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wl_fanfiction2013-06-02 06:00 pm
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Strangeways (June 10th, 1985) [Fic, 1/2]
Title: Strangeways (June 10th, 1985)
Author/Artist: ratherdance
Rating: PG-13, some swearing
Main Character(s) and/or Pairings: Colin/Ryan, Pat/Ryan, Pat/OFC
Summary: They're dragged to a concert by the friend who introduced them, and Ryan is bent on looking the part. The dangers of free-roaming Goths, New Romantics and Straight Edges are nothing compared to putting one over Colin.
Word Count: 4483
Feedback: Very welcome!
Disclaimer: This is all fiction. Unless I'm psychic. But probably not.
A/N: I'm terrible at assigning genres, but I think this might be fluff and a touch of angst. Flangst, then.
A/N2: Turned multipart thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wickedground, who's made of awesome. Previous A/N now after the fic. Still no prior knowledge of 80s music necessary. Just assume any spoken sentence in full italics from the middle onwards is a song title or lyric.
Part I | Part II
Ryan’s curls were not willing to cooperate in the slightest. But he had been crashing at Jim’s for over a week now; he couldn’t refuse giving the look a solid try, not when Jim was looking so forward to it.
He pulled a face as he scooped up some more pomade and ran his fingers through his hair, willing it to flop back in an even vaguely acceptable way. Thankfully, Ryan’s attempts to somewhat dampen the man’s expectations had worked— hair-wise, at least, he was off the hook from needing to achieve full-on New Romantic. Jim would settle for Slightly Scuffed Eccentric, and even for Previously Owned and Kinda Moony.
He did still have a full face of make-up to trowel on, but that didn’t worry him so much. He’d tarted up worse at Punchlines, and— heh— had definitely had much worse slathered on him while doing stand-up at the Great Alaskan Bush Co strip joint. At this point in time the only fear mascara struck in him was that he’d poke an eye out with the damn brush stick thing.
It was a lucky break that Pat wasn’t gonna be coming to the gig, though. Not only because she’d have laughed herself sick— especially at that blasted curl on his forehead that only seemed to get more defiantly corkscrewy the more product he applied to it— but because he’d nicked her lipstick, and up with that she would not put. But thankfully she’d been shacked up at hers (theirs? Talks were ongoing) with Marcie from jazzercise since the blackout on May 31st, and once she’d been reassured that he was safe and sound at Jim’s she’d made it clear he’d better skedaddle for a while. The two of them were busy working out the scare and some serious backlog of longing glances and ‘let me help you stretch those legs, love the warmers by the way, oh my you’re bendy’. It had been ten days and he’d only gone by the one time, to bring them some groceries and get the door slammed in his face. Pat had snatched the food and drink from his hands, grinned a blissed-out smile and told him she’d call him. You know, eventually.
Good ol’ Jim was getting his hospitality abused, then. The blackout had left Ryan stranded on his side of town after his turn at the League and Jim had taken him in, and now he was letting him stay. He’d been between flats when Pat and Marcie had given in to the call of the leotard, so he’d had stashes of clothes at most of his friends’ anyway.
He gave himself a long, hard look in the mirror and accepted the hair wasn’t going to get any better. If nothing else, the gallons of pomade had at least succeeded in making it look darker and shinier (and oozier, but that was a favoured look with the Romos he knew anyway), and it had settled into a sort of do he was thinking of calling a ‘Simon Le Bon’s worst hair day ever’.
So if Jim wanted him to dress up a bit for the concert at the Western Front, really, it wasn’t too big a deal to keep the man happy. And he’d better put his heart into it with the hair and face, because he certainly wasn’t going to put in any look-fitting pants or shoes. New Romantics didn’t come in his size. A snug black shirt and regular black everything else would have to do.
Ryan reached out for the eyeliner and knocked Jim’s toothbrush glass right into the bathtub. He hadn’t gotten used to how cramped this place was. He leaned into the bathroom, the damp curtain clinging and tangling around his arms and chest as he felt for the toothbrush, and the thought struck him that maybe he was getting too old for this shit. Maybe he was getting too old for the amicable trolloping with Pat and the switching out places to live every few months. He was 26, which according to Jim’s gushing band intel was the same age as the singer. But where the Morris guy was 26 and flush with international fame and a worldwide tour with his mopey-looking bandmates a mere couple years from his debut, Ryan had started seven years back and was still riding the simple high of not having to wear fish-smelling clothes and having a regular place to perform instead of a revolving host of fake IDs and titty bars.
Bah. He peeled off the curtain and restored Jim’s stuff to the counter. Probably should tell Jim to buy a new toothbrush at some point.
Eyeliner, then. He ran the gray pencil along his lower lid (no above-the-lashes lining for you, hon, your eyes are way too small for that), smudged out the thin black lines with a fingertip and tilted his head to the side. He hoped it would bring out his eyes. To be honest, there was no bringing them much further in. And hopefully this would pass as dark and mysterious and not near-sighted and ran into a wall. A fast grin pulled at his mouth; even if it didn’t, all this time spent powdering his nose in Jim’s bathroom would earn him such a massive amount of points that a certain supposed best friend of Jim’s would in no way be able to overtake him. Let’s face it, even if Ryan’s curls threatened to sproing back at any moment and his trousers were more funeral suit than velvety dandy, there was no way Col would manage to New Rom himself up better. He laughed through his teeth and pulled out the mascara.
