Pairing: James/Lars, James/Kirk (if you squint really good, tilt your head to the side and mumble a little james brown)
Warning: none (i assume we have all gathered to watch the men of rock get all homofied)
Summary: How could I have burned paradise?
A/N: You must enjoy. You must review. His Rahmboness commands it.
Disclaimer: If I owned these guys, we would all know it. As it were, I shan't expect to be seein' Lars comin' by to sue me. Unless he's ready to hand out a really good punishment. The fic title comes from the song which this fic is based off of, "Call Me When You're Sober" by Evanescence. Obviously I don't own that either. Enjoy:D
Lars walks into the house. It's late and he's dog tired and nothing is going to stop him from dropping his ass straight into bed, sweaty leather, silk and all.
He chances a sniff at his armpit and screws his nose up at the offensive odor. Yeah, he thinks, it can wait 'til morning.
He's just about to start up the stairs when the phone starts ringing. He's fully prepared to ignore it when the answering machine kicks up.
Hey, Lars. It's Kirk, obviously.
Obviously, he thinks sourly.
If you're not there please call me as soon as you get this. But if you're ass is standing by the stairs because you're feeling too lazy to walk a few feet into the living room and pick up the damn phone just remember: I own nunchucks. And I'm one of those rare guys who doesn't mind hitting another guy in the balls-
Holy motherfucker, I thought I was supposed to be the ranter!
"Do you know what fucking time it is?"
"Time you talked to an old friend, dickwad."
"What are you-? Old friend? Look tell 'em I'll call 'em tomorrow night, afternoon if they're lucky-"
"Where have you been?"
Lars is taken back for a second at the familiar grovelly voice slurred by alcohol. Being slightly woken by surprise he tightly retorts, "Not there."
"No shit, Sherlock. So where have you been then?"
"Away from you."
An irritated sigh echoes through the phone.
"Enough of the bullshit, Lars. I don't have time to sit here and listen to you bull-"
"And I don't have time to sit and wait for you to want me."
"Why don't you go ahead and sleep it off, huh?"
"Sleep what off?"
He couldn't have stopped himself from rolling his eyes even if the bastard had been standing right in front of him.
"So I'm not the only one bringing the bullshit."
"What the fuck are talking about?"
A second roll of eyes as his ire reminds of the lush bed upstairs awaiting his specific arrival. It was custom made after all.
"You fucking kidding me? Even through the phone you smell like the ass end of some cheap brothel."
"Which is obviously what you're trying to get me to let you do."
The pissy voice curls into something sultry and needling that defies him by stroking at the flame dying in the pit of his stomach.
"You can't tell me you don't want it."
He sighs momentary defeat into the phone.
He wraps his free arm around his waist. What he's protecting himself from is trying to pull him to pieces.
"You want it just as bad as...What?"
Another sigh as his eyes roam the plush carpet of his bordering-on-gaudy existence.
He feels the heaviness pulling at the backs of his eyes and clogging up his throat.
"I want this. I want you calling me up and yelling at me for worrying you. I want you standing outside of my house in the pouring rain pissed because you couldn't get a hold of me. I want you holding me like you're too afraid to ever let go ever again. I want you so bad I can taste you every second of every minute of everyday. I want you all to myself."
James' voice lowers to a soothing whisper, "And you can have-"
Bitterness snags into his voice with the instinct of a doberman pincher watching their owner about to be hit.
"But for someone who's all about disregarding authority and going by his own rules you're turning out to make one devout motherfucker when it comes to booze."
Pause. An anger boiling in a slightly trembling, still blurred voice. James isn't the only one who can artfully stroke someone's flame.
"Still not going to happen."
"Look, James, I gotta go. I have shit to take care of tomorrow. Like my family for instance."
A sharp growl registers from the other line.
Inside, he can't help but wax poetic at how good it can feel to flick his verbal wrist and instantly have the other man on his haunches for a change.
"Oh, and James? Next time, call me when you're sober."
The resounding click echoes satisfyingly through his head. But the pleasure of victory has faded completely by the time he crawls into bed. He had issued a challenge.
It was a victory he would not want.
He's just come in from his morning run when the phone rings.
Always when I'm all fucking sweaty and tired. Bet it's James. Motherfucker had better be sober.
He remembers belatedly that he could've checked the caller i.d.
The nickname stops him from any accusatory questions he was ready to shoot off.
"I think it's time."
"Time for what?"
A resigned sigh echoes from the other line.
"For me to go to rehab."
He thinks as his ass hits the floor, his back leaning against the wall.
It was a challenge he had wanted to lose.
But the loss echoed of nothing but a sore defeat on his part.
He would not let James win again.
- Current Location:SFSU
- Current Mood: sleepy
- Current Music:"Call Me When You're Sober" by Evanescence