Songs You Never Hear on the Radio by A S Lawrence; Dan; Rating: PG
Title: Songs You Never Hear on the Radio
Author: phoebesmum
Author's website: None, fic archived in LJ memories, and tagged
Pairing: None, Dan/Casey UST
Rating: PG
Category: Slash, angst, ficlet
Summary: Anything's better than nothing, even if it's not what you really want
Written: July 2004
Songs You Never Hear On The Radio
How I got here: last night. Anthony's. Tequila shots. Women wanting autographs for their boyfriends. Other women, or sometimes the same ones, wanting to bag a minor celebrity for themselves, and to have something to brag about to their friends. So I ended up in this girl's apartment and she put a CD on, and she started dancing. She was pretty drunk, so it wasn't really dancing, it was shifting from foot to foot and swaying her hips, and she couldn't hold the beat if her life depended upon it, but it didn't, so that was okay. The hip-swaying thing was nice, anyway. And she started singing along, and when she came to the chorus, the hook's this: Don't marry her - fuck me. Which isn't how it goes when they play this song on the radio, but that's not really surprising, is it?
I was at least as drunk as she was, maybe more, so you'll have to excuse me if my pick-up lines weren't as sharp and witty as they might've been. They had been earlier, that was how I'd got this far, but that was a lot earlier. About half a bottle earlier. I just laughed, and said "Marry who?" and she said, "Anyone!" I said, "How about the rest of it?" and she stopped dancing, or swaying, or whatever it was, and looked straight at me, and said, "I was counting on it."
So I did.
It was okay. Not great; if I was a couple of drinks past witty, I was sure as hell at least one drink past 'great'. But, you know, it was sex, so that's good by definition. She didn't have to fake it, as far as I can tell, which is as far as any other guy, which is to say not at all, and, I might add, neither did I. (That was a joke, by the way.) I figured she'd probably give me reasonably high marks when she reported back to her friends, and maybe that'd lead to a lot more easy, casual sex for me. Which, again: good, just by definition.
She went off to sleep straight afterward. I didn't especially want to stay, but it would've looked bad, leaving without saying goodbye, and probably would've affected my score, so I did. I even put my arm around her, and let her use my chest as a pillow. I lay there for a long while, sleepless, staring into the darkness; thinking.
Thinking about that song; thinking, if only it'd come out ten years earlier. If it'd come out before I had to watch my best friend set himself up for ten years of misery, ten years of arguments and whining, of petty, private belittlements and major public humiliation, all for the sake of occasional, grudging, lacklustre sex. If I'd been able to play it to him then, and dance for him - a little better than the girl I was with, a lot better than the woman he was with; way better than him, I have to say, I love him, but he dances like my dad, like your dad, like everyone's dad. If I could have played the music, and danced, and taken his hands, and sung to him, or just said it:
Casey - don't marry her. Fuck me.
But I was only eighteen then, and Casey spent a lot of time pretending he didn't know I slept with men. When he did finally break down enough to admit it, he tried to put it down to my being confused, and going through a difficult time, and twenty different kinds of pop-psych shit. And I was too - what? Too kind, too young, too scared too, yes, too confused, too much in love with him and too afraid of driving him away, too much of all those things to say, "Yeah, Casey. My brother died, so now I have sex with men. That's how it works."
He didn't want to know: that was what it came down to. If he'd ever been attracted to another man, and I was pretty sure that he had, he would've weeded that thought right out, stomped on it, thrown it in the trash and slammed the lid down. Hard. Casey had his goals. They included a beautiful blonde wife, an adorable child or maybe two, a career in sports journalism, one that might start out in copywriting, and subbing in front of the camera when someone higher up the foodchain got sick, and the occasional field interview, mostly the ones no-one else wanted to do, but which would lead inevitably and not so slowly either to his being noticed, and then on to something high-profile. Until he became the subject of interviews himself, an in-demand talk show guest, a visible, quotable, photographable presence at parties and launches and movie premieres and (of course) major sporting events, his picture in magazines, his face one that the whole world, or at least all America, or at least all of America that follows sports, would recognise.
