03. hunter+logan / cause you're a pretty little flower, but i'm a busy little bee
name: cause you're a pretty little flower, but i'm a busy little bee
characters/pairing(s): hunter parrish/logan lerman, eat your heart out. rps.
word count: 5,099
summary: like, what the fuck was hunter doing?
The first time they ever hear of each other's existence is when -- well, let's start with Hunter here, since he's the oldest. He's cuddled in his living room, fresh out of filming an episode of Weeds, and it's 2007; he's ripe, grinny, and his hair is a shade of gold that shines when he sweats. His mom is in the kitchen, baking something ceremoniously in the way that she usually does, measuring things with the naked eye so that the 'imperfection, Hunter, turns into perfection.' The pumpkin spice in the middle of summer travels to the living room and the blond boy (yes, he was still a boy, then, daringly) swears that he could melt into the covers now, watching television while his mother bakes in the kitchen.
What's on television is something that completely escapes his mind, but it sounds like Kim Possible, or rather, the end credits of it. He was too busy on his phone to pay attention, large thumbs fiddling with the much-too-small keys and all to really give a crap, anyway. But the one moment that he looks up from a text is a moment that's a little far too much to handle when he sees an adolescent boy, younger than him, though they might as well be similar in physique. Hunter watches faithfully, taking subconscious forkfuls of his mother's pumpkin pie while the boy on TV's determined to save the owls.
Later on, towards the near end of the movie where Hunter familiarizes with unfortunate end credits again, he realizes that the boy's name is Logan Lerman, and that his mother exclaimed when she saw his name scrolling almost too-fast. "That's him, he was in Jack and Bobby!" which is a show that the two of them -- or rather, the whole family -- watched religiously until its cancellation, and Hunter almost faux-curses himself (darn) for not remembering sooner. Hunter glances from his mother, to the television screen that replayed an infamous Disney production sign, then back to his mother again, then down to his phone, where he sees that he has five unread messages.
Firmly moving on to Logan in the same year of 2007, it's a damn hot Saturday night and there's nothing to do but practically bathe in the hellfire that is Beverly Hills. There have been hotter days than this, yes, but the boy's just finished an abundance of chores (that he honestly should have finished earlier) and had to make his own sandwich, and it's nine thirty in the evening and there's really nothing else to do but lay back and relax. Perhaps fall asleep, until his older brother Lucas wakes him up rather rudely like he always does -- hopefully not with a bucket of hot water in such a humid place -- and laughs like it happened accidentally.
Though Logan's plans have been, inevitably, transposed into something that there is absolutely no room to complain about: watching the latest episode of Weeds. How could he forget about it, how he sneaks into his brother's room and watches the drug lord of a mother execute her plans in such witty gracefulness and how things manage to still fuck up. He only has to sneak because he's a little young, and though he's not foreign to the object, his mother's a little "no, I'm not okay with that" when she first catches the brothers watching the show.
"Dude, you missed like, all of it, you little twerp." his brother Lucas throws a pillow at him, which he catches and smirks because damn -- look at those reflexes. "Nice try." Logan smirks at him before settling into the bed with his brother at a comfortable distance, both of their backs against the bed's headboard and their knees up. They stay like this for a full thirty minutes, laughing their asses off because Shane is such a psychopath that it's mindbendingly hilarious, but Logan catches a breath. He doesn't really know why, but it happens, when he sees the blond Botwin say a one-liner and the screen goes blank.
Fucking Silas.
-----
It's 2009 now, and they're a little older, a little wiser, stuck in post-adolescent hysteria, where their voices seem to change throughout the heinous course of the day but their eyes still manage to sparkle. The people they work with -- like Mary-Louise (or Mare-Mare, as he called her) or Jake -- wonder how they do it, considering the fact that running on a substantial, yet limited amount of coffee gets them through the job without a single complaint. But if you asked them exactly, that, "Hey, Logan, tell me your secret, how do you go through the job?" they'd answer, "It's not a job if you love doing it."
