Struck By Lightning
Title: Struck By Lightning
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mike/Scott
Genre: Oneshot
Synopsis: In the midst of a storm.
A/N: My first My Own Private Idaho fic! God I love them
They were five hours into the storm, the power still out with no signs of coming back soon. The hotel never had electricity, because Jane rarely paid. It was the absence of the street lights and advertisements and store signs outside their walls that really made a difference. At night that's what kept things visible, and they were used to that, but without them Scott and Mike resorted to filling their room with candles, precariously perched on every shelf and table, and the nightstand next to the bed was full of them so they could see each other as they rested.
"Their room" was probably the wrong term. It was more Mike's room, really, because Scott was gone most nights. Granted Mike was too, but he'd come back to the hotel eventually to get some sort of shut eye, even if that meant shimmying the front door open at two in the morning to get in. He always needed a place to come back to. Apparently, Scott didn't. That, or he had somewhere else to go back to.
But they'd been stuck together all day. The storm formed off the Pacific (Mike knew this because of the radio Walt had under the bridge with him. Mike didn't know how he felt about radios, or televisions, or newspapers. Too much information) and hit Portland at noon, and the sky was a ghastly black with crippled gray clouds ever since, accompanied by rains of biblical proportions. No one dared go outside, not even Budd who had the biggest tolerance to the weather. There was a legend that he went out during a hurricane just because he wanted a beer from the convenience store, and he came back to the hotel drenched and shivering, sipping from the bottle. But as Scott always said, "Don't use Budd as a gauge for anything. I swear to god, there's something wrong with him."
Mike was laying belly down on the bed, closest to the nightstand. He held his hand over one of the candles, then suddenly jerked it back. And then put it over again.
Scott leaned against the wall on the other side of the bed. He had his knees to his chest, his jacket still on.
"I have that guitar, you know," he said to Mike.
Mike continued to stare at the candle, fingertips dipping into the flame. "Neither of us can play guitar anyway. I know you can't."
Scott shrugged. "Something to do. It's in the closet over there."
"Then get it."
Scott grabbed the candle nearest to him and used it as a guide to the closet on the other side of the room. He came back with it in his arms, sitting down on the bed and holding it in playing position.
Mike turned around. "You're not a lefty."
Scott stared. "And?"
"You're holding that guitar like a lefty."
"How would you know?"
"Look," Mike said, sitting up next to Scott. He flipped the guitar to the other side and then handed it back to Scott. "You're a righty, you strum with your right hand. You play the notes with your left."
"That's stupid," Scott said. "The notes are the most important, shouldn't they be played with your dominant hand?"
"I don't make the rules," Mike said. He went back to his candle.
Scott sighed lightly, and plucked a string. It sounded sour and harsh.
"Do you know how to tune a guitar, Mikey?" he asked.
"Nope."
"This guitar is missing a string. I just realized."
"You found it in a dumpster, I'm not surprised."
Scott continued to mess with it anyway, playing each string one by one. Then he violently strummed every string at once, flipping his hair at Mike with a glamorous stare. "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash," he said in an almost spot on impression.
Mike chuckled. "Why are you so good at doing that."
"Impressions?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "I've got no talents."
"Because you're mine," Scott sang as Cash again, banging on the guitar with his hand. "I walk the line."
Mike dipped his fingers in the hot wax of the candle, red liquid molding to the shape of his fingertips. He held up his hand for Scott to see.
"I'm cold," Scott said, putting down the second-hand guitar on the floor. He shook a little for good measure. "Draft's worse than usual."
"Wind's worse than usual," Mike said. He picked the wax off his fingers.
"Is it always cold in here?" Scott asked, watching Mike.
"Yeah," he said with a small huff. "There's extra blankets in the closet."
Scott retrieved them, laying down on the bed next to Mike. He spread the blankets out so they'd cover the two of them.
"Thanks Scott," Mike mumbled. He flipped over on his back. As he looked at Scott he saw the candlelight reflect off of those earth brown eyes.