Jim had roped the two of them in for the concert after they’d made the mistake of nodding along to the tune he was blasting on the League break room tape player a few months back. That simple acknowledgment of rhythm being a concept that they were aware of had been their undoing, they’d agreed later. Jim tended to latch onto these things. So he’d gone on to play them the band’s whole discography (all two albums of it, over and over again) and regaled them with trivia about the sad-sack Brits that moaned without synths in a radical departure from form for the genre. They’d turned a sympathetic ear to him when Jim went into a funk upon hearing that the band wasn’t going to stop in Vancouver for their upcoming tour. That had been their second mistake.
So when the impossible had happened and an unscheduled June 10th Vancouver concert had been announced on the radio, they shouldn’t have been surprised that Jim had burst into the dressing room a scant hour after the tickets went on sale, out of breath and slightly bruised but still the victorious holder of three passes he’d likely had had to punch someone to get. He’d sputtered and pulled him and a half-naked Col into a bear hug. And they’d looked each other in the eye over the top of Jim’s head, located at an easy 5’6’’, and silently agreed to go along with the whole thing. After all, the two of them could make a night out of most anything. A Smiths concert? Piece of cake.
Anyway, there was no way he wasn’t winning this one. Jim had wanted to call Colin and tell them about their plan to dress up, but Ryan had stopped him. That would spoil the game. He’d ignored Jim’s protests that Col didn’t know there was one, because that was nonsense. He knew. They were always playing. Whoever made the other lose it won— and by now he knew that there was no making Col lose it if he didn’t shock it out of him first.
Time for the final touch, then. He uncapped the tub of lipstick and slowly snaked his tongue out to lick it. He brought his fingertip to the red and daubed at the centre of his lips, finger-painting an ever-so-slightly darker swath under his cupid’s bow. A couple pulls to the sides and it was done: a bit of a pucker without going full clown.
Pat had taught him well.
—
Two hours later, Ryan swallowed and banged his third Red Death down on the counter. It was disgusting, but he really shouldn’t have expected much of a Southern Slammer mixed with a Kamikaze. Giving it two more chances after having nearly dislocated his jaw grimacing at the taste of the first one was a mistake born out of boredom that he was going to hold Colin personally responsible for, since it was almost ten and there still was no sign of him. Not that the concert had started yet; there were still a couple minutes to go, but it had been ages since Jim had deserted Ryan for the first row, where he had found and was being chatted up by up a group of fellow superfans. And Ryan’s efforts had turned out to have been for naught as far as passing went; his make-up was too understated for the Romantics and too on-the-nose for the Straight Edges. He was caught in a flurry of pitying looks from both sides.
He raised his glass to no-one in particular and gulped the rest of it down, turning to the bar and pondering what else to order. A fourth Red Death felt too much like giving into despair, and he wasn’t quite at that point yet. Surely there was more to the world than lukewarm amaretto, Southern Comfort, sloe gin, vodka, triple sec, orange juice, and lime juice.
Suddenly the few scattered lights died down, drawing a scream from the audience. Ryan took a blind step away from the bar and towards the crowd, a chill running down his spine. He’d never minded darkness, but the big blackout was still fresh on his mind and maybe the sloe gin was starting to find its way up there too, since he lost all sense of direction in an instant. His mouth went dry. But then a spotlight shone onto the stage, and from his vantage point he could see Jim going nuts in the first row as the band launched into song.
He scanned the rest of the crowd and found absolutely no-one of interest, so he turned back around to the bar with quirked-down lips and a tottering step. Another Red Death it would be, then. But he had to stop in his tracks, because his barstool was now occupied. A wispy-haired figure that hadn’t bothered to even remotely dress for the occasion was sitting with his back turned to him, and he had to laugh. Corduroy and a short-sleeved button-down? A grin split Ryan’s face and he took a seven-league step towards Colin, draping himself over his shoulders upon impact. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he told the dumbfounded bartender, who had just poured Colin what looked like straight scotch and was now gaping at him.
“You’d better,” returned Col, “because I’ve taken a whiff of the girls’ shampoo you were gargling and that stuff will rot your teeth right off, Ry.”
He tightened his arms around Colin’s shoulders and leaned into his face with narrowed eyes. “You’re late.” And he would have accused him further if his momentum hadn’t banged their foreheads together. “Ouch.”
Colin extricated himself easily and pushed him into the next barstool, a steadying hand on his arm. “And I’m sorry. I’ve learned my lesson. Please don’t headbutt me again.”
Ryan gave him a non-committal shrug and ran his finger along the side of the scotch the bartender hadn’t wasted any time in serving him. His grand entrance had merited that, at least. He turned to Colin and frowned, preening his receding hairline. “You didn’t even try, did you?”
“I don’t need to try. I’m a dignified man in my late twenties, thank you.”
“Late 1920s, going by that shirt.”
“What I love about the Western Front is the warm welcome one always gets here, don’t you?”
“I prefer their girls’ toiletries drinks, myself.”
Around them the noise rose to deafening levels as the singer took off his shirt and three quarters of the audience lost it, male and female. The moody guitar went into a solo that was soon replaced by the loudest harmonica-playing known to man. And Colin went full dimple and clinked his scotch to Ryan’s glass. “I propose a toast to the man who dumped you here for some pasty-cheeked British boys.”
“And left me to be found by a pasty-cheeked Canadian. To Jim!”
“The man who introduced us. Let’s not forgive him. Where’s he, by the way?” asked Colin, jumping off his stool and peering into the dark mass of writhing bodies. Ryan pointed to the stage with a tilt of his head, but Colin only frowned. “There must be hundreds of people there. You saw him?”
Ryan slipped off his seat himself and rose to his full height, looking down at his friend. “Yes, I saw him from orbit with my telescope. What do you think?”
Colin’s gaze latched onto his lips and held on there, his smile widening. “I think that in space no one can tell you’re wearing lipstick.” That one earned him a shove. “And very fetching it looks on you, too. Don’t headbutt me.”