Because Hunter and Logan can converse endlessly about their interests and how often they sleep on their sides (and sleep heavily) in spite of the fact that they don't know each other, but they will always connect on such an extraterrestrial level about their passions.
The two don't know, but their mothers have met by this time around, through an almost unbelievable league of cooking housewives around the nation that unite through internet blogs and connect through sharing recipes. With cooks, there's a bond that tethers in between; at least, that's what everyone wants to believe. It's mostly just a game, with betrayal and alliances, even in something so motherly like a league of kitchen spawns. Everyone works against the other, but somehow, in some way, Mama Parrish and Mama Lerman kept it true to each other because a.) "I love Jack and Bobby, what a sweet kid!" and "Spring Awakening was fantastic, congrats!" and b.) "How did you get your tiramisu to such outstanding texture?"
But yes -- there were plans for their sons to meet. Logan was a little caught up in things, what with filming Percy Jackson and how training has overwhelmed him with such a half-smile of fatigue; Hunter was on broadway, on Weeds, his smile everlasting. There was no reason why they couldn't have seen each other, though daylight savings time crept once and then emergencies crept the other that the two mothers had to stay on a need-to-know basis. Yes, if you needed to know to put more sugar in your tiramisu, I will e-mail you about it.
In the simplest terms, time was not on their side.
-----
Two, almost three years later. It's 2012.
They've seen each others' interviews, they've read each other's tweets and hell -- they even listened to each other's music, but there's really nothing like seeing each other in person. Not in that one instance where Logan flips through New York Times and -- hey, there, sees an advertisement for Godspell -- but an actual instance where their eyes meet and they want to greet each other but never get the chance to. The fact that their mothers played matchmaker for them (under friendly terms and conditions) deepened the determination to meet, but there's a silent understanding between them about how it was to happen -- not by intention, or by Bonnie Hunt pushing and pulling and prying out of such kind reason -- but by mistake.
And it happened, like that: completely spontaneous and bittersweet like a deserved slap in the face. It almost made the two of them chuckle, how they say in their minds that, "I knew this was going to happen," but didn't tell the other.
It's a windy and frail evening in New York and the streets are paved with the after glow of rain, the streetlights shining on each puddle, creating a platform for such easy wanderlust. There's no party going on in this side of the city of angels, though both of them are sure that there must be something happening elsewhere: a store opening or a perfume launch. They're both just so individually thankful that they aren't a part of it.
Logan steps into Chuck's Dog House (which sells a grand variety of hot dogs, and the New Yorkers say it's better than anything Chicago can ever make -- take their word) with wet boots that get wiped on the entrance mat because he's such a respectful man. His entrance doesn't cause a loud boom, and for a moment he embraces the silence and wishes that he could stay in a place that didn't reek of loving fans' tears and sweat and deodorant. There's only the New York chime of bells and a hearty greet from none other than Chuck, who wears an ever-present grin on his face, even though it's closing time in less than thirty minutes.
"Hey, kid, you gonna have your usual today?" Chuck inquires, and his accent is authentic and thick. Logan takes a seat at the counter, swirling the moving seat of the stool around because he loves these chairs and how they make him feel like a little child. It's slightly strange how inviting New York is, even if he's just there for University; he wants to take one step forward and two steps back and say hello. "Yeah," he replies rather blandly, but the half of a smile on his face is more than enough for Chuck to understand that the kid's had a bad day.
He's having a bad day because of one possibility out of two: he ran out of smokes, and he's dug himself indefinitely deep into a hole that if he doesn't smoke at least once a day, he blames waking up on the wrong side of the bed for his mood. Soon enough, he'll have to come to the conclusion that he can't blame things anymore, he's more grown up than that. Chuck brings up a red container with a hot dog, all toppings placed with reckless abandon, and rings the bell and wakes Logan up before he falls asleep.
Taking a bite into the hot dog is like taking a bite into everything delicious compacted into one syllable, because yes -- it's that good. When he recovers from post-mouth orgasm, the chimes of the door behind him ring, bringing in a less-than-comfortable draft in from New York. Logan shuffles in his seat and doesn't mind looking back, because right now, food food food.
