help_haiti lightning round, part 2
[BSB] [Brian/Howie] [PG]
So I signed up for the lightning round over at help_haiti. This one's for bubbleforest, who asked for Brian/Howie, locked in a closet. :D Just over 1000 words.
It's the last night of AJ's solo tour, and someone (and Howie doesn't want to name names, but Nick is so dead when AJ gets his hands on him) thinks it'll be a good idea to show up onstage, unannounced, to sing Mr A as some kind of huge thanks for buying this guy's album, stay tuned for the next Backstreet hit! show of solidarity.
"We can hide out in the crowd!" Nick says, eyes gleaming. "Come on, man, it'll be fucking awesome. AJ won't know what hit him."
As it turns out, there are way, way more fangirls in the crowd than they expected.
Brian drops his forehead against the door as he lets out a sigh. It's almost loud enough to cover the sounds of raging teenaged hormones drifting in from the other side. "Howard," he says, resignedly, without even turning around, "We really should know better by now."
Howie looks around their tiny, enclosed space. Scratch AJ, he thinks. He's going to kill Nick himself.
It only takes about twenty minutes for Howie to make the switch from annoyed to concerned. "Do you think they made it out okay?" he says, to Brian's back. "I'm pretty sure I saw Nick actually make it to the stage, but it's been practically half an hour."
"God, I don't know," Brian groans, and finally turns around, slumps onto the floor with his back still pressed against the door. Howie joins him there, a second later, and he can feel the thump-thump-thump of banging fists, like a too-frantic heartbeat just under his skin. "We're talking about AJ and Nick. They probably decided it would be a good idea to jump back into the fray."
"Children," Howie sighs, but it comes out sounding like a chuckle. "I can't believe we only made it as far as the janitor closet."
"I can't believe we both lost our cell phones," Brian counters.
"How long do you think it'll take them to come looking for us?"
"I'd give it till tomorrow morning at least," Brian says, mock solemnly, and Howie sighs.
"Hey," Brian says, and he's grinning a little now, the side of his mouth curved in a way that makes Howie's stomach jerk. "Now you know we still got it."
Despite himself, Howie laughs, and tucks his head into the crook of Brian's shoulder without prompting. He doesn't feel thirty-seven at all.
Things are looking a little less rosy an hour and fourteen minutes later, after they decide to poke around the room in the hopes of finding a hidden window. Or a secret passageway.
They're armed with nothing but cleaning supplies and empty stomachs, and Howie groans when Brian upends his broom and carefully nudges the fallen stack of old newspapers.
"Brian!" he protests, but he's upending his mop, too, just in case.
"If there's a rat in here, there's gotta be a way out, Howie," Brian says, absently, inching closer so he can flip the newspapers over, page by page.
Howie isn't entirely sure he's convinced by Brian's line of reasoning, and he opens his mouth to say--
But then Brian's stretching forward, shirt riding up his back to expose a sliver of skin, just above the waistband of his jeans, and Howie's suddenly willing to go along with it for now.
"Oh my god," Brian says, and Howie blinks, snaps his hand back from where it'd been reaching out. "There's a whole nest of them in here."
Howie's stomach picks an unfortunate moment to growl.
Brian looks up at him, eyebrow raised.
Howie thwaps Brian over the head with his mop.
They leave the nest alone in favor of the packet of Skittles that turns up unexpectedly in one of Brian's jean pockets.
"They're never going to find us, Howie! They're going to look in all the wrong places, and we're going to starve! Oh my god, we're so going to die in here," Brian whines, head in Howie's lap as he pops another skittle.
Howie has to remind himself not to watch the way Brian's mouth is turning red. He threads his fingers through Brian's hair instead, hums low and soothing and says, "We're not gonna die, okay. They'll come looking for us eventually. The girls will be a dead giveaway."
Brian perks up a little at the thought. "How many of those girls do you think would want to have sex with me?"
"Uh," Howie says, blinking, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck.
"No, you're right," Brian says, nodding. "It's totally all of them."
"Totally," Howie says, nodding back, just as gravely, once he finds his voice.
"I like this game," Brian decides, smiling up at him. Howie's fingers catch in time with his breath. "I'm a dead ringer for 12-year-old Nick."
Howie is hard-pressed not to agree. "You're a dead ringer for right-now Nick," he says, and grins when Brian huffs out a laugh.
They wind up playing spin the mop mostly out of desperation ("You can't play I Never without the vodka, Howie," Brian explains, patiently, and Howie says, "And you shouldn't play Truth or Dare once you stop going for slumber parties."). There's only so long Skittles can tide you over.
"This isn't going to work," Brian says, two seconds into their first round. He's frowning at the mop. "I'm not making out with the rat's nest."
"No, yeah," Howie says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of course not."
"So," Brian says. The end of it lilts into a question.
"Uh," Howie says, and Brian must hear the yes, yeah, yes, okay that comes with it, because he smiles - and god, Howie's stomach is in knots - murmurs, "yeah," under his breath, and then he's trapping Howie against the wall with his mouth and palms and chest, all warm, wet heat and slow intent.
For a second, Howie forgets how to breathe.
Then Brian pulls back, studies him, eyes dark and demanding when he says, "Why haven't we done this before?"
"Uh," Howie says, intelligently.
"We'll figure that out later," Brian says, and reels Howie in again. They switch to Seven Minutes in Heaven, after that (or a longer variation, anyway, because when Nick and AJ fumble the lock open, two hours later, they're still going at it.)