“At least I’m not Grandpa Joe in his Sunday corduroys here.”
“I wouldn’t dare call you grandpa, Madonn—” he couldn’t finish his sentence, because Ryan bodily tackled him into the crowd with a laugh. Colin’s shirt didn’t look any better with half a scotch spilled on it, but it did look darker and oozier. Ryan congratulated himself on a job well done and pulled him to the floor.
—
Forty-five minutes later, Ryan was all danced out and attempting to secure some company for Col and him. He was griping to a couple Goth girls about the disadvantages of being so tall— always cold, and no-one ever picked him up so he could see the stage better— when suddenly he was up in the air, hoisted up by his thighs and half-sat on a strong shoulder. At first he screamed like a cartoon housewife who’d seen a mouse because he’d never, but then he started laughing and shaking so hard that Colin’s knuckles went white on his legs as he tried to keep him balanced.
“Hey Morris!” he screamed over the music. He was too far away for the band to take notice of the gesture he made next, and anyway Brits did it two-fingered and the other way around, but the locals caught his meaning and did not like it. The Goth girls were definitely not going home with them anymore, going by the way they tackled Col in what probably was an attempt to climb him and scratch Ryan’s face off. He barked out a guffaw from his perch, relishing the feel of being out of everyone’s reach and tethered by Col’s touch, but suddenly he was lurched to the side and the laugh tripped on his tongue. It took a few seconds to register that Colin had readjusted him like an exceedingly long potato sack and was now running away from the irate crowd, carrying him on his shoulder and keeping his head well out of sight.
He was out of breath from laughing so hard (and upside-down too) when Colin broke through the last line of people, took a left into a grotty, deserted corridor and finally stopped running. He slithered off his shoulder in a slightly wobbly manner, resting his weight against Colin while his legs tried to remember which way was up. Col held him by the elbows and leaned back onto the wall, eyes closed and lips quirked in a hint of a smile. The bastard wasn’t even out of breath and yet Ryan’s own heart was hammering so hard against Col’s chest that he almost missed what he said next. “You’ll get our asses kicked one day.”
Ryan laughed. “You’ll save us. Where’d you learn to manhandle a guy like that, anyway?”
“In the mean streets. You know that.”
“Ah, yes. The fabled roughneck valedictorian. Crooks whisper your name and whimper all round British Columbia.” He leaned into the crook of Col’s neck. “Colin,” he slurred into his ear, trying to keep his voice dark and drama-filled and failing miserably. Still, it worked. He felt Col’s shoulders shaking, his silent laughter rumbling against Ryan’s chest. He closed his eyes.
But then Colin’s arms tightened around his waist and he was dragged down the corridor in a hurry. A moment later, three bodies slammed into the wall where the two of them had been. Col was gaping, so he snapped around in his grasp and mouthed an expletive. It was the Goth girls. They were mauling Jim out of his make-up and shirt and would soon make short work of his pants— if they didn’t see him first, that is. Groupies had long memories, like elephants.
God he was drunk.
He’d never gone back to the Red Death after Colin’s arrival, but the steady stream of scotch had done nothing for his stability. So there wasn’t much left of him that could put up a fight when Col grabbed his arm and pushed the two of them out the emergency exit, away from danger and into the back alley. The concert was still ongoing and they wouldn’t be able to get back in, but he was long done thinking by then. He barely had it together to follow his friend’s lead. So he walked fast, eyes unfocused and long legs making up for his unsteady gait, and as they turned the corner Ryan suddenly felt absurdly grateful for the strong arm around his waist that felt like the only solid spot in his body.
He rested his head on Colin’s. It didn’t help their speed at all, but he didn’t complain. “You know what, Col?”
“Yeah, Ry?”
“You’re the perfect height for me to lean on you.”
“That’s nice. Your head feels slippery, though.”
“That’ll be the pomade.”
“Ugh.”
They pressed on, and it suddenly dawned on Ryan that he didn’t have the slightest idea where they were going. The trolley to Jim’s was in the opposite direction, and his flat— he no longer had a flat, he reminded himself. His head was swimming by then, and he spared a thought for Colin’s ridiculous liver. That thing must have stolen all the strength out of his hair and was now a sentient superbeing, because there was no way someone as drunk as he knew Col must be should have been able to make so much sense. That thing about his head being slippery had been spot-on. And he was also pretty much holding him upright.
It was his way, really. In the League it always seemed to be him who’d lug around the heavy boxes of stuff backstage— both his own and Ryan’s share. He tended to hover around and spare him the worst bits. And if that didn’t warrant a kiss, he didn’t know what did, so he lifted his head and planted one on Colin’s forehead.
Which turned out to be a bad idea. “Yuck. Now you’re slippery,” said Ryan, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Are you this charming to everyone who kisses you?” At that, Colin stopped abruptly and slipped away from him. Ryan tried to read his face, to see whether he could stoke the fire or if this time he’d pushed too far— but then Colin’s fingers were on his mouth and his breath caught in his throat. It seemed to take him a while to focus, too. His eyes stayed too long on Ryan’s.
When he spoke, his voice held the slightest hint of a waver. “Good job, Bozo. You’ve got lipstick everywhere.”
“You’re just jealous,” laughed Ryan, but Colin dropped his hand and looked away without a hint of a smile. “Anyway, this isn’t the way to Jim’s. Where are you taking me?”
At that, Col did look back at him. He scoffed, eyebrows raised. “To mine. You haven’t made quite so many enemies there tonight.”
“So far.”
“So far.”
