(no subject)
Title: Almost Famous
Pairing: Jalan
Rating: PG
Notes: I wrote this in less than an hour (which is to say, um, forgive me if it's not a masterpiece), and I had almost forgotten how easy and natural this fandom can be sometimes. ci_slash needs to wake up, damnit!
It’s bad news that drives him to the bar, a little hole in the wall where the smoke rains down heavily despite the ban, and the old jukebox in the corner alternates between rusted country and dejected blues.
He wishes he could say that this was the anomaly in his life, the anomaly in his week, the anomaly in his year. Kalan Porter is a lot of things, but liar has never been one of them. He’s been here before, more often than not with a tiny hand pressed against the small of his back, long hair dancing over the skin of his wrists, and the smell of perfume and shampoo combating with tobacco and the sting of tequila when it hits your nostrils.
In the end, the only anomaly that he finds is sitting at the bar, head ducked low over a bottle of Kokanee, fingers working progressively and methodically at the label.
He knows those fingers.
.
He watches, for a moment.
Jacob knows it, although exactly how he couldn’t hope to explain. It something in the weight of his stare, as if his eyes hold a secret that his lips will never utter. It’s just unmistakably him.
He spends every night on stage now with two thousand eyes on him, and he can still feel the familiarity of his blaze. Kalan. This is the dance routine that they practiced longer than any other during idol, and god help him, Jacob will have something down better than Kalan does. He doesn’t even have to look in the reflection of the mirror behind the row of dusty bottle tops to know whose eyes he’ll meet.
But he’s a curious animal. He does it, anyhow.
.
Kalan takes the stool next to him, as if this was planned. As if they’d arranged to meet here, friends amicable and excited on two ends of a phone line, laughing their way through see-you-soons and I-miss-yous that fill the distance before they can even be pushed away from teeth and tongue.
He orders from the bartender, a low muttering of ‘the usual’, as if he’s unwilling to admit that he’s here enough to be a usual. He wiggles out of his coat with what he hopes is a little more demure than a wiggle - a twist, or maybe a shimmy. The double rye is in front of him before he even has time to say hello. “Thanks, Bill” he murmurs to the ice cubes as the bartender hastens off to the more sociable patrons.
“You’re a brunette,” is all Jacob says, by way of greeting.
.
They talk without talking, skirting around anything that could be important. Like why the circles under Kalan’s eyes have shifted from tawny to violet, and why there’s a slight tan line on Jacob’s ring finger that’s glaring brilliantly at Kalan.
They don’t talk about thin hips and bedroom eyes or the velvety-soft touch of a woman in juxtaposition with a man, but somehow the words still hang around them like thought bubbles in a cartoon.
The coincidence or non-coincidence of ending up here together stomps around them like a petulant child, who they try desperately to ignore.
“So, you’re on tour?” Kalan offers when the silence gets too raucous, just so that he can open his mouth in an attempt to let the butterflies out.
.
They hover on that for a good fifteen minutes, through another beer for Jacob and three very shifty bar cashews for Kalan, his own form of gambling. They talk about the ladies in Calgary, in Regina, in Kitchener - as if they’re simply bars, restaurants, hotels, types of wine. They’re the landmarks, the constants; Jacob and Kalan are the variables.
Jacob clears his throat in another silence. He looks up with invariable vulnerability, and swallows again before casting his eyes downwards and speaking in undertones. He doesn’t have to explain himself; a summer of lying on the linoleum floor of the kitchen with the portable DVD player does it for him.
“Act one, in which she pretends she doesn’t care about him.”
.
They make it outside before act two begins, before Kalan feels trapped. He’s never been much of an actor, and especially not like this.
The cold air burns down his throat and into his lungs, and it feels too much like drowning. Jacob’s hand is brushing against his coat with every second step like a metronome, but instead of a lifeline it feels like he’s being pushed under.
He feels lightheaded from the rye and frenzied from the frost, his heart pounding in his chest and his pulse so palpable in his neck and wrists that he can’t tell if the throbbing music is coming from a nearby bar or himself.
He smiles anyway, like this is an interview on a bad hangover and it’s a pretty woman in matching dress and heels sitting across from him.
“Act two, in which he pretends he doesn’t care. And goes right for her.”
He knows the lines, and he knows his part. He’s never been one to disappoint, if he can help it.
.
Act three begins with another scene change, the two unconventional heroes pressed tightly against the doorframe of a shoddily decorated set; a nondescript apartment in middleclass North America.
The soundtrack is their ragged breathing, the last existing seconds of a lamp on a coffee table and the uneasy curse that follows, the sound of clothes sliding from against the heat of skin to the cool of hardwood.
Neither says the line, neither one needs to. Act Three, in which it all plays out the way she planned it. She'll eat him alive. They never have determined who she is, and while Kalan once may have thought it was God, he doesn’t speak of such childish ideals anymore.
The act ends with three whispered words, and then they fade to black, familiar body heat shared for once instead of the alien kind they’ve both become accustomed to.
.
He slips out at dawn, optimism wafting after him like a curtain closing. They don’t speak - they’ve never needed to. They have planes to catch and studios to get to, scales that need practicing and songs waiting to be written.
Instead, Kalan nods and Jacob offers a wry smile.
They both know it’s the goodbye that they’ve tried a thousand times before; maybe this time, they’ll actually mean it.
