fic; scenes from a hat

[irradiatedsoup.livejournal.com]

Colin/Ryan, PG-13, 2107 words, unbetaed.

Notes: Never happened. All fiction etc. etc. Plus a few terrible clichés. This fic is AU, in that I've completely left out the significant others and offspring. They don't exist in my fic universe, because I don't like the idea of my boys as adulterers.

Also, this is my first fic in this fandom, so apologies if the characterisation is a little off. Feedback/Concrit appreciated.





There are just some things a man shouldn't have to be subjected to.

Strobe lights on a Tuesday night is one of them.

Colin knows things are getting particularly dire when he starts running his hands up and down the sides of his chair, across the faux-velvet material, hoping he looks like he's doing something. Unless there's some sort of sofa connoisseur in the room, he doubts it's highly convincing.

The party was like they all were; working on the pretense of being someone's birthday celebration, for a person he could have possibly met once in his life. It consisted of vaguely tense people milling about, getting drunk, and pretending they knew each other better than they did. Too-loud music, cold, unmoving appetizers, recycled streamers and disinterested hospitality kids.

Recently, it seemed as though there was one of these things every second week; for the network, for the producers, for the whales.

And naturally, you couldn't just persistently refuse to turn up, unless you wanted a reputation as being difficult and unfriendly, or possibly a crack addict. Bad PR club, like the fight organization of a similar name, was a 'nobody talks about it' kind of deal, and if you didn't let yourself get beat up from time to time, someone would create an alter ego for you, whether you had Brad Pitt blowing up your apartment or not.

Okay, so it's not really the best analogy.

Colin remembers one particular night not long after he moved here, when he'd been more reserved than usual and had overheard an ageing, well-known talk show host remark that; "he's not very funny in real life, is he?"

He'd taken consolation in the fact that only a person that long removed from normal society would call this real life. 'All the world's a stage', as someone aptly put it. 'And celebrity parties; crap.'

Fifteen minutes, he tells himself, taking a sip from his beer. A trickle of the cold liquid escaping and running embarrassingly down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand. Fifteen minutes before it's socially acceptable to leave. He can last that long. Sure. Just as long as he kept avoiding eye contact with anyone looking for a long meaningful talk, or a Yogie Bear impersonation. It's perplexing how many people love a funny looking bald guy when he's fortunate enough to be on their television sets every week.

Ignoring any and all cancellation rumours, anyway.

It was almost tempting, when he was approached by sweet girls, or more accurately; groupies,. To any man really, who was tired and lubed up on liquor, who might have missed the tactile sense of having someone to hold. Well, a girl who wanted that for nothing more than being able to brag about it later? Providing you could turn off your conscience for a few hours, it was an amiable option.

Colin couldn't beat down his conscience, and more often than not, found he didn't really want to

He'd slipped once. The day the papers had been signed, he'd been to a function not entirely unlike this one. Colin had been taken in by a particularly charming, plump brunette with huge assets, who'd flattered him and kept handing him glasses of wine. She'd had this sweet, sort of high-pitched giggle that had made him laugh. Luckily, he'd passed out before anything more had happened than a few badly thought out gropes, but it was humiliating enough that he'd sworn not to let it happen again.

The boys at work had given him one hell of a ribbing the next day, and it was good-natured of course, but Colin had been so hungover he hadn't taken it well. Ryan had eventually coaxed him out of his room, and a sulk, by promising he'd wear the ugliest shirt for the next three tapings. For a gangly stick of a comedian he could be incredibly astute friend from time to time.

"Colin!"

Speak of the devil. Colin looks up just in time to see Ryan crash face-first onto the couch next to him. Brad is behind him, shaking his head and chuckling despite himself.

"I think he may have just about drank all the beer in the building." Brad says.

"Oh, how nice for him" Colin smirks, and looks down at the very drunk Ryan writhing on the couch, long limbs going every which way, but seemingly unable to push himself into a sitting position. "You want me to take him home, right?"

Brad looks embarrassed "I'm two minutes away from getting this girls phone number"

Ryan gaining control of his head, looks up at Colin thoughtfully "You know, your name rhymes with Colon."

Very, very astute friend.

"I'll keep that in mind for the next hoedown" Colin replies. And then to Brad; "It's alright, go ahead, I'll take him."

Brad gives him a look that could only be described as extreme gratitude, and disappears into the crowd again. Don't feel too guilty Mr. Sherwood, he thinks, this has given me the perfect excuse to make a hasty exit.

"Time to go home, Stiles" he says, with a small, satisfied grin. He almost jumps out of the warm dent he has made in the chair. He does a last, brief scan of the room and nods goodbye to a few familiar faces.

Now he just has to work out how to get the virtually non-compus-mentis drunk into a taxi.

Ryan gurgles from his spot on the couch.

The difficult part it turns out, is not getting Ryan into the taxi, but getting him to stay awake. Before they're more than one hundred meters down the road Ryan is slipping down in his seat, mumbling, shirt rucking up somewhere near his chin.

Worse luck, the cab driver is a fan. Colin alternates between polite small talk and trying to keep Ryan conscious.

"My favourite one is when you do the action and the other guy does the noises"

"Yes, it's lots of fun to do" Colin says, sticking a finger in Ryan's nose. Ryan slaps his hand away and tries to sit up straight, pulling uselessly at his shirt.