"I don't know what time it is, but I'm tired," Scott said, resting his head on one of the pillows. He snuggled up closer to Mike.
"Weather affects how you feel. Rain makes people feel tired," Mike said.
"Really?" Scott asked.
"I've got no idea." They both laughed.
"I should come home at night more often," Scott said with a stretch.
"That would be nice, yeah," Mike said. "But usually there's no candles and layers of blankets. And the sound of wind and rain."
"People think wind and rain sounds relaxing," Scott said. "Did you know that people buy tapes of just that? Sounds of storms? Helps them fall asleep." He pulled the blanket up closer to his neck. "But put someone out in the middle of a storm instead of their cushy queen sized bed, they'll bug out."
"That's funny."
"It is."
Mike shut his eyes. "Is it safe to leave candles burning while we sleep?"
"Is it safe to do anything?" Scott asked, and Mike smiled a bit.
"If we burn the hotel down," Mike said. "Let's live at your family's place."
"Why do you always have to bring them up?" he asked. He didn't seem particularly agitated, just curious. "To me, they don't exist."
"I don't care," Mike breathed.
"You're like, the only family I need." Scott rested his head close enough to Mike's that their cheeks were practically touching.
"Brothers," Mike said half-heartedly.
"If you were my father's son, he'd disown you," Scott laughed.
"If I were my son, I'd disown me too," Mike said, only realizing what thoughts that'd bring up after the fact.
Scott paused apprehensively. "For what it's worth, Mikey... I'd be proud if you were my son."
Mike swallowed sharply. "That's a, a real nice thing for you to say."
Scott closed his eyes and threw an arm over Mike, keeping him close. "Goodnight."
"Sleep tight, mister Favor," Mike said, yawning.
It would take Mike another hour to actually fall asleep. Partly because of the wind hitting the walls, and partly because he liked to watch Scott sleep.
It would take Mike less than fifteen minutes to cry after Scott woke up in the middle of the night to pet Mike's hair gently, and then go back to sleep.
He never was good at Scott, no matter how much he wanted to be.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mike/Scott
Genre: Oneshot
Synopsis: In the midst of a storm.
A/N: My first My Own Private Idaho fic! God I love them
They were five hours into the storm, the power still out with no signs of coming back soon. The hotel never had electricity, because Jane rarely paid. It was the absence of the street lights and advertisements and store signs outside their walls that really made a difference. At night that's what kept things visible, and they were used to that, but without them Scott and Mike resorted to filling their room with candles, precariously perched on every shelf and table, and the nightstand next to the bed was full of them so they could see each other as they rested.
"Their room" was probably the wrong term. It was more Mike's room, really, because Scott was gone most nights. Granted Mike was too, but he'd come back to the hotel eventually to get some sort of shut eye, even if that meant shimmying the front door open at two in the morning to get in. He always needed a place to come back to. Apparently, Scott didn't. That, or he had somewhere else to go back to.
But they'd been stuck together all day. The storm formed off the Pacific (Mike knew this because of the radio Walt had under the bridge with him. Mike didn't know how he felt about radios, or televisions, or newspapers. Too much information) and hit Portland at noon, and the sky was a ghastly black with crippled gray clouds ever since, accompanied by rains of biblical proportions. No one dared go outside, not even Budd who had the biggest tolerance to the weather. There was a legend that he went out during a hurricane just because he wanted a beer from the convenience store, and he came back to the hotel drenched and shivering, sipping from the bottle. But as Scott always said, "Don't use Budd as a gauge for anything. I swear to god, there's something wrong with him."
Mike was laying belly down on the bed, closest to the nightstand. He held his hand over one of the candles, then suddenly jerked it back. And then put it over again.
Scott leaned against the wall on the other side of the bed. He had his knees to his chest, his jacket still on.
"I have that guitar, you know," he said to Mike.
Mike continued to stare at the candle, fingertips dipping into the flame. "Neither of us can play guitar anyway. I know you can't."
Scott shrugged. "Something to do. It's in the closet over there."