And it's strange, too -- how Hunter knows that back of the head and that hair color and can instantly tell it's Logan. He's heard from his mother that Logan would be in town, and that they should finally say hello to each other, but the interest was never too strong. Hunter had to focus on the lyrics of Beautiful City and belt his heart out, while Logan enjoyed after-Musketeers. Don't get me wrong, because Hunter wants to say hello, but there's also that possibility (in which he so often second guesses himself) that it isn't Logan, and that it's late at night and he's out of his mind.
But fuck all, Hunter decides to take a seat beside the stranger and order a Chicago hot dog, and Logan looks over almost subconsciously. There's that look that's shared between them, the one that goes, I should at least know what he looks like if I'm gonna have to sit with him during this delicious meal. And then there's that other look, the one that yells, holy shit it's finally you.
Hunter's tainted expression turns into a flat-out grin that makes the place light up like a 300-watt bulb. "Hi, I'm Hunter," he says in such a nervous way that it's a little bit endearing, and holds out his hand, knowing that Logan's busy eating but at the same time -- not really caring. Logan matches his smile with something less locomotive, because the boy never smiles with his teeth for dear life. "I think we've met before?" Logan asks, taking Hunter's hand and shaking it.
"Uh," Hunter's expression scrunches in thought, and Logan smiles again. "No, I don't think so, I mean, my mom knows you but --"
"My mom knows you, too, man," Logan cuts him off rather blatantly, but looks sympathetic towards Hunter because what are the odds that it happens like this. Like a slap in the face. Like meeting each other at a weird place in New York instantly makes you two best friends, because a part of the both of them knows that it does. "It's really nice to meet you." Hunter says completely sincere, but that's no different from what Logan expects -- he expects a being so existentially kind, and though it's only approximately three minutes since their first meeting, that's what he's getting.
They spend the evening -- until closing time -- discussing their mothers and how they thank the baking frenzy of 2009 because it brought them together. Though neither of them really say it, but they can see it in each other's eyes, and judging by the coy smile Chuck keeps giving the two of them as he peers up from his magazine in the kitchen, so could he. It's nice, Hunter recalls, having one person to talk to, to moan and groan about the downs of New York but as well as the ups of it; the two of them have that in common, too. How they don't really manage well far away from home, especially by themselves.
Chuck really doesn't want to pry these two apart but his beer belly's got his pants almost undone and "guys, I really have to close" means exactly what it says. Hunter and Logan look disappointed, but the two of them don't hesitate to say something, and when they say it in unison there's a nervous haze that casts upon the cold air and everything in the little diner is just such a mess. Logan looks at Hunter and notices that his cheeks are flushed, this big grin of a man who is somehow not tired after singing broadway. "You can call me," Logan takes the first words after the silence, and writes out his number on a paper napkin using a handy ballpoint pen, because you never know when you need one.
Hunter smiles a little at this because the fact that Logan still writes on paper napkins -- no matter if it's the only thing at hand -- is single-handedly the most fleeting thing. Logan scribbles on the napkin and quite frankly, messes up a little bit, but he's only twenty, and penmanship on something so fragile is not exactly his forte. If anything, he prefers acting, not that he hasn't been doing that for years on end, now. A second later, Logan hands him the paper napkin and a warm smile, in a muted exchange for one of Hunter's famous grins. "Will do, we'll hang sometime!" Hunter says, before they make their way out into the wind again but go their separate ways.
-----
"I challenge you to a basketball game." Logan says flat out and Hunter chuckles nervously, looking at him unsurely. "Are you, like, serious?" Hunter asks. "No, I'm fake," Logan retorts and smiles in that boyish way, standing up from his seat.
They're at a local bar sitting by the window, and though neither of them drink, they decide that the bar would be their default meeting place anyway. A park is just a cross-of-the-street away from them, with children scattered around, playing among the dull emerald grass, while tourists take pictures. It baffles the both of them, how tourists would want to take a photo of some dead park instead of the Statue of Liberty, or something -- but it starts a conversation, and then they boom about their lust for travel once more until there's silence. They sip their soda, until Logan comes out with the proposition.