They took off down Brunswick. Ryan pulled a battered pack out of his pocket and started fiddling with the lighter. He shivered; midnight wasn’t kind in Vancouver, approaching summer or not, and he knew his teeth would’ve been clattering if it wasn’t for the alcohol-infused warmth running through his veins. The fact that Colin could walk around in short-sleeves without getting goosebumps was a testament to his true Canadianship, he guessed. The man might have been born in Scotland, but that probably didn’t hurt.
He reached out for Col’s wrist. “Got a lighter? Mine’s bust.”
Colin stopped and glanced from their hands to his face with an inscrutable look. And even through the fog that had settled in his mind, Ryan recognised that look. He hated that look. So when the lighter was produced he snatched it out of Col’s hands, lighting the cigarette as if he held a grudge against it. Col didn’t seem to notice; he just lit up his own and carried on walking.
The fact that he didn’t check whether Ryan was following irked him to a ridiculous degree. Always— sooner or later— this would happen. It came easy to Colin to take off, to step away from the joke, to take a breath and suddenly be above the influence and out of reach. Insufferably so. And when that happened, Ryan could’ve set himself on fire and the guy wouldn’t even blink before calmly hosing him down with a fire extinguisher he’d pull out of thin fucking air, because everything always was a choice to Col, something to be calmly pondered over tea and goddamn scones in order to better make the more sensible decision.
He took a long drag off the cigarette that did absolutely nothing to help his floundering coherence, then caught up with Colin at a run. He threw his arm around the other’s shoulder a tad more aggressively than he needed to. Not that he seemed to take notice. “You know Col, I don’t have clothes at yours.”
“I know.” He’d clearly chosen to ignore Ryan’s tone, because he put his arm around his waist. He’d take it, because warm and nice and upright, but he wasn’t going to be thankful about it.
“I have clothes at Jim’s.”
“Yeah.”
“And at others’”.
“I know—”
“You never offered to let me stay.” Ryan cut him off abruptly. He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but then again he wasn’t the one to strategise his every waking moment. All of their friends had offered him their places every time he’d had to move, but never Col. He’d just smiled at him from the other side of the room as if he understood, which he didn’t. As if it was something they’d agreed upon.
It was a weird smile. Never reached his eyes.
Colin’s voice registered a measure of surprise. “You know you can stay anytime you want,” he told him.
“You didn’t offer.” Reasonable tones weren’t going to cut it. Nor wide, dark eyes, brimming with an innocence that still meant nothing. Choices, every one of them.
“But you knew. What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference, you fucking idiot.”
Finally the insult got him going. “You know what? Maybe you should go get the trolley and face Wednesday and Pugsley at Jim’s, I sure don’t—”
— His lips were soft. Ryan knew that from stage, but drunk and blurry and angry lent them a certain extra that he relished. He didn’t give a fuck what Col sure didn’t something something. But still, he wasn’t heartless; he caught Col’s lower lip with his teeth gently, one more time, and then pulled away. The shut-up kiss had taken less than ten seconds, and he wasn’t sure that the world hadn’t changed. “But I’m still fond of you.”
Colin went from open-mouthed disbelief to indignation in an instant. “… Did you just quote lyrics at me?”
Ryan guffawed at the look on his face. Man, he’d overestimated his composure by miles, he was most definitely off-form tonight. Must be all the scotch and the carrying him around like Scarlett O’Hara. He was skinny, but there still was a lot of him to lug around. “You did it first, Col,” he said.
“I did not— that’s a common sentence, I wasn’t quoting— Is that why you—?”
“You don’t want me to come with you because you’re all bothered and want to go tongue your Seventeen Mag centerfold with Morris in it.”
“You do know the singer isn’t called Morris.”
“Whatever.” They started walking again, holding onto each other stiffly, and for almost a whole street Ryan managed to keep his head in the game enough to keep his mouth shut. But they stopped at the light and he decided to squander his advantage. “Still ill.”
It took Col a second to get the reference, but if Jim survived the night of the living dead he’d definitely be proud of how well they’d absorbed his teachings. Colin took a deep breath and seemed to decide to humour him. “You've got everything now.”
“Miserable lie.”
“Well I wonder.”
“I want the one I can't have.” He grinned.
“That joke isn't funny anymore.” Colin rolled his eyes, but his arm trembled on Ryan’s waist.
Ryan shrugged and draped his own arm around Col’s. “I don't owe you anything.” But then Col clasped his arm with that warm hand of his, and something coiled painfully inside him. And he regretted the pushing. Stupid drunk that he was, he’d been playing the worst possible fucking game with someone who never bluffed. They didn’t come any less twisted than Col, and untwisted people didn’t put up with this shit. They quit while they were ahead and didn’t stay for the apology.
His head pounded.
Colin’s expression seemed to crumble at the sight of him. Ah, man. He was hopeless at keeping things from his face, he knew that. Col’s reaction only confirmed it. He rested his other hand on Ryan’s arm on his shoulder and pulled, taking some of his weight onto his back. “Come on, Ry. Hold on tight. Let’s get you home and out of that make-up. You look like a raccoon. And lipstick wasn’t invented for someone with that nose, you know.”
“And you must be looking very old tonight.”
“I swear to god if you don’t shut up.”
Part I | Part II
A/N 3: I got an author tag! Yay! And in case you're curious, the most relevant song for this fic is "What Difference Does It Make" by, of course, The Smiths. They're best served with a glass of not taking them very seriously.
There was no Smiths concert in Vancouver in June 10th 1985, but they did play in Vaughan, Ontario on June 9th; and the tornado-caused blackouts were in Toronto, not Vancouver, but the rest of this is made up too, so. Except for Jim McLarty, who did introduce them but probably was never a crazed New Romantic. (This whole thing came to be because I realised most of the Smiths' output could be turned into a fairly standard Rycol songfic. I can't write songfics at all, they're way too serious for me. So I did something else.)
