he's still drunk by then.
Not that he's drunk now, but he's got every intention of being that way very, very soon.
As soon as, you know, the kissing stops. But he's not going to encourage the end of that, because really the kid's—and, oh god, he's definitely got to find something else to call him by, because if he calls Wayne 'the kid' when he's trying to get Bran to sort his life out then it's entirely possible that she'll just skip the free therapist cum life coach part and just go straight to calling the cops.
Jerry Lee Lewis might've gotten away with marrying his thirteen year old cousin—not, it really should go without saying, that Wayne is in anyway his cousin. Or thirteen. But times were different back then, really. And people are always more willing to make allowances for the guys in front of the camera than the ones, uh, behind.
Behind is an interesting word for him to be thinking, actually, when Wayne hooks his thumbs in Tom's back pockets with his guitar pick still in his hand, like he's scared to give it up or something. Which, obviously is laughable, because Wayne just kissed him and Tom might actually be old enough to be his father, if he did some looking—which he vows to himself right now to absolutely never do, because he's already three fourths of the way to a midlife crisis against his will, and that would just be a step too far. Tom doesn't have the slightest idea what to do with his hands, so they're just sort of flopping around, resting on Wayne's hips, his cheeks, the back of his neck, his shoulders, and then darting away again quickly, because this is ridiculous and an outside observer would probably be pretty damned confused about this entire thing.
Tom is pretty damned confused about this entire thing, as his I-Have-Never-Been-Kissed-Before dying fish hand flopping could tell you all too well. He keeps thinking very crazy things, with Wayne's hands in his back pockets—he's thinking behind like his grandmother used to say it, when she was threatening/requesting that he turn down the record player.
He had a record player. He's still got a record player. The kid probably had to have albums explained to him a few years back, when the music bug snuck up and bit him in the ass. Oh, ass. That's a much younger word. Makes Tom feel slightly less like he's going to have to be fitted for dentures within the week.
But god, the kid—Wayne, definitely going to have to go with Wayne—has got some amazing talents. Aside from the obvious ones, of course. The musically obvious ones—and it is a sad day in the life of Tom 'Golden Ear' Farrell when he's got to clarify that, even inside his own head.
Wayne bites the inside of Tom's lip and, well, he starts caring a lot less, maybe.
"Oh," Tom says, completely against his will, in what Gabby used to call his suave voice. Back before she started hating everything he did. Or, well, he's pretty sure it was before. He doesn't remember and he didn't do the voice on purpose or anything, and he has no intention of saying anything else, except his intentions really don't matter a lot at all here, because he says, while cupping Wayne's face in his hands, "I am so going to hell."
And Tom didn't think, really, that it was even possible for Wayne to look any younger, but he kind of does now, with his cheeks flushed and his eyes heavy and his hair a very, very messy mess. He looks very young and very satisfied with himself, in a way that Tom finds vaguely frightening.
Wayne smiles, blushing, and says, "Hey, I'm legal." And doesn't even pretend for a second that he's not groping his maybe-would-be A&R rep.
"Which would be why I said hell and not prison." Tom really, really feels like his greatest desire in the world right now would be to regain control of his mouth. Or to at least get back that awkward pretend-control that his motor functions grant him on good days, when they feel sorry for the way they treated him in junior high.
"Is this gonna be a thing?" Wayne asks, grinning, like maybe he's finally cottoned on to the fact that, against all reason, Tom is being a girl. He bites his lip and it does something very stupid to Tom's ability to be calm and rational and… other things that adults are supposed to be.
"Absolutely not," Tom answers, curling the fingers of his left hand on the back of Wayne's neck and using the opportunity to do something very stupid and kiss the k—Wayne again, because it's got all the rush of sneaking into CBGB and signing your name to the wall, the rush you get when you know you shouldn't, but damn it, you're going to anyway and it'll be all the better for it.
Plus, Wayne was drinking a Cherry Coke at lunch, and his mouth is really sweet and Tom is just not as smart as he pretends to be. He's amazed at how well he's managed to fake the smart thing all these years, frankly. Though he suspects his success has something to do with never doing anything this blatantly stupid before. Well, unless you count the Hanson thing. Or really the whole of the speech that got him fired. Live for the music, Mr. ProfitsProfitsProfits! He really should've known better than to say that.
He's also really got to learn to live in the now, a lesson he feels is well learned by the way that Wayne's hands manage to be very warm under his shirt before he notices anything at all. His hat is on the floor, and okay, so maybe he's only ever played on the small-town-bar scale with this whole gay thing before (as opposed to the stadium level) with a couple of fumbling kisses—his eyes screwed tight, in the dark corner of the woods in the middle of the night at camp Chipper Wood, or whatever the name of that godforsaken place without electricity was, but it certainly seems like it just keeps getting better.