Hunter doesn't say anything at first -- not because, wow, his heart is beaming and hollering "yes," -- but because he's waiting to check if Logan actually, really wants to do this. "Come on, dude, are you scared?" Logan plays, and a grin takes on Hunter's expression. "Just one game," Hunter finally gives in, and the two of them pay for their bite sized check before walking out into the warm summer weather. They're at a part of New York that's muted and silent again, where the only voices they could truly hear were their own, and God could Logan listen to Hunter's voice for ever and ever. (His album's great, by the way.)
"Yeah, yeah, come on!" Logan urges, pulling on the sleeve of Hunter's button-up. The little gesture causes a stir within both of them, because whoa, people didn't do that to each other, but it was really fucking cute. They walk onto the pavement of the basketball court after Logan fiddles with the lock and chain wrapped within the fences, and Hunter swears that he's into these sorts of things -- doing things that they weren't supposed to do. Logan looks at him like he knows what he's thinking. "Don't worry, I'll put it back where it came from. A game of basketball can't hurt anybody." which becomes a fact after the two start their game, Logan fetching a basketball from the rack against the fence.
The game starts like any other game, looks of determination being shared and a smirk on Logan's part. Logan used to play basketball in high school, but you know that he can pick up the skill as easily as taking candy from a baby; and he can play like he's born to be in the NBA, if they really let awkward kids into that sort of thing. On the other hand, Hunter isn't as fluent in Logan's language of basketball as he is in the language of hockey, but he hopes that his feet will adapt on pavement as it did on ice.
Most of the time, Logan has the ball because Hunter is really strangely out of breath here, because he can fucking do a Broadway show but when you put him in the United Center he's like a fucking oaf. Logan's quick, and when Hunter has the ball, he's a good guard and lets Hunter play his own cards, leaving it to him to decide if he's going to make a shot or not. Sure enough, Hunter makes at least one three-pointer and two one-pointers, a cry of victory exerting from the blond boy because he's never had this much fun before. Shooting hoops really beats every other happiness in the world, for some reason, because it's so normal.
Logan wins the game and Logansanity spreads around the nation; at least, from across the park. As he exclaims, fists up and everything, so do children a distance away from them -- cheering because they really just want to be part of whatever the two are up to. Hunter's not a sore loser, so he grins and congratulates Logan accordingly: with a high five and a heave of tired breath. They walk to Logan's apartment, which is really just a mile away, and the two need the air anyway; they're both in shorts and t-shirts but it's hot as fuck in New York today.
They see each other three days later, which on Hunter's account, is like three centuries; he stops by Logan's place with a distinct five o'clock shadow, no matter that it's only three in the afternoon, carrying a brown paper bag of Chinese take out. "Knock, knock," Hunter calls out, listening into the door and hearing faint sounds of digital frenzy. It's funny how into video games the two are when you'd think they would be off doing something productive like saving animals or feeding ducks at the duck pond -- but let's be honest with ourselves here, they are just normal people. On the account of that normal people are actually ridiculously attractive, like how Logan is when he opens the door with a smile and sweatpants and a white The Misfits t-shirt. "So you came,"
"And I brought food," Hunter holds up the paper bag, grin on his face. "I figured we could do some sort of pot luck, knowing you. You gotta have something in that kitchen." he lets out a little laugh; their mothers have taught them well enough to cook, and cook every day. The only fair thing to do in between them is to somehow make an exchange: my Chinese for your ramen.
"Ramen will have to do." Logan says through a nervous chuckle, and opens the door enough for Hunter to slide in and be greeted with the scent of cigarettes in his apartment. Nothing's too extravagant in Logan's place, and in fact it looks like every other person's apartment in New York -- brick walls, wood floors, paintings hanging haphazardly in weird places, like the sketch of a window where a window's supposed to be. Everything about Logan's place mirrors him exactly; simple yet enticing, and such a breath of fresh air, along with several mementos sitting upon shelves here and there. Logan insists that Hunter makes himself at home before walking to the kitchen, which is just a few steps away in the studio apartment, and starting up a pot of noodles.