That was what he wanted. I don't say he was wrong. Who doesn't want to be rich and famous? And the public likes its celebrities straight or, if that's not possible, at least hidden right away at the back of the closet with the Christmas decorations and that horrible scarf they meant to give to Goodwill. They do now, and they did so even more back then. I just think he picked the wrong woman to do it with. Because, hey, what he wanted, he got. And, hey, guess what? Look where it got him. His wife hates his guts; his kid's scared of him. His marriage is falling apart, and his job's shot to hell. It's been months now since his writing's been any better than just-about-good-enough; months since anyone's heard anything more from him than a snarl. Pretty much the only people still talking to him are me and Dana, and we don't count: we're both in love with him. (We both pretend we don't know about the other.)
And me, I'm not entirely hypocritical. Not entirely. Yes, I like men. I prefer men. I was quite happy, planning a career in writing, behind the scenes, where I could fuck whoever I damn pleased, any time I damn well wanted. Then Casey's star started ascending, and for whatever reason he decided he wanted to take me along for the ride. And I found I liked it. I liked it enough to give up a whole load of other stuff. Stuff that mattered. Important stuff, like who and what I really am. But hey. It's okay. It's not as if I don't like women, too. I do. I don't even mind sleeping with them. It's just … it's just always second best.
Best would've been if Casey had taken Option B: life without the limelight - no pictures in Hello! magazine, no journalists phoning him to ask him to list the Spice Girls from #1 to #5 in order of preference, no fan letters, no-one sending him their underwear in the mail - but life with Danny. I would have loved him, valued him - argued with him, yes, we can't go a day without at least a squabble if not a downright fight, but listened to him, heard his side; sometimes I might even have backed down. I would have supported him, respected his opinions, even the really stupid ones; I'd have been there for him, wherever 'there' might be. I would have done all that. If I'd ever got up the nerve to offer. If he'd ever had the courage to listen. Wouldn't that have been worth the cost?
I would have given it all up for him. He wouldn't even have had to ask me. I still would. In a breath, in a flash, in a heartbeat. For Casey.
But, for the moment, while I'm living my life by crappy pop songs, since I can't be with the one I love, I may as well love the one I'm with. Or if not love - and it isn't - well: just plain old empty sex will have to do. It's done for ten years. It'll keep on doing until something better comes along. And if nothing ever does … well. Then that'll just be how it is.
It can wait until the morning, though. Like I said, it wasn't that great. It's just that … right now, I have nowhere else to be.
Author: phoebesmum
Author's website: None, fic archived in LJ memories, and tagged
Pairing: None, Dan/Casey UST
Rating: PG
Category: Slash, angst, ficlet
Summary: Anything's better than nothing, even if it's not what you really want
Written: July 2004
Songs You Never Hear On The Radio
How I got here: last night. Anthony's. Tequila shots. Women wanting autographs for their boyfriends. Other women, or sometimes the same ones, wanting to bag a minor celebrity for themselves, and to have something to brag about to their friends. So I ended up in this girl's apartment and she put a CD on, and she started dancing. She was pretty drunk, so it wasn't really dancing, it was shifting from foot to foot and swaying her hips, and she couldn't hold the beat if her life depended upon it, but it didn't, so that was okay. The hip-swaying thing was nice, anyway. And she started singing along, and when she came to the chorus, the hook's this: Don't marry her - fuck me. Which isn't how it goes when they play this song on the radio, but that's not really surprising, is it?
I was at least as drunk as she was, maybe more, so you'll have to excuse me if my pick-up lines weren't as sharp and witty as they might've been. They had been earlier, that was how I'd got this far, but that was a lot earlier. About half a bottle earlier. I just laughed, and said "Marry who?" and she said, "Anyone!" I said, "How about the rest of it?" and she stopped dancing, or swaying, or whatever it was, and looked straight at me, and said, "I was counting on it."
So I did.
It was okay. Not great; if I was a couple of drinks past witty, I was sure as hell at least one drink past 'great'. But, you know, it was sex, so that's good by definition. She didn't have to fake it, as far as I can tell, which is as far as any other guy, which is to say not at all, and, I might add, neither did I. (That was a joke, by the way.) I figured she'd probably give me reasonably high marks when she reported back to her friends, and maybe that'd lead to a lot more easy, casual sex for me. Which, again: good, just by definition.
She went off to sleep straight afterward. I didn't especially want to stay, but it would've looked bad, leaving without saying goodbye, and probably would've affected my score, so I did. I even put my arm around her, and let her use my chest as a pillow. I lay there for a long while, sleepless, staring into the darkness; thinking.