Tom is really starting to get a whole new understanding of Jake. Which he'd tell him, if it weren't for the fact that the sound of his guitar faded gently as he leaned forward aside he's never telling a soul about this. Not one. He won't even whisper it near graveyards or morgues, just in case. Which isn't to say that he goes near either of those places a lot. Anyway, Jake would probably understand this a lot better than Bran, but Tom's not telling. He'll just keep his newfound understanding of Jake all to himself.
Though really, he gets it now like he never did before. A blonde phase indeed.
Tom is sort of afraid of his mind, sometimes, because it goes from "a blonde phase indeed" to the sound of the crowd when the Beatles played Shea Stadium to "oh, ho, oh, hello Wayne's hand" in very quick succession.
Tom is afraid, and also vaguely impressed by himself, because he's leaning against the wall of a club making out with a kid half his age—and say what you will, but there are advantages to this entire thing. Height, for example. They are nearly the same height—little bending, no pain. Tom could do this until the club opens for the night, frankly, and he, okay, he cares who knows it because he feels like it's just ripe for casting couch jokes, and he has lines that he will not cross—And how many men could go from "my girlfriend broke up with me" to being pressed against a postered wall by a dramatically younger person of the male persuasion ,with so little fuss and bother?
It's all strength of character, really, and that's the story Tom sticks to, when Wayne bites his lip again and Tom finally realizes what he should be doing with his hands. The Shea Stadium Beatles fans are back in his head again, cheering even louder, like that was possible. Tom grins against Wayne's mouth and feels higher than Leif Garret ever dreamed of being. "Amazing talents," he says.
And Wayne smiles, like he's shy all of a sudden, when Tom hasn't made a single move to get away from where he's been pinned to the wall for a very long time now, and the placement of his hands has long since moved them past the shyness phase. "You know how to pick 'em," Wayne drawls, finally. And doesn't protest at all when Tom shuts him up by kissing him.
fandom: Love Monkey
rating: pg13
summary: Tom is not drawing inspiration from Jerry Lee Lewis. He's mostly just along for the ride.
pairing: Tom/Wayne
words: 1,550
notes: This is all
restless_jedi's fault. Where it not for her, then I could've forgotten it and not been dragging into hell. The cross-gen, it hurts me. The title was oh, so cleverly stolen from a line in 'Love is a Marathon'. But, aside from all that ugliness, big giant hearty thanks to luzdeestrellas, as always, for betaing when she doesn't even know the fandom.Tom doesn't think anything as cliché as the sound of the guitar strings faded gently, because he's cooler than that. He is. Even if he's maybe, sort of, a little bit trying to figure out how he's going to explain this. It's a complicated process, deciding how to word the stories of his fuck ups to Bran in the morning, and oh god, he really hopes he's still drunk by then.
Not that he's drunk now, but he's got every intention of being that way very, very soon.
As soon as, you know, the kissing stops. But he's not going to encourage the end of that, because really the kid's—and, oh god, he's definitely got to find something else to call him by, because if he calls Wayne 'the kid' when he's trying to get Bran to sort his life out then it's entirely possible that she'll just skip the free therapist cum life coach part and just go straight to calling the cops.
Jerry Lee Lewis might've gotten away with marrying his thirteen year old cousin—not, it really should go without saying, that Wayne is in anyway his cousin. Or thirteen. But times were different back then, really. And people are always more willing to make allowances for the guys in front of the camera than the ones, uh, behind.
Behind is an interesting word for him to be thinking, actually, when Wayne hooks his thumbs in Tom's back pockets with his guitar pick still in his hand, like he's scared to give it up or something. Which, obviously is laughable, because Wayne just kissed him and Tom might actually be old enough to be his father, if he did some looking—which he vows to himself right now to absolutely never do, because he's already three fourths of the way to a midlife crisis against his will, and that would just be a step too far. Tom doesn't have the slightest idea what to do with his hands, so they're just sort of flopping around, resting on Wayne's hips, his cheeks, the back of his neck, his shoulders, and then darting away again quickly, because this is ridiculous and an outside observer would probably be pretty damned confused about this entire thing.
Tom is pretty damned confused about this entire thing, as his I-Have-Never-Been-Kissed-Before dying fish hand flopping could tell you all too well. He keeps thinking very crazy things, with Wayne's hands in his back pockets—he's thinking behind like his grandmother used to say it, when she was threatening/requesting that he turn down the record player.
He had a record player. He's still got a record player. The kid probably had to have albums explained to him a few years back, when the music bug snuck up and bit him in the ass. Oh, ass. That's a much younger word. Makes Tom feel slightly less like he's going to have to be fitted for dentures within the week.