Pairing: Jalan
Rating: PG
Notes: I wrote this in less than an hour (which is to say, um, forgive me if it's not a masterpiece), and I had almost forgotten how easy and natural this fandom can be sometimes. ci_slash needs to wake up, damnit!
It’s bad news that drives him to the bar, a little hole in the wall where the smoke rains down heavily despite the ban, and the old jukebox in the corner alternates between rusted country and dejected blues.
He wishes he could say that this was the anomaly in his life, the anomaly in his week, the anomaly in his year. Kalan Porter is a lot of things, but liar has never been one of them. He’s been here before, more often than not with a tiny hand pressed against the small of his back, long hair dancing over the skin of his wrists, and the smell of perfume and shampoo combating with tobacco and the sting of tequila when it hits your nostrils.
In the end, the only anomaly that he finds is sitting at the bar, head ducked low over a bottle of Kokanee, fingers working progressively and methodically at the label.
He knows those fingers.
.
He watches, for a moment.
Jacob knows it, although exactly how he couldn’t hope to explain. It something in the weight of his stare, as if his eyes hold a secret that his lips will never utter. It’s just unmistakably him.
He spends every night on stage now with two thousand eyes on him, and he can still feel the familiarity of his blaze. Kalan. This is the dance routine that they practiced longer than any other during idol, and god help him, Jacob will have something down better than Kalan does. He doesn’t even have to look in the reflection of the mirror behind the row of dusty bottle tops to know whose eyes he’ll meet.
But he’s a curious animal. He does it, anyhow.
.
Kalan takes the stool next to him, as if this was planned. As if they’d arranged to meet here, friends amicable and excited on two ends of a phone line, laughing their way through see-you-soons and I-miss-yous that fill the distance before they can even be pushed away from teeth and tongue.
He orders from the bartender, a low muttering of ‘the usual’, as if he’s unwilling to admit that he’s here enough to be a usual. He wiggles out of his coat with what he hopes is a little more demure than a wiggle - a twist, or maybe a shimmy. The double rye is in front of him before he even has time to say hello. “Thanks, Bill” he murmurs to the ice cubes as the bartender hastens off to the more sociable patrons.
“You’re a brunette,” is all Jacob says, by way of greeting.
.
They talk without talking, skirting around anything that could be important. Like why the circles under Kalan’s eyes have shifted from tawny to violet, and why there’s a slight tan line on Jacob’s ring finger that’s glaring brilliantly at Kalan.
They don’t talk about thin hips and bedroom eyes or the velvety-soft touch of a woman in juxtaposition with a man, but somehow the words still hang around them like thought bubbles in a cartoon.
The coincidence or non-coincidence of ending up here together stomps around them like a petulant child, who they try desperately to ignore.
“So, you’re on tour?” Kalan offers when the silence gets too raucous, just so that he can open his mouth in an attempt to let the butterflies out.
.
They hover on that for a good fifteen minutes, through another beer for Jacob and three very shifty bar cashews for Kalan, his own form of gambling. They talk about the ladies in Calgary, in Regina, in Kitchener - as if they’re simply bars, restaurants, hotels, types of wine. They’re the landmarks, the constants; Jacob and Kalan are the variables.
Jacob clears his throat in another silence. He looks up with invariable vulnerability, and swallows again before casting his eyes downwards and speaking in undertones. He doesn’t have to explain himself; a summer of lying on the linoleum floor of the kitchen with the portable DVD player does it for him.
“Act one, in which she pretends she doesn’t care about him.”
.
They make it outside before act two begins, before Kalan feels trapped. He’s never been much of an actor, and especially not like this.
The cold air burns down his throat and into his lungs, and it feels too much like drowning. Jacob’s hand is brushing against his coat with every second step like a metronome, but instead of a lifeline it feels like he’s being pushed under.
He feels lightheaded from the rye and frenzied from the frost, his heart pounding in his chest and his pulse so palpable in his neck and wrists that he can’t tell if the throbbing music is coming from a nearby bar or himself.
He smiles anyway, like this is an interview on a bad hangover and it’s a pretty woman in matching dress and heels sitting across from him.
“Act two, in which he pretends he doesn’t care. And goes right for her.”
He knows the lines, and he knows his part. He’s never been one to disappoint, if he can help it.
.
Act three begins with another scene change, the two unconventional heroes pressed tightly against the doorframe of a shoddily decorated set; a nondescript apartment in middleclass North America.
The soundtrack is their ragged breathing, the last existing seconds of a lamp on a coffee table and the uneasy curse that follows, the sound of clothes sliding from against the heat of skin to the cool of hardwood.
Neither says the line, neither one needs to. Act Three, in which it all plays out the way she planned it. She'll eat him alive. They never have determined who she is, and while Kalan once may have thought it was God, he doesn’t speak of such childish ideals anymore.
The act ends with three whispered words, and then they fade to black, familiar body heat shared for once instead of the alien kind they’ve both become accustomed to.
.
He slips out at dawn, optimism wafting after him like a curtain closing. They don’t speak - they’ve never needed to. They have planes to catch and studios to get to, scales that need practicing and songs waiting to be written.
Instead, Kalan nods and Jacob offers a wry smile.
They both know it’s the goodbye that they’ve tried a thousand times before; maybe this time, they’ll actually mean it.