fic: Real Reasons
Title: Real Reasons
Author: stttmsbwa
Rating: R
Disclaimer: It would be nice, but I cannot own real peoples.
Warnings: Tons of swearing and, alas, only preslash. Oh, and RPS.
Summary: Josh found the perfect surprise for Drake.
A/N: Wrote this in response to the wonderful interview here.
It was one of those moments where he had simply been in the right place at the right time for. Like, just plain luck.
Or some shit like that.
It was a friend of a friend’s sister’s boyfriend who had the actual item of conversation. A conversation that Josh hadn’t been paying attention to until -
“ - but it’s signed by freaking Paul McCartney! Why in the hell wouldn’t the dumbass want it?”
Josh turned his attention from his phone (no missed calls, no unread texts, dammit) to the conversation.
Trigger words. They were a bitch most of the time, making him twist his head and draw his eyes to all sorts of out-of-context situations that really had no association with the real deal.
Like the word “brotha.” Fuck Josh if he didn’t nearly jump out of his skin every time he heard the word “brotha” exclaimed within his personal radius. As if he really would be somewhere, anywhere, arms out and face glowing with the amusement that only comes from the pleasures of inside jokes.
And the word “pick,” which in all reality is just kind of strange. Because the word “pick” has more than one meaning, and does not always refer to the small plastic rounded triangles that somehow manage to find their way into Josh’s car and coat pockets and in between couch cushions and once into Josh’s wallet where he’ll sometimes open for cash and stop because his fingers fun over the smooth surface of the black and orange swirled design of the pick that Josh had stolen from between Drake’s strings that night when Drake had gotten drunk and told Josh that he had very pretty eyes before throwing up and passing out.
So when people say things like, “I’ll pick you up at nine,” or “Have you picked out an outfit for tomorrow’s interview?” - all Josh can think of is those picks that Drake always has, always leaves behind, like fucking breadcrumbs or something.
The word “Beatles” is another trigger word. A more fortunate word, because at least most of the time people are actually talking about the band when they say “Beatles,” and not like bugs or shit - although that had been one awkward conversation Josh had interrupted, exclaiming his rage that someone had thought it a good idea to “exterminate all those fuckin’ wall-crawling beetles.”
So excuse Josh if he comes off a little strong when joining a discussion on the Beatles. It’s not his fault, really. (Dammit, Drake. Goddammit all.)
It hadn’t been that hard for Josh to convince his friend to get his friend’s sister’s boyfriend to let him come into possession of the Paul McCartney signed book. (Alright, maybe four thousand dollars was a hefty sum. But Josh didn’t give a fuck. This was mother fucking McCartney they were talking about here. Drake was gonna fall over when he saw.)
And it wasn’t as if Josh need a reason to see Drake. He never needed a reason to just flip open his phone, hit that speed dial, and respond to Drake’s “Hey!” with a, “So let’s get together and catch up.”
But it felt better, knowing that he had a “real” reason.
It felt even better when Drake walked up to the table - glasses slightly askew, face covered with two days of no-shave-shame, all decked out in a pair of jeans and a rumpled tee (probably the after affects of a day in the studio, perched on a stool while strumming his guitar with his mother fucking pick and singing sweetly into a mic and being all Drake and, Goddammit, just wonderful and sexy and awesome, and fuck it all Josh was so fucked), so full of smiles and animated enthusiasm. He reached down to hug Josh, who awkwardly started to stand but stopped when those freckled arms wrapped around him tightly.
“It’s not like I went to fucking war, Bell.”
Drake’s laugh was enough to make Josh twitch a little, but those smiles were contagious - not that Josh needed a reason to smile around Drake.
Still, “real” reasons and shit.
The dinner was good and the conversation was perfect. They fell back into their easy rhythm of trading stories and giving each other hell for stupid shit. Their friendly banter flowed like a melody, and Josh wanted to step away from himself long enough to punch himself in the face for making such a fucking sappy analogy.
When they were both sipping at their post-meal coffees, Josh decided to bring out the big prize. Handing the plastic bag over the table and into Drake’s confused and curious hands, Josh waited with a knowing smirk on his face.