"Then get it."
Scott grabbed the candle nearest to him and used it as a guide to the closet on the other side of the room. He came back with it in his arms, sitting down on the bed and holding it in playing position.
Mike turned around. "You're not a lefty."
Scott stared. "And?"
"You're holding that guitar like a lefty."
"How would you know?"
"Look," Mike said, sitting up next to Scott. He flipped the guitar to the other side and then handed it back to Scott. "You're a righty, you strum with your right hand. You play the notes with your left."
"That's stupid," Scott said. "The notes are the most important, shouldn't they be played with your dominant hand?"
"I don't make the rules," Mike said. He went back to his candle.
Scott sighed lightly, and plucked a string. It sounded sour and harsh.
"Do you know how to tune a guitar, Mikey?" he asked.
"Nope."
"This guitar is missing a string. I just realized."
"You found it in a dumpster, I'm not surprised."
Scott continued to mess with it anyway, playing each string one by one. Then he violently strummed every string at once, flipping his hair at Mike with a glamorous stare. "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash," he said in an almost spot on impression.
Mike chuckled. "Why are you so good at doing that."
"Impressions?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "I've got no talents."
"Because you're mine," Scott sang as Cash again, banging on the guitar with his hand. "I walk the line."
Mike dipped his fingers in the hot wax of the candle, red liquid molding to the shape of his fingertips. He held up his hand for Scott to see.
"I'm cold," Scott said, putting down the second-hand guitar on the floor. He shook a little for good measure. "Draft's worse than usual."
"Wind's worse than usual," Mike said. He picked the wax off his fingers.
"Is it always cold in here?" Scott asked, watching Mike.
"Yeah," he said with a small huff. "There's extra blankets in the closet."
Scott retrieved them, laying down on the bed next to Mike. He spread the blankets out so they'd cover the two of them.
"Thanks Scott," Mike mumbled. He flipped over on his back. As he looked at Scott he saw the candlelight reflect off of those earth brown eyes.
"I don't know what time it is, but I'm tired," Scott said, resting his head on one of the pillows. He snuggled up closer to Mike.
"Weather affects how you feel. Rain makes people feel tired," Mike said.
"Really?" Scott asked.
"I've got no idea." They both laughed.
"I should come home at night more often," Scott said with a stretch.
"That would be nice, yeah," Mike said. "But usually there's no candles and layers of blankets. And the sound of wind and rain."
"People think wind and rain sounds relaxing," Scott said. "Did you know that people buy tapes of just that? Sounds of storms? Helps them fall asleep." He pulled the blanket up closer to his neck. "But put someone out in the middle of a storm instead of their cushy queen sized bed, they'll bug out."
"That's funny."
"It is."
Mike shut his eyes. "Is it safe to leave candles burning while we sleep?"
"Is it safe to do anything?" Scott asked, and Mike smiled a bit.
"If we burn the hotel down," Mike said. "Let's live at your family's place."
"Why do you always have to bring them up?" he asked. He didn't seem particularly agitated, just curious. "To me, they don't exist."
"I don't care," Mike breathed.
"You're like, the only family I need." Scott rested his head close enough to Mike's that their cheeks were practically touching.
"Brothers," Mike said half-heartedly.
"If you were my father's son, he'd disown you," Scott laughed.
"If I were my son, I'd disown me too," Mike said, only realizing what thoughts that'd bring up after the fact.
Scott paused apprehensively. "For what it's worth, Mikey... I'd be proud if you were my son."
Mike swallowed sharply. "That's a, a real nice thing for you to say."
Scott closed his eyes and threw an arm over Mike, keeping him close. "Goodnight."
"Sleep tight, mister Favor," Mike said, yawning.
It would take Mike another hour to actually fall asleep. Partly because of the wind hitting the walls, and partly because he liked to watch Scott sleep.
It would take Mike less than fifteen minutes to cry after Scott woke up in the middle of the night to pet Mike's hair gently, and then go back to sleep.
He never was good at Scott, no matter how much he wanted to be.