Author/Artist: ratherdance
Rating: PG-13, some swearing
Main Character(s) and/or Pairings: Colin/Ryan, Pat/Ryan, Pat/OFC
Summary: They're dragged to a concert by the friend who introduced them, and Ryan is bent on looking the part. The dangers of free-roaming Goths, New Romantics and Straight Edges are nothing compared to putting one over Colin.
Word Count: 4483
Feedback: Very welcome!
Disclaimer: This is all fiction. Unless I'm psychic. But probably not.
A/N: I'm terrible at assigning genres, but I think this might be fluff and a touch of angst. Flangst, then.
A/N2: Turned multipart thanks to
wickedground, who's made of awesome. Previous A/N now after the fic. Still no prior knowledge of 80s music necessary. Just assume any spoken sentence in full italics from the middle onwards is a song title or lyric.Part I | Part II
Ryan’s curls were not willing to cooperate in the slightest. But he had been crashing at Jim’s for over a week now; he couldn’t refuse giving the look a solid try, not when Jim was looking so forward to it.
He pulled a face as he scooped up some more pomade and ran his fingers through his hair, willing it to flop back in an even vaguely acceptable way. Thankfully, Ryan’s attempts to somewhat dampen the man’s expectations had worked— hair-wise, at least, he was off the hook from needing to achieve full-on New Romantic. Jim would settle for Slightly Scuffed Eccentric, and even for Previously Owned and Kinda Moony.
He did still have a full face of make-up to trowel on, but that didn’t worry him so much. He’d tarted up worse at Punchlines, and— heh— had definitely had much worse slathered on him while doing stand-up at the Great Alaskan Bush Co strip joint. At this point in time the only fear mascara struck in him was that he’d poke an eye out with the damn brush stick thing.
It was a lucky break that Pat wasn’t gonna be coming to the gig, though. Not only because she’d have laughed herself sick— especially at that blasted curl on his forehead that only seemed to get more defiantly corkscrewy the more product he applied to it— but because he’d nicked her lipstick, and up with that she would not put. But thankfully she’d been shacked up at hers (theirs? Talks were ongoing) with Marcie from jazzercise since the blackout on May 31st, and once she’d been reassured that he was safe and sound at Jim’s she’d made it clear he’d better skedaddle for a while. The two of them were busy working out the scare and some serious backlog of longing glances and ‘let me help you stretch those legs, love the warmers by the way, oh my you’re bendy’. It had been ten days and he’d only gone by the one time, to bring them some groceries and get the door slammed in his face. Pat had snatched the food and drink from his hands, grinned a blissed-out smile and told him she’d call him. You know, eventually.
Good ol’ Jim was getting his hospitality abused, then. The blackout had left Ryan stranded on his side of town after his turn at the League and Jim had taken him in, and now he was letting him stay. He’d been between flats when Pat and Marcie had given in to the call of the leotard, so he’d had stashes of clothes at most of his friends’ anyway.
He gave himself a long, hard look in the mirror and accepted the hair wasn’t going to get any better. If nothing else, the gallons of pomade had at least succeeded in making it look darker and shinier (and oozier, but that was a favoured look with the Romos he knew anyway), and it had settled into a sort of do he was thinking of calling a ‘Simon Le Bon’s worst hair day ever’.
So if Jim wanted him to dress up a bit for the concert at the Western Front, really, it wasn’t too big a deal to keep the man happy. And he’d better put his heart into it with the hair and face, because he certainly wasn’t going to put in any look-fitting pants or shoes. New Romantics didn’t come in his size. A snug black shirt and regular black everything else would have to do.
Ryan reached out for the eyeliner and knocked Jim’s toothbrush glass right into the bathtub. He hadn’t gotten used to how cramped this place was. He leaned into the bathroom, the damp curtain clinging and tangling around his arms and chest as he felt for the toothbrush, and the thought struck him that maybe he was getting too old for this shit. Maybe he was getting too old for the amicable trolloping with Pat and the switching out places to live every few months. He was 26, which according to Jim’s gushing band intel was the same age as the singer. But where the Morris guy was 26 and flush with international fame and a worldwide tour with his mopey-looking bandmates a mere couple years from his debut, Ryan had started seven years back and was still riding the simple high of not having to wear fish-smelling clothes and having a regular place to perform instead of a revolving host of fake IDs and titty bars.
Bah. He peeled off the curtain and restored Jim’s stuff to the counter. Probably should tell Jim to buy a new toothbrush at some point.
Eyeliner, then. He ran the gray pencil along his lower lid (no above-the-lashes lining for you, hon, your eyes are way too small for that), smudged out the thin black lines with a fingertip and tilted his head to the side. He hoped it would bring out his eyes. To be honest, there was no bringing them much further in. And hopefully this would pass as dark and mysterious and not near-sighted and ran into a wall. A fast grin pulled at his mouth; even if it didn’t, all this time spent powdering his nose in Jim’s bathroom would earn him such a massive amount of points that a certain supposed best friend of Jim’s would in no way be able to overtake him. Let’s face it, even if Ryan’s curls threatened to sproing back at any moment and his trousers were more funeral suit than velvety dandy, there was no way Col would manage to New Rom himself up better. He laughed through his teeth and pulled out the mascara.
Jim had roped the two of them in for the concert after they’d made the mistake of nodding along to the tune he was blasting on the League break room tape player a few months back. That simple acknowledgment of rhythm being a concept that they were aware of had been their undoing, they’d agreed later. Jim tended to latch onto these things. So he’d gone on to play them the band’s whole discography (all two albums of it, over and over again) and regaled them with trivia about the sad-sack Brits that moaned without synths in a radical departure from form for the genre. They’d turned a sympathetic ear to him when Jim went into a funk upon hearing that the band wasn’t going to stop in Vancouver for their upcoming tour. That had been their second mistake.
