.i can taste it in your tears
Title: Confidance
Author: Ashlena
Summary: Written in response to razorbladegirl's request made in request_a_fic Billy/Rob. Billy and Rob argue over which is better in a band -- guitarists, or drummers?
Rating: PG-13
You spotted him in the cafe, alone in a secluded booth in the corner. He was sipping a mochaccinno and glancing around every so often, probably hoping that no one would recognize him.
You made your way over to him casually, trying not to draw too much attention to yourself or him. Seating yourself across from him, you gave him a rare smile. "I couldn't help but notice a rock star trying to hide from his adoring fans," you say, shrugging out of your coat.
He scowls at you, his heavily outlined eyes narrowing as he glances around nervously again.
"You know, you keep doing that and it's almost sure to get you spotted," you smirk. "You can ask Chester if you don't believe me."
"I don't need to ask that slut anything," he growls uncharacteristcally, reaching into his bag and pulling out a pad of paper. You study it and see that there are guitar riffs scribbled out across the top page.
"Guitarists," you say mockingly as the waitress makes her way over.
"Hi, can I get you anything?" she asks, the tone of her voice indicating that she's bored just being there. When you respond, however, her eyes light up at the sight of the two of you. After taking your order down, she runs to get your drink, a new spring in her step.
"Got a problem?" the pretty boy sitting across from you demands, looking up from his pad of paper.
"Whoa, Billy Boy, chill out," you reply, holding your hands up in mock surrender. "Is it that time of the month or something?"
"Very funny," he sneers. "You just wish you were beautiful."
You outright laugh at this comment. "Right. I wish I looked like a little girl."
"At least I do something better than beat on old pots and pans all day." He smirks smugly at the indignation on your face, knowing he has struck a nerve.
"By what?" you counter. "Pulling a bunch of strings?"
"The guitar is the most important asset of any band," the effeminate man replies, returning to his paper. You are about to respond but are cut off as the waitress brings your vanilla frappuccino over. You nod your head in thanks and find a sheet of paper thrust in front of you. "Could you make it out to Chantarelle?" she asks with a syrupy voice. You comply, then pass the sheet over to your unwilling companion. He glares at you but quickly puts on a pseudo smile for the waitress, signing his name with a floursih, making a point to make it fancier and larger than yours.
She expresses her gratitude and leaves the two of you back to your discussion. "Well, technically, the singer is the most important part of any band," you reply, sipping your beverage.
"You don't even try to hide your obsession with that whore, do you?" the man across from you gripes.
"I'm beginning to wonder why you're so hostile towards him," you say offhandedly. The guitarist is silent, so you continue. "But even though the singer is most important, the drummer... that would be me," you emphasize as if talking to a child, "keeps the singer on tempo."
"You've got it all wrong," the feminine man says. "The guitarist plays the melody. Without the melody, you have no song."
"Okay, take this example," you suggest. "The White Stripes. You familiar?" He nods. "The song Seven Nation Army. It begins with the boring bass line."
"That's bass--" he begins, but you cut him off.
"The bass continues until the drums kick in, giving the song flavor."
"Flavor?" He barks a laugh and you frown. "You're fucked."
"At least my band doesn't play Survivor with its drummer," you retort, feeling clever.
"Maybe it should start," he snaps. The clever dissipates.
"You know what, Martin?" you sneer. "Whatever crawled up your ass and died shoulda been cleared out a long time ago."
He sighs and packs up his things, then stands and leaves some bills on the table. "It did this morning," he replies mysteriously, then heads for the door.
You stare at his crumpled money for a few moments, then stand and following him out, forgetting that you yourself owe for your drink. As he is stepping inside of his car, you call out to him and he pauses, regarding you. "Get in," he says finally. "I'll give you a ride back to your hotel."
You accept his invitation and make your way to the sleek black vehicle, admiring its metal body as you seat yourself inside on the gray leather seats.
"The Marcus on 5th street," you inform him, and he nods, flipping on his CD player. The Eminem Show wafts through the speakers and fills the atmosphere, and the two of you sit in silence for a while, just listening to the music.