Hunter sits down on a space on the couch where Logan's blankets haven't occupied, and immediately sets his elbows lazily on his knees and allows his eyes to do the rest of the examining. Logan calls from a few feet away, tearing open several packs of Maruchan -- at least, three -- and says, "Sorry the place is a mess," before returning back to his current task. Hunter chuckles and shakes his head, "No, don't even worry about it, man, it's better than mine could ever look." which is true, because there's barely enough time for him to clean up once he gets home; he becomes a tired mess on his bed and says goodnight right away. "You always looked the clean sort of person," Logan begins, after his noodles are at a calm boil.
"That's probably what my mom says." Hunter grins that same familiar grin and Logan wishes he could see it, but for now as he stands in the kitchen, he's probably just going to have to feel it float through the air.
Ten minutes later, Hunter and Logan are individually hell bent on beating each other in the video game that Logan burns the ramen somehow, and they both have to swallow the smell. Logan apologizes rather panicked, but Hunter smiles and reassures him with a wave of his hand -- "Nah, it's cool, I actually like how it tastes."
And they bring up the bowls of extra ramen soup to their mouths and chug like two children drinking milk from cereal.
-----
Their friendship bloomed like a flower in the middle of spring, if you count the very first time that one pressed their lips against the other's, which only happened a month into their meeting. Hunter didn't mean to rush, and Logan probably thinks that he didn't -- but there's still a little pang of guilt in him that perhaps he shouldn't have made the first move so early, and perhaps he's doing that thing where he second-guesses. It's not like Hunter can help it; he's a natural born thought processor and when someone like Logan steps into his life like that (actually, it was Hunter that stepped into his, but shh) and provokes him, he doesn't know what to do.
But that very first kiss, it happened unromantically, and honestly it was completely out of the blue. The two of them hung out every now and then after they met, meeting for jam sessions when Hunter learns that Logan can play guitar excellently, grabbing a slice of pizza at Pete's, but when they kissed, it was like they were tethered.
Like every first kiss, this one has a story. It was Sunday morning, undeniably warm because it was Summer then -- it still is now -- and birds were chirping in the distance, a sound that Logan couldn't pinpoint to be annoying or pleasant. Hunter was whistling the same tune in the other room and it didn't take Logan far too long to realize that the birds were following his sounds, serving as an echo that Hunter probably didn't know existed. That's when he knew that the boy really was Jesus, getting birds to follow him around and shit. Logan shrugged the tune off, finding it tolerable in a matter of seconds, and continued to do his job in the apartment kitchen: which was to clean.
Cleaning was never his grandest skill, considering that he's mentioned before that his room was an 'organized mess.' The only thing he ever kept clean was, unmistakenably, his bathroom, the one place that always smelled like cologne and cigarettes at the same time, no matter how long it's been since he quit. But 'summer cleaning' as it had been advised -- no, ordered -- by his mother was long overdue back in spring, and in his free time, Logan decided to take this challenge. It wasn't like he was doing anything else.
But in the midst of his half-assed though whole-hearted cleaning, Logan reached up for something upon the cabinet that he couldn't reach, damn his inflexibility. You'd think sword fighting and everything could practically make you eligible for the Blue Man Group, but no. He reached up and up, like the Little Engine that Could, questionable groans slipping out of his lips that made Hunter's eyebrows furrow in the other room. Hunter stood, putting his video game on pause, leaving the bed room by its lonesome and walking to whatever need Logan had to be catered.
Hunter had to hold back a laugh when he walked into the kitchen to see Logan, arm up, reaching for the heavens, and once he got so close to getting that damned thing (which we learn later on, is just a photo frame), his finger flicked one way and he ended up pushing it farther. With a defeated groan, Logan turned and let out a little gasp at the giggling sight of Hunter. His look of surprise instantly turned into something of annoyance, though this was common among the boys -- always picking and pricking at each other if they didn't have something to talk about.