"You must be pretty good friends to work together so well."

"Something like that" Colin nods. If he wasn't so tired, he'd have gone for one of the token answers; 'Well we were both dropped on our heads as babies/had to compensate for our looks somehow' or the one that tended to get no reaction; 'No actually, he bites. I dislike it'. People were always assuming the friendship translated to off screen, and he supposed as far as assumptions went, that wasn't a bad one. Honestly, these days, Ryan was like family.

Colin breathes out slowly and sinks back into the sticky leather, reaching out to prod the dozing man again. This time Ryan burps and slide sideways onto Colin's legs.

Okay, so when he says family, he means that cousin no one likes because he keeps leaving saran wrap on the toilet.

They get to Ryan's house, the forward pull of the car when it slides into the park shakes Colin out of his half-daze. It's only after they've paid and the taxi has driven away, when they've climbed the steps to the front door that Ryan realises he hasn't got his keys.

"What do you mean you haven't got them? Where did you leave them?"

Ryan scratches his arm, looking forlorn. "I forget."

Of course he does. Colin sighs, running his hand over the top of his head and looking around. There has to be a spare key around here. Everyone has a spare key hidden somewhere. Usually under a pot plant or doormat. Ryan has neither, so Colin reaches up and runs his hand along the top of the door. He finds a handful of a cobwebs and dust.

"Stiles, do you have a--"

Colin stops mid-turn, mouth hanging open slightly. The drunk bastard has crawled into the next door neighbours flower bed and curled up to sleep.

"Ryan!"

"S'okay Colon. I'll sleep here" Ryan mumbles, rubbing his face against a bunch of mutilated posies. "Thanks for taking me to my home."

It would have been almost funny, if it wasn't freezing, and if Colin didn't definitely know that the neighbours, whose front light had just come on, owned a large shotgun.

"Ryan, buddy, that's not your home, that's actually where dirt lives." Colin leans over the fence and grabs him by the collar, pulling up with some force. "Get up. You'll just have to stay at my place"

It wasn't that Colin thought Ryan didn't deserve some sort of bullet wound at this point in time, but he had to be reasonable; the old neighbour might miss Ryan and hit him instead.

They manage to get three quarters of the way down the street before Ryan stops again. This time to vomit unceremoniously on the sidewalk. Colin stands at his side, praying fervently that no cops turn up at this point. He doesn't know exactly how to explain this situation to himself, let alone anyone else. Ryan retches again and falls forward. The poor guy's face is as white as a sheet. Colin puts a hand on his back, or some sort of support

"So, you puke here often?" He jokes, badly, cringing on his own behalf.

"Accident," Ryan pants. "I kept drinking because, I was trying to look--, so no one would know how bored I was at that party."

"Well," Colin says, through his teeth. "That's really stupid."

Ryan turns around. "Okay, next time I'll stick to feeling up my chair."

And here he thought he was being subtle.

"Touché, my friend" Colin replies, helping him up again. "Stop noticing things, and concentrate on walking these next couple of blocks, alright?"

Ryan nods in the affirmative, and Colin keeps his arm wrapped around his waist to steady him. Ryan, who smells like fresh vomit, is much taller than him, and leans quite heavily against Colin, using a lot of his weight, Ryan's body heat causing a smothering, claustrophobic warmth that runs up over Colin' skin and crowds his face. It's not anything he can't tolerate, but he hopes, quite emphatically, that if Ryan needs to be sick again, he'll remember to take a step away first.

They arrive at Colin's apartment intact, and thankfully with the keys to get inside the building. Colin has practically lift Ryan the last few steps, but they make it inside, and Colin whoops, pulling the door shut with a click.

Home. The familiarity is instantly comforting.

Ryan makes a bee line for the bathroom, and Colin turns on the heater, then collapses into his recliner with a soft thud. He presses his head back into the pliant leather and takes a deep breath.

His eyes flutter open, and he can't tell how much later it is, only that time must have passed because Ryan is sitting across from him, long legs pulled up against his chest, looking around the room. He looks, thoughtful.

"Are you okay?" Colin asks. Maybe he ought to get Ryan some sort of bucket.

Ryan nods. "I'm feeling a little less crap now."

Colin's grin is genuine, he's never been fond of seeing a friend in a bad way, no matter how it was induced.

"Good to hear. Want me to take on the yellow shirt tomorrow? I hear that the reflection can really kill the eyes when you've got a hangover." He puts his arms above his head, stretching, and continues; "And you know, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. No one would want me to improv without you, and Drew would have to be Wayne's bitch"

Ryan laughs, and before Colin can say anything else Ryan's leaning over him, pulling him into a fierce hug, his arms almost squeezing the air out of his chest. Then just as abruptly Ryan pulls his head back and presses his lips, gently, against Colin's forehead, kissing him between the eyebrows. His lips are chapped.

"Thank you Colon."

When Colin's eyes snap open again, Ryan is asleep on the couch, curled up face obscured by blanket, snoring loudly. Of course, Colin thinks, prying himself from the leather seat, he must have imagined it. Dreamed it up by accident.

Colin shakes his head, retreating to his room, walking softly on the pads of his feet so as not wake Ryan, his fingers warm, smelling faintly of dirt and trampled posies.