"Why don't you tell me what's really wrong," you prod gently after a while, turning to study his beautiful face. His slick brown hair has fallen over one dark eye, giving him a mysterious but ultimately sexy appearance. He sighs again and pulls into a parking spot underneath a tree. You look around and reallize that he has brought you to a fairly secluded area in... Lincoln Park. How fitting, you think to yourself. Your fairly certain that it's no coincidence but don't mention anything to him.
"Benj... he ended things between us this morning," the man said softly, leaning against the door. Your first thought is Aha! So the media was right about those two. But then you realize how rough this must be for him. Even though you were ecstatic when Chester and Mike broke up, you had to admit that the hell they went through afterward was terrible to watch. You imagine that this beautiful man is devastated, and though your beliefs still stand firm, you regret your sarcastic remarks.
You place a hand on his thigh and stroke it in comfort. "I'm sorry to hear that," you reply, unbuckling your seatbelt and scooting closer to him. A crystal tear is sliding down his cheek. "You know who he left me for?" the guitarist demanded angrily. "The man you worship, that's who."
Reality slaps your face, and you reel from the blow. Deep down you knew you never had a chance with your blonde god; he was way out of your league. But for him to have coupled with... with Benjamin Madden? The thought made you sick.
"So now you know," the pretty guitarist concluded. "Now you know why I don't feel much like speaking to anyone today."
You regard him evenly. Sharp cheekbones, one of which is covered by a shining, moist line. Dark eyes outlined with darker precision. Slim, seemingly asexual body that begged to be explored. Guitarist's hands, rough and calloused. You think about how those hands would feel caressing your smooth skin and shiver.
"So no more speaking," you whisper quietly, leaning in impossibly closer. He finally turns to face you, and you see that his eye makeup has smeared. It gives him a haunting beauty, captivating your soul. He catches on to your intentions and moves in toward you, placing the sweetest kiss upon your lips you've ever had. It's soft, simple, and speaks volumes all at the same time.
You hunger for more, but as you lean back and smile at him, you realize that more will come in the days to come. There's no need to rush him for now.
Fin.
Okay, so how was it? Please be gentle.
Author: Ashlena
Summary: Written in response to razorbladegirl's request made in request_a_fic Billy/Rob. Billy and Rob argue over which is better in a band -- guitarists, or drummers?
Rating: PG-13
You spotted him in the cafe, alone in a secluded booth in the corner. He was sipping a mochaccinno and glancing around every so often, probably hoping that no one would recognize him.
You made your way over to him casually, trying not to draw too much attention to yourself or him. Seating yourself across from him, you gave him a rare smile. "I couldn't help but notice a rock star trying to hide from his adoring fans," you say, shrugging out of your coat.
He scowls at you, his heavily outlined eyes narrowing as he glances around nervously again.
"You know, you keep doing that and it's almost sure to get you spotted," you smirk. "You can ask Chester if you don't believe me."
"I don't need to ask that slut anything," he growls uncharacteristcally, reaching into his bag and pulling out a pad of paper. You study it and see that there are guitar riffs scribbled out across the top page.
"Guitarists," you say mockingly as the waitress makes her way over.
"Hi, can I get you anything?" she asks, the tone of her voice indicating that she's bored just being there. When you respond, however, her eyes light up at the sight of the two of you. After taking your order down, she runs to get your drink, a new spring in her step.
"Got a problem?" the pretty boy sitting across from you demands, looking up from his pad of paper.
"Whoa, Billy Boy, chill out," you reply, holding your hands up in mock surrender. "Is it that time of the month or something?"
"Very funny," he sneers. "You just wish you were beautiful."
You outright laugh at this comment. "Right. I wish I looked like a little girl."
"At least I do something better than beat on old pots and pans all day." He smirks smugly at the indignation on your face, knowing he has struck a nerve.
"By what?" you counter. "Pulling a bunch of strings?"
"The guitar is the most important asset of any band," the effeminate man replies, returning to his paper. You are about to respond but are cut off as the waitress brings your vanilla frappuccino over. You nod your head in thanks and find a sheet of paper thrust in front of you. "Could you make it out to Chantarelle?" she asks with a syrupy voice. You comply, then pass the sheet over to your unwilling companion. He glares at you but quickly puts on a pseudo smile for the waitress, signing his name with a floursih, making a point to make it fancier and larger than yours.