It took one, two, three -
“Holy shit! Josh! This! Holy fuck! Oh my God! Where did you find this? This is amazing! Oh my God!”
It was all Josh was expecting, honestly. Just Drake and his well-predicted response. It was all Josh would need to ride a three week high. A high that would ease his twitching fingers (no missed calls, no new texts - but at least he knew that Drake loved his surprise) and slow down his response to trigger words (Maybe. Hopefully.).
But then Drake got up.
Josh watched him get up.
He got up and quickly ambled over to Josh’s side of the table.
Drake leaned down.
Grabbed Josh into another hug.
Freckled arms winding around and then freckled hands grasping for Josh’s cheeks.
Drake’s face lowered closer and closer, until Josh was sure that he could count the number of freckles on Drake’s nose and that Drake’s eyes looked even more brilliant up close and behind those frames.
And even though Josh had already known, had already experienced this before (because sometimes children shows call for a little boy on boy kissing to complete the essence of brotherly love, and because Drake Bell cannot fucking hold his liquor and can be such a touchy feely drunk), this time there was a real reason.
And Josh is all about reasons.
The kiss was hard and quick and rough - like, fucking rough. Drake’s overgrown facial hair scuffed against the skin of Josh’s chin and it hurt. But Josh could only choke back a gasp and revel at the feel of Drake’s lips pressing against his own.
Before Josh could reach up and hold Drake’s head there, before he could stand up and properly kiss Drake back - growl into his lips and nibble sharply at his lower lip and work his mouth open so Josh could finally taste him and finally know what it would be like - Drake was pulling away and continuing his blathering thanks and praise.
“Josh, you’re the best! I mean it man. You’re, like, just the best. I can’t thank you enough. This is so fucking cool, man. Like, seriously.”
All Josh could do was blink a few times, watch Drake settle back into his seat and run his fingers along the page that contained the signature.
“Whatever man, no big deal.”
Josh was so fucking screwed. Even more so than before.
“Just, next time? Shave before you kiss. Your facial hair fucking hurts, asshole.”
Author: stttmsbwa
Rating: R
Disclaimer: It would be nice, but I cannot own real peoples.
Warnings: Tons of swearing and, alas, only preslash. Oh, and RPS.
Summary: Josh found the perfect surprise for Drake.
A/N: Wrote this in response to the wonderful interview here.
It was one of those moments where he had simply been in the right place at the right time for. Like, just plain luck.
Or some shit like that.
It was a friend of a friend’s sister’s boyfriend who had the actual item of conversation. A conversation that Josh hadn’t been paying attention to until -
“ - but it’s signed by freaking Paul McCartney! Why in the hell wouldn’t the dumbass want it?”
Josh turned his attention from his phone (no missed calls, no unread texts, dammit) to the conversation.
Trigger words. They were a bitch most of the time, making him twist his head and draw his eyes to all sorts of out-of-context situations that really had no association with the real deal.
Like the word “brotha.” Fuck Josh if he didn’t nearly jump out of his skin every time he heard the word “brotha” exclaimed within his personal radius. As if he really would be somewhere, anywhere, arms out and face glowing with the amusement that only comes from the pleasures of inside jokes.
And the word “pick,” which in all reality is just kind of strange. Because the word “pick” has more than one meaning, and does not always refer to the small plastic rounded triangles that somehow manage to find their way into Josh’s car and coat pockets and in between couch cushions and once into Josh’s wallet where he’ll sometimes open for cash and stop because his fingers fun over the smooth surface of the black and orange swirled design of the pick that Josh had stolen from between Drake’s strings that night when Drake had gotten drunk and told Josh that he had very pretty eyes before throwing up and passing out.
So when people say things like, “I’ll pick you up at nine,” or “Have you picked out an outfit for tomorrow’s interview?” - all Josh can think of is those picks that Drake always has, always leaves behind, like fucking breadcrumbs or something.
The word “Beatles” is another trigger word. A more fortunate word, because at least most of the time people are actually talking about the band when they say “Beatles,” and not like bugs or shit - although that had been one awkward conversation Josh had interrupted, exclaiming his rage that someone had thought it a good idea to “exterminate all those fuckin’ wall-crawling beetles.”