So when the impossible had happened and an unscheduled June 10th Vancouver concert had been announced on the radio, they shouldn’t have been surprised that Jim had burst into the dressing room a scant hour after the tickets went on sale, out of breath and slightly bruised but still the victorious holder of three passes he’d likely had had to punch someone to get. He’d sputtered and pulled him and a half-naked Col into a bear hug. And they’d looked each other in the eye over the top of Jim’s head, located at an easy 5’6’’, and silently agreed to go along with the whole thing. After all, the two of them could make a night out of most anything. A Smiths concert? Piece of cake.
Anyway, there was no way he wasn’t winning this one. Jim had wanted to call Colin and tell them about their plan to dress up, but Ryan had stopped him. That would spoil the game. He’d ignored Jim’s protests that Col didn’t know there was one, because that was nonsense. He knew. They were always playing. Whoever made the other lose it won— and by now he knew that there was no making Col lose it if he didn’t shock it out of him first.
Time for the final touch, then. He uncapped the tub of lipstick and slowly snaked his tongue out to lick it. He brought his fingertip to the red and daubed at the centre of his lips, finger-painting an ever-so-slightly darker swath under his cupid’s bow. A couple pulls to the sides and it was done: a bit of a pucker without going full clown.
Pat had taught him well.
—
Two hours later, Ryan swallowed and banged his third Red Death down on the counter. It was disgusting, but he really shouldn’t have expected much of a Southern Slammer mixed with a Kamikaze. Giving it two more chances after having nearly dislocated his jaw grimacing at the taste of the first one was a mistake born out of boredom that he was going to hold Colin personally responsible for, since it was almost ten and there still was no sign of him. Not that the concert had started yet; there were still a couple minutes to go, but it had been ages since Jim had deserted Ryan for the first row, where he had found and was being chatted up by up a group of fellow superfans. And Ryan’s efforts had turned out to have been for naught as far as passing went; his make-up was too understated for the Romantics and too on-the-nose for the Straight Edges. He was caught in a flurry of pitying looks from both sides.
He raised his glass to no-one in particular and gulped the rest of it down, turning to the bar and pondering what else to order. A fourth Red Death felt too much like giving into despair, and he wasn’t quite at that point yet. Surely there was more to the world than lukewarm amaretto, Southern Comfort, sloe gin, vodka, triple sec, orange juice, and lime juice.
Suddenly the few scattered lights died down, drawing a scream from the audience. Ryan took a blind step away from the bar and towards the crowd, a chill running down his spine. He’d never minded darkness, but the big blackout was still fresh on his mind and maybe the sloe gin was starting to find its way up there too, since he lost all sense of direction in an instant. His mouth went dry. But then a spotlight shone onto the stage, and from his vantage point he could see Jim going nuts in the first row as the band launched into song.
He scanned the rest of the crowd and found absolutely no-one of interest, so he turned back around to the bar with quirked-down lips and a tottering step. Another Red Death it would be, then. But he had to stop in his tracks, because his barstool was now occupied. A wispy-haired figure that hadn’t bothered to even remotely dress for the occasion was sitting with his back turned to him, and he had to laugh. Corduroy and a short-sleeved button-down? A grin split Ryan’s face and he took a seven-league step towards Colin, draping himself over his shoulders upon impact. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he told the dumbfounded bartender, who had just poured Colin what looked like straight scotch and was now gaping at him.
“You’d better,” returned Col, “because I’ve taken a whiff of the girls’ shampoo you were gargling and that stuff will rot your teeth right off, Ry.”
He tightened his arms around Colin’s shoulders and leaned into his face with narrowed eyes. “You’re late.” And he would have accused him further if his momentum hadn’t banged their foreheads together. “Ouch.”
Colin extricated himself easily and pushed him into the next barstool, a steadying hand on his arm. “And I’m sorry. I’ve learned my lesson. Please don’t headbutt me again.”
Ryan gave him a non-committal shrug and ran his finger along the side of the scotch the bartender hadn’t wasted any time in serving him. His grand entrance had merited that, at least. He turned to Colin and frowned, preening his receding hairline. “You didn’t even try, did you?”
“I don’t need to try. I’m a dignified man in my late twenties, thank you.”
“Late 1920s, going by that shirt.”
“What I love about the Western Front is the warm welcome one always gets here, don’t you?”
“I prefer their girls’ toiletries drinks, myself.”
Around them the noise rose to deafening levels as the singer took off his shirt and three quarters of the audience lost it, male and female. The moody guitar went into a solo that was soon replaced by the loudest harmonica-playing known to man. And Colin went full dimple and clinked his scotch to Ryan’s glass. “I propose a toast to the man who dumped you here for some pasty-cheeked British boys.”
“And left me to be found by a pasty-cheeked Canadian. To Jim!”
“The man who introduced us. Let’s not forgive him. Where’s he, by the way?” asked Colin, jumping off his stool and peering into the dark mass of writhing bodies. Ryan pointed to the stage with a tilt of his head, but Colin only frowned. “There must be hundreds of people there. You saw him?”
Ryan slipped off his seat himself and rose to his full height, looking down at his friend. “Yes, I saw him from orbit with my telescope. What do you think?”
Colin’s gaze latched onto his lips and held on there, his smile widening. “I think that in space no one can tell you’re wearing lipstick.” That one earned him a shove. “And very fetching it looks on you, too. Don’t headbutt me.”
“At least I’m not Grandpa Joe in his Sunday corduroys here.”