(Like this one time, Hunter was playing with sushi when they went out one night; he never had it before Logan invited him and Logan asked, "You scared of fish, Jesus?")
"D'you need help?" Hunter asked after letting out a last laugh. He walked towards Logan now, giving him an are-you-serious look while Logan's rebuttal is deadpan. "Yes, please," Logan finally admits, and Hunter lets out a little chuckle before reaching up. Successfully, he grabs the photo frame which is covered with a light layer of dust. It's a baby photo of Logan, in all his blue eyed glory, and Hunter smiled almost while he's looking at it, before Logan snatched it.
"Don't laugh," Logan muttered, dusting at the photo frame; he was always a little enclosed with personal things like that. Hunter felt bad, despite the fact that he never even laughed. Still, there was something in him, something ironically godly, that wanted to turn the frown on Logan's face upside down. Before he knew it, Hunter was inching closer to Logan, but none of them noticed so it worked, sort of like magic.
Hunter lifted up Logan's chin and for a second they stared at each other, expressions a mix of lightweight desire and confusion. Like, what the fuck was Hunter doing? Could he have found a better time to --
Oh, shit, Hunter pressed a kiss on Logan's lips and it's not at all surprising, because the two of them knew it was bound to happen. But what was so particularly surprising was that they liked it, and wanted to lengthen it, though knew it was wrong -- and they parted in unison, looking at each other wondering 'what the fuck' but carrying on with their day in mute.
Or at least, if Hunter ever said things like, 'I'm sorry,' Logan barely heard it because the volume was on low.
-----
"So, I love you," Logan says, on a Monday morning, on a walk beside Hunter in Central Park. The two of them each hold something in their hands, Logan a lighter that he flicks every now and then to ignite the flame for fun; Hunter, a cellphone. Just like old times. Hunter has to stop for a second, but continues on so that nobody notices the awkward second thought spurting out in his mind.
(It sort of goes like -- wait what what did you say, are you for real, do you love me like a brother or like best friends or what, because if you really did mean that, then I'm in love with you, more than whoever loved Marilyn Monroe, because yeah.)
Logan's a little surprised that Hunter doesn't say anything, but Hunter has this little worried look in his eyes and he knows that it's something to question. "So, I love you," Logan says one more time, enunciating for a laugh; he gets a nervous chuckle from Hunter fucking Parrish who truly doesn't need to be the nervous one here, at all. The only reason Logan's being so confident is that he's a straightforward kinda guy -- and what they don't know is that his heart's skipping beats and is going into epileptic shock, along with every blood cell inside of him. He's just been blessed with that kind of control, to contain it within him.
"I love you too," Hunter replies, expression rather pained. "Uh, you should say it like you mean it," Logan teases, and it's a little hint that he meant it too; he just hoped Hunter didn't catch that.
"Like, ever since that kiss and everything --" Hunter begins, more words than he's ever said in the past five minutes, but Logan decides to cut him off, though does it with such respect that it's acceptable. "Would you like to go on a sushi date with me sometime?" Logan asks it, like a teenager again even though he's only twenty -- bashfully, yet direct, and a little shy in the pretty blue eyes Hunter loves.
"Yeah. I'm not scared of the fish, anymore," Hunter replies, and that sends a laugh coursing through Logan, because how does he remember something like that? Whatever. It's nice. It's funny. It's like, love. And it's all thanks to their moms, which is a detail of the story they'll leave out, if people ask.
FINNNNNNNNN
so, this is sort of beneath the sheets, as in, i've never written fic about actual celebrities before. considering that i don't know them personally (and can only love them from interviews and such) i can't tell if this is canon or not, but i do think that it's a little bit of both. i figured that if i was going to step into a fanfiction world, i would do it with a bang.
i blame sugar plums and tea, i blame sugar plums and teaaaaaa because it's four am and i need to sleep. also i semi blame gabby, she got me into the lucas/logan thing and i got distracted like fuck. so basically this is what i do when it's four am and omg i pulled an all nighter by myself, how do i do this?