Thinking about that song; thinking, if only it'd come out ten years earlier. If it'd come out before I had to watch my best friend set himself up for ten years of misery, ten years of arguments and whining, of petty, private belittlements and major public humiliation, all for the sake of occasional, grudging, lacklustre sex. If I'd been able to play it to him then, and dance for him - a little better than the girl I was with, a lot better than the woman he was with; way better than him, I have to say, I love him, but he dances like my dad, like your dad, like everyone's dad. If I could have played the music, and danced, and taken his hands, and sung to him, or just said it:
Casey - don't marry her. Fuck me.
But I was only eighteen then, and Casey spent a lot of time pretending he didn't know I slept with men. When he did finally break down enough to admit it, he tried to put it down to my being confused, and going through a difficult time, and twenty different kinds of pop-psych shit. And I was too - what? Too kind, too young, too scared too, yes, too confused, too much in love with him and too afraid of driving him away, too much of all those things to say, "Yeah, Casey. My brother died, so now I have sex with men. That's how it works."
He didn't want to know: that was what it came down to. If he'd ever been attracted to another man, and I was pretty sure that he had, he would've weeded that thought right out, stomped on it, thrown it in the trash and slammed the lid down. Hard. Casey had his goals. They included a beautiful blonde wife, an adorable child or maybe two, a career in sports journalism, one that might start out in copywriting, and subbing in front of the camera when someone higher up the foodchain got sick, and the occasional field interview, mostly the ones no-one else wanted to do, but which would lead inevitably and not so slowly either to his being noticed, and then on to something high-profile. Until he became the subject of interviews himself, an in-demand talk show guest, a visible, quotable, photographable presence at parties and launches and movie premieres and (of course) major sporting events, his picture in magazines, his face one that the whole world, or at least all America, or at least all of America that follows sports, would recognise.
That was what he wanted. I don't say he was wrong. Who doesn't want to be rich and famous? And the public likes its celebrities straight or, if that's not possible, at least hidden right away at the back of the closet with the Christmas decorations and that horrible scarf they meant to give to Goodwill. They do now, and they did so even more back then. I just think he picked the wrong woman to do it with. Because, hey, what he wanted, he got. And, hey, guess what? Look where it got him. His wife hates his guts; his kid's scared of him. His marriage is falling apart, and his job's shot to hell. It's been months now since his writing's been any better than just-about-good-enough; months since anyone's heard anything more from him than a snarl. Pretty much the only people still talking to him are me and Dana, and we don't count: we're both in love with him. (We both pretend we don't know about the other.)
And me, I'm not entirely hypocritical. Not entirely. Yes, I like men. I prefer men. I was quite happy, planning a career in writing, behind the scenes, where I could fuck whoever I damn pleased, any time I damn well wanted. Then Casey's star started ascending, and for whatever reason he decided he wanted to take me along for the ride. And I found I liked it. I liked it enough to give up a whole load of other stuff. Stuff that mattered. Important stuff, like who and what I really am. But hey. It's okay. It's not as if I don't like women, too. I do. I don't even mind sleeping with them. It's just … it's just always second best.
Best would've been if Casey had taken Option B: life without the limelight - no pictures in Hello! magazine, no journalists phoning him to ask him to list the Spice Girls from #1 to #5 in order of preference, no fan letters, no-one sending him their underwear in the mail - but life with Danny. I would have loved him, valued him - argued with him, yes, we can't go a day without at least a squabble if not a downright fight, but listened to him, heard his side; sometimes I might even have backed down. I would have supported him, respected his opinions, even the really stupid ones; I'd have been there for him, wherever 'there' might be. I would have done all that. If I'd ever got up the nerve to offer. If he'd ever had the courage to listen. Wouldn't that have been worth the cost?
I would have given it all up for him. He wouldn't even have had to ask me. I still would. In a breath, in a flash, in a heartbeat. For Casey.
But, for the moment, while I'm living my life by crappy pop songs, since I can't be with the one I love, I may as well love the one I'm with. Or if not love - and it isn't - well: just plain old empty sex will have to do. It's done for ten years. It'll keep on doing until something better comes along. And if nothing ever does … well. Then that'll just be how it is.
It can wait until the morning, though. Like I said, it wasn't that great. It's just that … right now, I have nowhere else to be.