“I wouldn’t dare call you grandpa, Madonn—” he couldn’t finish his sentence, because Ryan bodily tackled him into the crowd with a laugh. Colin’s shirt didn’t look any better with half a scotch spilled on it, but it did look darker and oozier. Ryan congratulated himself on a job well done and pulled him to the floor.
—
Forty-five minutes later, Ryan was all danced out and attempting to secure some company for Col and him. He was griping to a couple Goth girls about the disadvantages of being so tall— always cold, and no-one ever picked him up so he could see the stage better— when suddenly he was up in the air, hoisted up by his thighs and half-sat on a strong shoulder. At first he screamed like a cartoon housewife who’d seen a mouse because he’d never, but then he started laughing and shaking so hard that Colin’s knuckles went white on his legs as he tried to keep him balanced.
“Hey Morris!” he screamed over the music. He was too far away for the band to take notice of the gesture he made next, and anyway Brits did it two-fingered and the other way around, but the locals caught his meaning and did not like it. The Goth girls were definitely not going home with them anymore, going by the way they tackled Col in what probably was an attempt to climb him and scratch Ryan’s face off. He barked out a guffaw from his perch, relishing the feel of being out of everyone’s reach and tethered by Col’s touch, but suddenly he was lurched to the side and the laugh tripped on his tongue. It took a few seconds to register that Colin had readjusted him like an exceedingly long potato sack and was now running away from the irate crowd, carrying him on his shoulder and keeping his head well out of sight.
He was out of breath from laughing so hard (and upside-down too) when Colin broke through the last line of people, took a left into a grotty, deserted corridor and finally stopped running. He slithered off his shoulder in a slightly wobbly manner, resting his weight against Colin while his legs tried to remember which way was up. Col held him by the elbows and leaned back onto the wall, eyes closed and lips quirked in a hint of a smile. The bastard wasn’t even out of breath and yet Ryan’s own heart was hammering so hard against Col’s chest that he almost missed what he said next. “You’ll get our asses kicked one day.”
Ryan laughed. “You’ll save us. Where’d you learn to manhandle a guy like that, anyway?”
“In the mean streets. You know that.”
“Ah, yes. The fabled roughneck valedictorian. Crooks whisper your name and whimper all round British Columbia.” He leaned into the crook of Col’s neck. “Colin,” he slurred into his ear, trying to keep his voice dark and drama-filled and failing miserably. Still, it worked. He felt Col’s shoulders shaking, his silent laughter rumbling against Ryan’s chest. He closed his eyes.
But then Colin’s arms tightened around his waist and he was dragged down the corridor in a hurry. A moment later, three bodies slammed into the wall where the two of them had been. Col was gaping, so he snapped around in his grasp and mouthed an expletive. It was the Goth girls. They were mauling Jim out of his make-up and shirt and would soon make short work of his pants— if they didn’t see him first, that is. Groupies had long memories, like elephants.
God he was drunk.
He’d never gone back to the Red Death after Colin’s arrival, but the steady stream of scotch had done nothing for his stability. So there wasn’t much left of him that could put up a fight when Col grabbed his arm and pushed the two of them out the emergency exit, away from danger and into the back alley. The concert was still ongoing and they wouldn’t be able to get back in, but he was long done thinking by then. He barely had it together to follow his friend’s lead. So he walked fast, eyes unfocused and long legs making up for his unsteady gait, and as they turned the corner Ryan suddenly felt absurdly grateful for the strong arm around his waist that felt like the only solid spot in his body.
He rested his head on Colin’s. It didn’t help their speed at all, but he didn’t complain. “You know what, Col?”
“Yeah, Ry?”
“You’re the perfect height for me to lean on you.”
“That’s nice. Your head feels slippery, though.”
“That’ll be the pomade.”
“Ugh.”
They pressed on, and it suddenly dawned on Ryan that he didn’t have the slightest idea where they were going. The trolley to Jim’s was in the opposite direction, and his flat— he no longer had a flat, he reminded himself. His head was swimming by then, and he spared a thought for Colin’s ridiculous liver. That thing must have stolen all the strength out of his hair and was now a sentient superbeing, because there was no way someone as drunk as he knew Col must be should have been able to make so much sense. That thing about his head being slippery had been spot-on. And he was also pretty much holding him upright.
It was his way, really. In the League it always seemed to be him who’d lug around the heavy boxes of stuff backstage— both his own and Ryan’s share. He tended to hover around and spare him the worst bits. And if that didn’t warrant a kiss, he didn’t know what did, so he lifted his head and planted one on Colin’s forehead.
Which turned out to be a bad idea. “Yuck. Now you’re slippery,” said Ryan, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Are you this charming to everyone who kisses you?” At that, Colin stopped abruptly and slipped away from him. Ryan tried to read his face, to see whether he could stoke the fire or if this time he’d pushed too far— but then Colin’s fingers were on his mouth and his breath caught in his throat. It seemed to take him a while to focus, too. His eyes stayed too long on Ryan’s.
When he spoke, his voice held the slightest hint of a waver. “Good job, Bozo. You’ve got lipstick everywhere.”
“You’re just jealous,” laughed Ryan, but Colin dropped his hand and looked away without a hint of a smile. “Anyway, this isn’t the way to Jim’s. Where are you taking me?”
At that, Col did look back at him. He scoffed, eyebrows raised. “To mine. You haven’t made quite so many enemies there tonight.”
“So far.”
“So far.”
They took off down Brunswick. Ryan pulled a battered pack out of his pocket and started fiddling with the lighter. He shivered; midnight wasn’t kind in Vancouver, approaching summer or not, and he knew his teeth would’ve been clattering if it wasn’t for the alcohol-infused warmth running through his veins. The fact that Colin could walk around in short-sleeves without getting goosebumps was a testament to his true Canadianship, he guessed. The man might have been born in Scotland, but that probably didn’t hurt.