But god, the kid—Wayne, definitely going to have to go with Wayne—has got some amazing talents. Aside from the obvious ones, of course. The musically obvious ones—and it is a sad day in the life of Tom 'Golden Ear' Farrell when he's got to clarify that, even inside his own head.
Wayne bites the inside of Tom's lip and, well, he starts caring a lot less, maybe.
"Oh," Tom says, completely against his will, in what Gabby used to call his suave voice. Back before she started hating everything he did. Or, well, he's pretty sure it was before. He doesn't remember and he didn't do the voice on purpose or anything, and he has no intention of saying anything else, except his intentions really don't matter a lot at all here, because he says, while cupping Wayne's face in his hands, "I am so going to hell."
And Tom didn't think, really, that it was even possible for Wayne to look any younger, but he kind of does now, with his cheeks flushed and his eyes heavy and his hair a very, very messy mess. He looks very young and very satisfied with himself, in a way that Tom finds vaguely frightening.
Wayne smiles, blushing, and says, "Hey, I'm legal." And doesn't even pretend for a second that he's not groping his maybe-would-be A&R rep.
"Which would be why I said hell and not prison." Tom really, really feels like his greatest desire in the world right now would be to regain control of his mouth. Or to at least get back that awkward pretend-control that his motor functions grant him on good days, when they feel sorry for the way they treated him in junior high.
"Is this gonna be a thing?" Wayne asks, grinning, like maybe he's finally cottoned on to the fact that, against all reason, Tom is being a girl. He bites his lip and it does something very stupid to Tom's ability to be calm and rational and… other things that adults are supposed to be.
"Absolutely not," Tom answers, curling the fingers of his left hand on the back of Wayne's neck and using the opportunity to do something very stupid and kiss the k—Wayne again, because it's got all the rush of sneaking into CBGB and signing your name to the wall, the rush you get when you know you shouldn't, but damn it, you're going to anyway and it'll be all the better for it.
Plus, Wayne was drinking a Cherry Coke at lunch, and his mouth is really sweet and Tom is just not as smart as he pretends to be. He's amazed at how well he's managed to fake the smart thing all these years, frankly. Though he suspects his success has something to do with never doing anything this blatantly stupid before. Well, unless you count the Hanson thing. Or really the whole of the speech that got him fired. Live for the music, Mr. ProfitsProfitsProfits! He really should've known better than to say that.
He's also really got to learn to live in the now, a lesson he feels is well learned by the way that Wayne's hands manage to be very warm under his shirt before he notices anything at all. His hat is on the floor, and okay, so maybe he's only ever played on the small-town-bar scale with this whole gay thing before (as opposed to the stadium level) with a couple of fumbling kisses—his eyes screwed tight, in the dark corner of the woods in the middle of the night at camp Chipper Wood, or whatever the name of that godforsaken place without electricity was, but it certainly seems like it just keeps getting better.
Tom is really starting to get a whole new understanding of Jake. Which he'd tell him, if it weren't for the fact that the sound of his guitar faded gently as he leaned forward aside he's never telling a soul about this. Not one. He won't even whisper it near graveyards or morgues, just in case. Which isn't to say that he goes near either of those places a lot. Anyway, Jake would probably understand this a lot better than Bran, but Tom's not telling. He'll just keep his newfound understanding of Jake all to himself.
Though really, he gets it now like he never did before. A blonde phase indeed.
Tom is sort of afraid of his mind, sometimes, because it goes from "a blonde phase indeed" to the sound of the crowd when the Beatles played Shea Stadium to "oh, ho, oh, hello Wayne's hand" in very quick succession.
Tom is afraid, and also vaguely impressed by himself, because he's leaning against the wall of a club making out with a kid half his age—and say what you will, but there are advantages to this entire thing. Height, for example. They are nearly the same height—little bending, no pain. Tom could do this until the club opens for the night, frankly, and he, okay, he cares who knows it because he feels like it's just ripe for casting couch jokes, and he has lines that he will not cross—And how many men could go from "my girlfriend broke up with me" to being pressed against a postered wall by a dramatically younger person of the male persuasion ,with so little fuss and bother?
It's all strength of character, really, and that's the story Tom sticks to, when Wayne bites his lip again and Tom finally realizes what he should be doing with his hands. The Shea Stadium Beatles fans are back in his head again, cheering even louder, like that was possible. Tom grins against Wayne's mouth and feels higher than Leif Garret ever dreamed of being. "Amazing talents," he says.
And Wayne smiles, like he's shy all of a sudden, when Tom hasn't made a single move to get away from where he's been pinned to the wall for a very long time now, and the placement of his hands has long since moved them past the shyness phase. "You know how to pick 'em," Wayne drawls, finally. And doesn't protest at all when Tom shuts him up by kissing him.