She expresses her gratitude and leaves the two of you back to your discussion. "Well, technically, the singer is the most important part of any band," you reply, sipping your beverage.
"You don't even try to hide your obsession with that whore, do you?" the man across from you gripes.
"I'm beginning to wonder why you're so hostile towards him," you say offhandedly. The guitarist is silent, so you continue. "But even though the singer is most important, the drummer... that would be me," you emphasize as if talking to a child, "keeps the singer on tempo."
"You've got it all wrong," the feminine man says. "The guitarist plays the melody. Without the melody, you have no song."
"Okay, take this example," you suggest. "The White Stripes. You familiar?" He nods. "The song Seven Nation Army. It begins with the boring bass line."
"That's bass--" he begins, but you cut him off.
"The bass continues until the drums kick in, giving the song flavor."
"Flavor?" He barks a laugh and you frown. "You're fucked."
"At least my band doesn't play Survivor with its drummer," you retort, feeling clever.
"Maybe it should start," he snaps. The clever dissipates.
"You know what, Martin?" you sneer. "Whatever crawled up your ass and died shoulda been cleared out a long time ago."
He sighs and packs up his things, then stands and leaves some bills on the table. "It did this morning," he replies mysteriously, then heads for the door.
You stare at his crumpled money for a few moments, then stand and following him out, forgetting that you yourself owe for your drink. As he is stepping inside of his car, you call out to him and he pauses, regarding you. "Get in," he says finally. "I'll give you a ride back to your hotel."
You accept his invitation and make your way to the sleek black vehicle, admiring its metal body as you seat yourself inside on the gray leather seats.
"The Marcus on 5th street," you inform him, and he nods, flipping on his CD player. The Eminem Show wafts through the speakers and fills the atmosphere, and the two of you sit in silence for a while, just listening to the music.
"Why don't you tell me what's really wrong," you prod gently after a while, turning to study his beautiful face. His slick brown hair has fallen over one dark eye, giving him a mysterious but ultimately sexy appearance. He sighs again and pulls into a parking spot underneath a tree. You look around and reallize that he has brought you to a fairly secluded area in... Lincoln Park. How fitting, you think to yourself. Your fairly certain that it's no coincidence but don't mention anything to him.
"Benj... he ended things between us this morning," the man said softly, leaning against the door. Your first thought is Aha! So the media was right about those two. But then you realize how rough this must be for him. Even though you were ecstatic when Chester and Mike broke up, you had to admit that the hell they went through afterward was terrible to watch. You imagine that this beautiful man is devastated, and though your beliefs still stand firm, you regret your sarcastic remarks.
You place a hand on his thigh and stroke it in comfort. "I'm sorry to hear that," you reply, unbuckling your seatbelt and scooting closer to him. A crystal tear is sliding down his cheek. "You know who he left me for?" the guitarist demanded angrily. "The man you worship, that's who."
Reality slaps your face, and you reel from the blow. Deep down you knew you never had a chance with your blonde god; he was way out of your league. But for him to have coupled with... with Benjamin Madden? The thought made you sick.
"So now you know," the pretty guitarist concluded. "Now you know why I don't feel much like speaking to anyone today."
You regard him evenly. Sharp cheekbones, one of which is covered by a shining, moist line. Dark eyes outlined with darker precision. Slim, seemingly asexual body that begged to be explored. Guitarist's hands, rough and calloused. You think about how those hands would feel caressing your smooth skin and shiver.
"So no more speaking," you whisper quietly, leaning in impossibly closer. He finally turns to face you, and you see that his eye makeup has smeared. It gives him a haunting beauty, captivating your soul. He catches on to your intentions and moves in toward you, placing the sweetest kiss upon your lips you've ever had. It's soft, simple, and speaks volumes all at the same time.
You hunger for more, but as you lean back and smile at him, you realize that more will come in the days to come. There's no need to rush him for now.
Fin.
Okay, so how was it? Please be gentle.