So I signed up for the lightning round over at help_haiti. This one's for bubbleforest, who asked for Brian/Howie, locked in a closet. :D Just over 1000 words.
It's the last night of AJ's solo tour, and someone (and Howie doesn't want to name names, but Nick is so dead when AJ gets his hands on him) thinks it'll be a good idea to show up onstage, unannounced, to sing Mr A as some kind of huge thanks for buying this guy's album, stay tuned for the next Backstreet hit! show of solidarity.
"We can hide out in the crowd!" Nick says, eyes gleaming. "Come on, man, it'll be fucking awesome. AJ won't know what hit him."
As it turns out, there are way, way more fangirls in the crowd than they expected.
Brian drops his forehead against the door as he lets out a sigh. It's almost loud enough to cover the sounds of raging teenaged hormones drifting in from the other side. "Howard," he says, resignedly, without even turning around, "We really should know better by now."
Howie looks around their tiny, enclosed space. Scratch AJ, he thinks. He's going to kill Nick himself.
It only takes about twenty minutes for Howie to make the switch from annoyed to concerned. "Do you think they made it out okay?" he says, to Brian's back. "I'm pretty sure I saw Nick actually make it to the stage, but it's been practically half an hour."
"God, I don't know," Brian groans, and finally turns around, slumps onto the floor with his back still pressed against the door. Howie joins him there, a second later, and he can feel the thump-thump-thump of banging fists, like a too-frantic heartbeat just under his skin. "We're talking about AJ and Nick. They probably decided it would be a good idea to jump back into the fray."
"Children," Howie sighs, but it comes out sounding like a chuckle. "I can't believe we only made it as far as the janitor closet."
"I can't believe we both lost our cell phones," Brian counters.
"How long do you think it'll take them to come looking for us?"
"I'd give it till tomorrow morning at least," Brian says, mock solemnly, and Howie sighs.
"Hey," Brian says, and he's grinning a little now, the side of his mouth curved in a way that makes Howie's stomach jerk. "Now you know we still got it."
Despite himself, Howie laughs, and tucks his head into the crook of Brian's shoulder without prompting. He doesn't feel thirty-seven at all.
Things are looking a little less rosy an hour and fourteen minutes later, after they decide to poke around the room in the hopes of finding a hidden window. Or a secret passageway.
They're armed with nothing but cleaning supplies and empty stomachs, and Howie groans when Brian upends his broom and carefully nudges the fallen stack of old newspapers.
"Brian!" he protests, but he's upending his mop, too, just in case.
"If there's a rat in here, there's gotta be a way out, Howie," Brian says, absently, inching closer so he can flip the newspapers over, page by page.
Howie isn't entirely sure he's convinced by Brian's line of reasoning, and he opens his mouth to say--
But then Brian's stretching forward, shirt riding up his back to expose a sliver of skin, just above the waistband of his jeans, and Howie's suddenly willing to go along with it for now.
"Oh my god," Brian says, and Howie blinks, snaps his hand back from where it'd been reaching out. "There's a whole nest of them in here."
Howie's stomach picks an unfortunate moment to growl.
Brian looks up at him, eyebrow raised.
Howie thwaps Brian over the head with his mop.
They leave the nest alone in favor of the packet of Skittles that turns up unexpectedly in one of Brian's jean pockets.
"They're never going to find us, Howie! They're going to look in all the wrong places, and we're going to starve! Oh my god, we're so going to die in here," Brian whines, head in Howie's lap as he pops another skittle.
Howie has to remind himself not to watch the way Brian's mouth is turning red. He threads his fingers through Brian's hair instead, hums low and soothing and says, "We're not gonna die, okay. They'll come looking for us eventually. The girls will be a dead giveaway."
Brian perks up a little at the thought. "How many of those girls do you think would want to have sex with me?"
"Uh," Howie says, blinking, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck.
"No, you're right," Brian says, nodding. "It's totally all of them."
"Totally," Howie says, nodding back, just as gravely, once he finds his voice.
"I like this game," Brian decides, smiling up at him. Howie's fingers catch in time with his breath. "I'm a dead ringer for 12-year-old Nick."
Howie is hard-pressed not to agree. "You're a dead ringer for right-now Nick," he says, and grins when Brian huffs out a laugh.
They wind up playing spin the mop mostly out of desperation ("You can't play I Never without the vodka, Howie," Brian explains, patiently, and Howie says, "And you shouldn't play Truth or Dare once you stop going for slumber parties."). There's only so long Skittles can tide you over.
"This isn't going to work," Brian says, two seconds into their first round. He's frowning at the mop. "I'm not making out with the rat's nest."
"No, yeah," Howie says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of course not."
"So," Brian says. The end of it lilts into a question.
"Uh," Howie says, and Brian must hear the yes, yeah, yes, okay that comes with it, because he smiles - and god, Howie's stomach is in knots - murmurs, "yeah," under his breath, and then he's trapping Howie against the wall with his mouth and palms and chest, all warm, wet heat and slow intent.
For a second, Howie forgets how to breathe.
Then Brian pulls back, studies him, eyes dark and demanding when he says, "Why haven't we done this before?"
"Uh," Howie says, intelligently.
"We'll figure that out later," Brian says, and reels Howie in again. They switch to Seven Minutes in Heaven, after that (or a longer variation, anyway, because when Nick and AJ fumble the lock open, two hours later, they're still going at it.)