He reached out for Col’s wrist. “Got a lighter? Mine’s bust.”
Colin stopped and glanced from their hands to his face with an inscrutable look. And even through the fog that had settled in his mind, Ryan recognised that look. He hated that look. So when the lighter was produced he snatched it out of Col’s hands, lighting the cigarette as if he held a grudge against it. Col didn’t seem to notice; he just lit up his own and carried on walking.
The fact that he didn’t check whether Ryan was following irked him to a ridiculous degree. Always— sooner or later— this would happen. It came easy to Colin to take off, to step away from the joke, to take a breath and suddenly be above the influence and out of reach. Insufferably so. And when that happened, Ryan could’ve set himself on fire and the guy wouldn’t even blink before calmly hosing him down with a fire extinguisher he’d pull out of thin fucking air, because everything always was a choice to Col, something to be calmly pondered over tea and goddamn scones in order to better make the more sensible decision.
He took a long drag off the cigarette that did absolutely nothing to help his floundering coherence, then caught up with Colin at a run. He threw his arm around the other’s shoulder a tad more aggressively than he needed to. Not that he seemed to take notice. “You know Col, I don’t have clothes at yours.”
“I know.” He’d clearly chosen to ignore Ryan’s tone, because he put his arm around his waist. He’d take it, because warm and nice and upright, but he wasn’t going to be thankful about it.
“I have clothes at Jim’s.”
“Yeah.”
“And at others’”.
“I know—”
“You never offered to let me stay.” Ryan cut him off abruptly. He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but then again he wasn’t the one to strategise his every waking moment. All of their friends had offered him their places every time he’d had to move, but never Col. He’d just smiled at him from the other side of the room as if he understood, which he didn’t. As if it was something they’d agreed upon.
It was a weird smile. Never reached his eyes.
Colin’s voice registered a measure of surprise. “You know you can stay anytime you want,” he told him.
“You didn’t offer.” Reasonable tones weren’t going to cut it. Nor wide, dark eyes, brimming with an innocence that still meant nothing. Choices, every one of them.
“But you knew. What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference, you fucking idiot.”
Finally the insult got him going. “You know what? Maybe you should go get the trolley and face Wednesday and Pugsley at Jim’s, I sure don’t—”
— His lips were soft. Ryan knew that from stage, but drunk and blurry and angry lent them a certain extra that he relished. He didn’t give a fuck what Col sure didn’t something something. But still, he wasn’t heartless; he caught Col’s lower lip with his teeth gently, one more time, and then pulled away. The shut-up kiss had taken less than ten seconds, and he wasn’t sure that the world hadn’t changed. “But I’m still fond of you.”
Colin went from open-mouthed disbelief to indignation in an instant. “… Did you just quote lyrics at me?”
Ryan guffawed at the look on his face. Man, he’d overestimated his composure by miles, he was most definitely off-form tonight. Must be all the scotch and the carrying him around like Scarlett O’Hara. He was skinny, but there still was a lot of him to lug around. “You did it first, Col,” he said.
“I did not— that’s a common sentence, I wasn’t quoting— Is that why you—?”
“You don’t want me to come with you because you’re all bothered and want to go tongue your Seventeen Mag centerfold with Morris in it.”
“You do know the singer isn’t called Morris.”
“Whatever.” They started walking again, holding onto each other stiffly, and for almost a whole street Ryan managed to keep his head in the game enough to keep his mouth shut. But they stopped at the light and he decided to squander his advantage. “Still ill.”
It took Col a second to get the reference, but if Jim survived the night of the living dead he’d definitely be proud of how well they’d absorbed his teachings. Colin took a deep breath and seemed to decide to humour him. “You've got everything now.”
“Miserable lie.”
“Well I wonder.”
“I want the one I can't have.” He grinned.
“That joke isn't funny anymore.” Colin rolled his eyes, but his arm trembled on Ryan’s waist.
Ryan shrugged and draped his own arm around Col’s. “I don't owe you anything.” But then Col clasped his arm with that warm hand of his, and something coiled painfully inside him. And he regretted the pushing. Stupid drunk that he was, he’d been playing the worst possible fucking game with someone who never bluffed. They didn’t come any less twisted than Col, and untwisted people didn’t put up with this shit. They quit while they were ahead and didn’t stay for the apology.
His head pounded.
Colin’s expression seemed to crumble at the sight of him. Ah, man. He was hopeless at keeping things from his face, he knew that. Col’s reaction only confirmed it. He rested his other hand on Ryan’s arm on his shoulder and pulled, taking some of his weight onto his back. “Come on, Ry. Hold on tight. Let’s get you home and out of that make-up. You look like a raccoon. And lipstick wasn’t invented for someone with that nose, you know.”
“And you must be looking very old tonight.”
“I swear to god if you don’t shut up.”
Part I | Part II
A/N 3: I got an author tag! Yay! And in case you're curious, the most relevant song for this fic is "What Difference Does It Make" by, of course, The Smiths. They're best served with a glass of not taking them very seriously.
There was no Smiths concert in Vancouver in June 10th 1985, but they did play in Vaughan, Ontario on June 9th; and the tornado-caused blackouts were in Toronto, not Vancouver, but the rest of this is made up too, so. Except for Jim McLarty, who did introduce them but probably was never a crazed New Romantic. (This whole thing came to be because I realised most of the Smiths' output could be turned into a fairly standard Rycol songfic. I can't write songfics at all, they're way too serious for me. So I did something else.)