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inlovewithnight's prompt: "Mike/Bill, moving to California." Title from Phantom Planet's "California."
Warnings: Violence, unhappy ending.
Warnings: Violence, unhappy ending.
"No," Bill says. "No, fuck you."
Mike doesn't budge. "I'm going. You can't stop me."
"Like hell I can't." Bill's hands, completely without his brain's permission, ball up into fists. That gets Mike's lips to twist into a sneer.
"The whole world doesn't revolve around the wishes of William Beckett."
"How the fuck are we supposed to be a band with you halfway across the country?"
"Butcher's in New York."
"Fuck you," Bill spits out. "That's not the same and you fucking know it."
"Like fuck it isn't. We don't have to be in the same place to be a band."
Bill throws the first punch, which he's not going to be proud about later. Mike sees it coming and catches it, of course - back when things were easier, he used to make fun of Bill for telegraphing his moves in a fight - and turns the energy of it back on him. In no time at all, they're scrabbling on the floor, like they used to when things were really bad. (Worse than this time. Even in the middle of it, Bill knows that it was worse then.)
Bill's scrappy, but Mike never stopped being a jock, and Bill never learned how to outmaneuver him in close quarters.
Bill does the easy thing, the thing that used to get him out of this before (except when things were really bad): he kisses Mike open-mouthed and messy, teeth clashing. Mike stops fighting just enough for Bill to roll them over and get himself on top. He goes for the sweet spot on Mike's neck, the place where he bites and Mike groans and thrusts up instead of remembering to keep fighting.
Bill can't stay there, so Mike does remember, and then they're rolling across the floor again, half fighting and half struggling to get closer, to get their dicks lined up, to get their hands on skin.
They'll both have bruises later, bite marks, scratches. Bill doesn't feel any of that now.
Bill ends up on top again, thigh between Mike's, bodies pressed tight together through layers of denim that rasps with every movement. Fuck, it's good, like the good times they used to do this, not like the worst when everything was horrible and they were digging into each other like that would hold their band together. (They held it together, but not with this.)
They pant at each other, neither one of them able to get enough air to really breathe. They can only taste each other with every breath anyway. Bill slams Mike's shoulders down onto the floor; Mike pulls his hair. Bill bites Mike's bottom lip; Mike rakes his fingernails down the side of his rib cage. Bill says, "Fuck you;" Mike says, "Shut up and let me."
They come in their jeans, messy and sticky and still breathing each other's breath.
Mike shoves Bill off before he can move away. He lands hard on the floor, banging his elbow in the only bruise he'll remember getting.
Mike sits up. He should be reaching for a cigarette, but he quit. Mike's not who Bill remembers him being.
"I'm still going."
"Fuck you." Bill's too tired now for the venom it deserves.
Mike stands up and glares down at him. It used to be that Bill could wear him out more than this. "My life is still mine, asshole."
Bill mutters, "For now," and drapes his arm over his eyes. He doesn't want to see all the ways this isn't the way it used to be.
inlovewithnight's prompt: "Mike/Bill, moving to California." Title from Phantom Planet's "California."Warnings: Violence, unhappy ending.
Warnings: Violence, unhappy ending.
"No," Bill says. "No, fuck you."
Mike doesn't budge. "I'm going. You can't stop me."
"Like hell I can't." Bill's hands, completely without his brain's permission, ball up into fists. That gets Mike's lips to twist into a sneer.
"The whole world doesn't revolve around the wishes of William Beckett."
"How the fuck are we supposed to be a band with you halfway across the country?"
"Butcher's in New York."
"Fuck you," Bill spits out. "That's not the same and you fucking know it."
"Like fuck it isn't. We don't have to be in the same place to be a band."
Bill throws the first punch, which he's not going to be proud about later. Mike sees it coming and catches it, of course - back when things were easier, he used to make fun of Bill for telegraphing his moves in a fight - and turns the energy of it back on him. In no time at all, they're scrabbling on the floor, like they used to when things were really bad. (Worse than this time. Even in the middle of it, Bill knows that it was worse then.)
Bill's scrappy, but Mike never stopped being a jock, and Bill never learned how to outmaneuver him in close quarters.
Bill does the easy thing, the thing that used to get him out of this before (except when things were really bad): he kisses Mike open-mouthed and messy, teeth clashing. Mike stops fighting just enough for Bill to roll them over and get himself on top. He goes for the sweet spot on Mike's neck, the place where he bites and Mike groans and thrusts up instead of remembering to keep fighting.
Bill can't stay there, so Mike does remember, and then they're rolling across the floor again, half fighting and half struggling to get closer, to get their dicks lined up, to get their hands on skin.
They'll both have bruises later, bite marks, scratches. Bill doesn't feel any of that now.
Bill ends up on top again, thigh between Mike's, bodies pressed tight together through layers of denim that rasps with every movement. Fuck, it's good, like the good times they used to do this, not like the worst when everything was horrible and they were digging into each other like that would hold their band together. (They held it together, but not with this.)
They pant at each other, neither one of them able to get enough air to really breathe. They can only taste each other with every breath anyway. Bill slams Mike's shoulders down onto the floor; Mike pulls his hair. Bill bites Mike's bottom lip; Mike rakes his fingernails down the side of his rib cage. Bill says, "Fuck you;" Mike says, "Shut up and let me."
They come in their jeans, messy and sticky and still breathing each other's breath.
Mike shoves Bill off before he can move away. He lands hard on the floor, banging his elbow in the only bruise he'll remember getting.
Mike sits up. He should be reaching for a cigarette, but he quit. Mike's not who Bill remembers him being.
"I'm still going."
"Fuck you." Bill's too tired now for the venom it deserves.
Mike stands up and glares down at him. It used to be that Bill could wear him out more than this. "My life is still mine, asshole."
Bill mutters, "For now," and drapes his arm over his eyes. He doesn't want to see all the ways this isn't the way it used to be.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-16 07:47 pm (UTC)Perfect. Ouch, but perfect.
Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-16 07:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-16 11:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-17 03:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-17 03:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-18 02:36 am (UTC)