So excuse Josh if he comes off a little strong when joining a discussion on the Beatles. It’s not his fault, really. (Dammit, Drake. Goddammit all.)
It hadn’t been that hard for Josh to convince his friend to get his friend’s sister’s boyfriend to let him come into possession of the Paul McCartney signed book. (Alright, maybe four thousand dollars was a hefty sum. But Josh didn’t give a fuck. This was mother fucking McCartney they were talking about here. Drake was gonna fall over when he saw.)
And it wasn’t as if Josh need a reason to see Drake. He never needed a reason to just flip open his phone, hit that speed dial, and respond to Drake’s “Hey!” with a, “So let’s get together and catch up.”
But it felt better, knowing that he had a “real” reason.
It felt even better when Drake walked up to the table - glasses slightly askew, face covered with two days of no-shave-shame, all decked out in a pair of jeans and a rumpled tee (probably the after affects of a day in the studio, perched on a stool while strumming his guitar with his mother fucking pick and singing sweetly into a mic and being all Drake and, Goddammit, just wonderful and sexy and awesome, and fuck it all Josh was so fucked), so full of smiles and animated enthusiasm. He reached down to hug Josh, who awkwardly started to stand but stopped when those freckled arms wrapped around him tightly.
“It’s not like I went to fucking war, Bell.”
Drake’s laugh was enough to make Josh twitch a little, but those smiles were contagious - not that Josh needed a reason to smile around Drake.
Still, “real” reasons and shit.
The dinner was good and the conversation was perfect. They fell back into their easy rhythm of trading stories and giving each other hell for stupid shit. Their friendly banter flowed like a melody, and Josh wanted to step away from himself long enough to punch himself in the face for making such a fucking sappy analogy.
When they were both sipping at their post-meal coffees, Josh decided to bring out the big prize. Handing the plastic bag over the table and into Drake’s confused and curious hands, Josh waited with a knowing smirk on his face.
It took one, two, three -
“Holy shit! Josh! This! Holy fuck! Oh my God! Where did you find this? This is amazing! Oh my God!”
It was all Josh was expecting, honestly. Just Drake and his well-predicted response. It was all Josh would need to ride a three week high. A high that would ease his twitching fingers (no missed calls, no new texts - but at least he knew that Drake loved his surprise) and slow down his response to trigger words (Maybe. Hopefully.).
But then Drake got up.
Josh watched him get up.
He got up and quickly ambled over to Josh’s side of the table.
Drake leaned down.
Grabbed Josh into another hug.
Freckled arms winding around and then freckled hands grasping for Josh’s cheeks.
Drake’s face lowered closer and closer, until Josh was sure that he could count the number of freckles on Drake’s nose and that Drake’s eyes looked even more brilliant up close and behind those frames.
And even though Josh had already known, had already experienced this before (because sometimes children shows call for a little boy on boy kissing to complete the essence of brotherly love, and because Drake Bell cannot fucking hold his liquor and can be such a touchy feely drunk), this time there was a real reason.
And Josh is all about reasons.
The kiss was hard and quick and rough - like, fucking rough. Drake’s overgrown facial hair scuffed against the skin of Josh’s chin and it hurt. But Josh could only choke back a gasp and revel at the feel of Drake’s lips pressing against his own.
Before Josh could reach up and hold Drake’s head there, before he could stand up and properly kiss Drake back - growl into his lips and nibble sharply at his lower lip and work his mouth open so Josh could finally taste him and finally know what it would be like - Drake was pulling away and continuing his blathering thanks and praise.
“Josh, you’re the best! I mean it man. You’re, like, just the best. I can’t thank you enough. This is so fucking cool, man. Like, seriously.”
All Josh could do was blink a few times, watch Drake settle back into his seat and run his fingers along the page that contained the signature.
“Whatever man, no big deal.”
Josh was so fucking screwed. Even more so than before.
“Just, next time? Shave before you kiss. Your facial hair fucking hurts, asshole.”